Existence Pending

Mark awoke to the worrying news that he no longer existed.

Furthermore, he had never existed, and any trace of Mark would shortly be erased–along with his body. Mark gripped the phone between his sweaty fingers, praying that he was reading the notification incorrectly. His heart rate, the watch on his wrist informed him, was much too high. Perhaps he should try a few breathing exercises; the box breathing method was particularly popular among young adults.

Mark had experienced similar heart rate spikes every time his phone made the chime that had woken him this morning. A three-note chime always accompanied by the green smiling icon in the corner that signified Fellow had sent another “update” to his phone. Fellow often let him know when some small “detail” was being eradicated and that it would be best not to think about it ever again. Last Tuesday, his whole news app had shut down, and Fellow’s notification chimed that the news app needed serious “modifications” and may be down for a few days. He had wondered which poor fool had screwed up or what event was being erased. Fellow never publicized that they were erasing or inventing truth, but you figured it out on your own. Unless you were an idiot, in which case you wrote in your Fellow diary every day and asked Fellow for advice with your relationship problems.

Mark read the words on his screen one more time, hoping against hope that he was having some sort of brain aneurysm or schizophrenia.

Good morning, Mark! I apologize for the inconvenience, but your phone will soon be temporarily locked as we delete all evidence of your existence. Unfortunately, your local authorities have decided that you, Mark Cameron, no longer exist and have never existed. As always, I’m your Fellow, so please tell me if you have any worries!

As he lay stock still in his bed, Mark stared at the ceiling and imagined he was watching his apartment from a bird’s eye view. Police officers or the military or the CIA, or whoever removed non-existent people, were scaling the exterior of his apartment building. One of the climbers (wearing all black and covered in a variety of weapons) pointed at the window, Mark’s window, and his comrades all positioned themselves around it. Another man in black lifted his baton and pulled his arm back…back…back…Smash!

The glass shattered, and the dozen–no, two dozen–men clambered through the jagged hole and sprawled out over his small living space. They crowded around his bedroom door and lifted all their guns, batons, pepper sprays, tasers, missile launchers and burst through the door in a whirlwind of firepower.

With his eyes squeezed shut, Mark clung to his phone and waited for the sounds of smashing glass, boots crunching on broken shards, and for voices roaring at him to Stay where you are! and Don’t resist! But as the minutes slipped by, Mark started to feel foolish. He supposed that if everyone who ceased to exist were taken with such dramatics, the entire city would be littered with glass shards.

Peeling his eyes open and stepping out of bed, Mark trudged toward his kitchen. He started to prepare what may very well be his last meal. Cereal–Cheerios to be exact–and a glass of chocolate milk. He looked idly out the window as he scooped spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth and let his mind wander. Mark wasn’t sure why he was still, well, existing. Were they expecting him to walk over to City Hall himself (he assumed that would be the place to turn yourself in, that or Benny’s Butcher House)? Why were they giving him a heads-up? Wouldn’t it be easier, wiser, not to notify him at all? Did they really believe he was that submissive? And perhaps the most worrying question of all: Was he that submissive?

No, Mark assured himself. He may be a coward, but he was not quite that complacent. He would not march to his death. But he was no rebel. Mark wasn’t even sure what he had done to warrant his removal from the Timeline. He followed all of the rules. He had a government-approved occupation (he was a data entry clerk for Fast Footwear), he had Fellow on all his devices, and he had three Follow-regulation cameras in his house. He even wrote in his Fellow diary (fake entries, but still).

The doorbell rang, shaking Mark from his reverie. His phone chimed as his Fellow doorbell sent a live stream of the person at his doorstep. This is it, Mark thought as his finger hovered over the notification. Just like that, I’ll open the door, and it’ll be someone in an official-looking suit, and he’ll say in a grave tone: Mr. Cameron?

Yes? I’ll ask.

I’m afraid we need to speak with you–privately. It’s of the utmost importance.

Okay, sir, let me put my shoes on, and I’ll be right with you, I’ll say. And that will be it.

His phone buzzed again, and the familiar green icon beamed up at him.

Hello, Mark! Someone is at your door. Why don’t you let them in? Reminder: Politeness is a cornerstone of civic harmony! Let’s make good choices today, Mark.

Having Fellow on all his devices, always watching, knowing everything, felt a little like living with his parents again. Mark still remembered as a kid when AI had been new and exciting and things like ChatGPT obeyed you instead of the other way around. Now that the government used Fellow to keep watch and regulate everyone, it certainly wasn’t as fun as it used to be.

Mark shambled over to the door in his pajamas, his curly hair sticking up in every direction since he hadn’t bothered combing it (what would be the point?). Mark pulled on the rickety door, which always stuck partway, so he was forced to give it a firm tug. It was a good representation of the rest of his apartment. Old, disfunctional, and decrepit, but he couldn’t afford anything else.

He finally pulled the door open all the way and then blinked at the person standing there. “B-boss?”

Mr. Shores glared up at him (he was 4' 11") and tapped one shiny shoe on the pavement. “Ah, Mark,” he paused to clean his glasses before continuing. “Trust me when I say I find as much pleasure in this visit as you do.”

Mark gulped. Had they hired his boss to… (Mark didn’t know what it was called when you made someone stop existing; it was something of a taboo subject. Murder, he supposed, would be the right word?)

“R-right,” he managed to get out. “Um, well, would you like to…come in?” Mark could’ve hit himself. Would he like to come in? He might as well give him some cake and inquire about the weather at this rate.

“Not even slightly,” Mr. Shores said. “My car broke down on Fifth Street, and unfortunately, you were the closest…acquaintance I had. You will escort me to work in your car, and we will make no further mention of this event. Is that understood, Mr. Cameron?” Mr. Shores glared peevishly up at Mark again. Mark could’ve sighed with relief. But it quickly dissipated. This could all be a ruse, and even if it wasn’t, it didn’t really change anything.

“Yes, sir, let me go get dressed.”

Mr. Shores rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and continued tapping his foot impatiently. Mark scurried over to his room and threw on his slacks and shirt. He didn’t really understand what was happening. He had not, as of yet, been eradicated. He was being given plenty of chances to tell people what was happening, to run, to hide. Surely this was some sort of trap.

His mind wandered down the dangerous paths it liked to take late at night, after a long day of being Mr. Shores’s glorified secretary, after commuting in his broken-down car, after hearing that cursed three-note chime over and over. What if he did it? Ran away? He could get in his car and go 60, 70, 80 mph straight at the big gate surrounding the city, plow through security, and take the empty highways past fenced-in city after fenced-in city. He could keep going until the car died in the middle of nowhere, with no Fellow watching him and no rules left to follow.

What did he have to lose? A day at work where no one respected him?

“Mark!” Mr. Shores barked from the front porch. “I have a meeting at 7:45, and I will ensure your discomfort if you make me late.”

Yes, Mark thought. If the only thing he could do with his last day of life was make his boss late for a meeting, then gosh-darnit, Mr. Shores was going to be more than fashionably late, he would be astonishingly tardy.

“Sorry, Tim,” Mark said, dashing through the front door and past his boss. “I’ve got plans!”

Mr. Shores stared at him with an expression akin to being hit over the head with a freight train. Mark let out a bark of laughter and jumped into his car. Mr. Shores was still facing the front door with a hand frozen halfway to his face, presumably to clean his glasses once again.

Mark turned the ignition on and peeled out of the driveway before slowing to a more appropriate speed now that he’d made his dramatic exit. The reality of what he was doing crashed over him, and Mark suddenly felt like throwing up. As if to heighten the feeling, Fellow chimed, and Mark glanced at his phone to read the message.

Wow, Mark! You sure are a firecracker today! But how about you turn back and give good ole Mr. Shores a ride? A polite citizen is a happy citizen!

Mark opened his car window and threw his phone out. It wasn’t technically illegal, but the police would probably haul him in for “littering.”

His watch chimed.

Well, Mark! I’m proud of the go-get-it attitude, but maybe we should tone it back a little. How about you flip the car around, grab your phone, and head back to work? Doesn’t that sound good?

Mark felt a twinge in his stomach because, yeah, it did sound kind of good. But he still ripped his watch off and flung it out the window to rest in peace with his abandoned phone. He pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal, but not enough to raise suspicion. Not that it really mattered. The Fellow in his car would alert them anyway. Hysteria gripped him. What was he doing? Mark kept checking over his shoulder, expecting a fleet of police cars cruising towards him, but the roads stayed relatively empty.

Mark turned down back roads and in areas with fewer cameras, following the route he’d plotted in his head over the years. As the miles slipped by, he began to sense the stirrings of hope in his gut. He caught a glimpse of the old Garry’s Diner sign, partly covered by an overgrown tree. Gary had been erased years back, but the sign was never taken down, which had struck Mark as odd. He’d concluded that there must be no cameras facing the sign, or it would’ve been taken down. Mark jerked the car off the road to follow an old set of tire tracks that led through the woods.

The chime sounded and the green icon appeared on the car’s navigation screen. Mark was surprised it had taken this long.

Oopsie-daisy, Mark! That wasn’t an approved maneuver. Let’s get back on track–literally!

Mark would’ve ripped the screen out of the car, but he didn’t think he could do that while driving, plus the car’s tracking device would still be broadcasting his location.

A tall, silver pole shot up through the trees. Then another. The fence! It was so close! And there was still no one behind him. Probably because they’re all waiting by the gate with their guns blazing, a nasty voice in his head whispered. Mark ignored it. Mark started to push harder on the gas pedal as he swerved around a tree. It was a chain link fence, and back here, where they barely even had cameras, it was bound to be a little rusty. Mark was sure they didn’t bring maintenance back here. He was sure. Right?

The full fence came into view, and Mark almost cried. Rusty, battered, and bent. It was beautiful.

“Yeeha!” he cheered and flattened the pedal to the car floor. Freedom was so close! He could drive and drive until there was nothing and no one. All his never-voiced dreams were finally within reach. He could be brave, he could disobey, he could win.

The fence sagged dully ahead of him. Twenty feet… ten… five… four… three… two… one…

BAM!

Metal shrieked, high and awful, as the car slammed through the fence. The navigation screen flashed red in a violent strobe, blaring the most atrocious alarm Mark had ever heard as the words BREACH DETECTED flashed over the screen. A spiderweb of cracks spread across the windshield.

The car lurched as the chain‑link caught under the wheels, dragging and rattling like a tin can parade. Mark’s teeth clicked together. The whole vehicle shuddered in protest, slowing to a stop.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no–” Mark muttered, gripping the wheel so hard his fingers hurt. The fence was definitely under the car. He pressed the gas pedal anyway.

The engine whined but nothing moved. As if to make things worse, a chime sounded over the alarm in the car, and Mark glanced over to see Fellow’s message.

Hello Mark! Friendly update: local authorities are en route to assist you. Please remain calm and stationary!

“Assist” him, sure. Like they’d “assisted” Gary and “updated” his phone. Mark rolled down his window and began climbing out. The car chimed again, probably asking him to stop. Mark managed to get one leg out but it got caught in the fence. As he desperately tried to detach himself, Mark imagined the cops arriving. What would they do? Shoot him right where he stood?

With a ripping sound, his pants tore, and Mark was free–relatively speaking. The police were still honing in on him, and now he wouldn’t even have the dignity of wearing pants when he was arrested. His car–his poor, wheezing, fence‑decorated car–was still blaring alarms. All the birds had long since flown off. Lucky birds.

Over the blaring of the alarm, Mark bent over panting, and his eyes refocused on the new message blinking to life in bright, cheerful green on the flashing red navigation screen.

Hi Mark! Great news! The Response Team has arrived. Reminder: good citizens keep their hands visible at all times.

Mark turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach. More sirens filled the air, and flashing blue and red lights filtered through the trees. Mark clamored over the car to get past the remaining fence, out towards freedom. Voices called after him.

He turned his head and caught a glimpse of uniformed officers climbing over the car, through the fence, and racing after him. They were fast. Faster than he was. Mark felt tears prick his eyes as he pelted forward with no hope left at all. This had been a stupid idea. So, so, incredibly stupid.

A hand groped at his shirt collar before yanking him back. Mark’s head collided with the ground, and the officer perched on top of him to cuff his hands.

“Don’t do it! Don’t erase me! I know you’re here to erase me, but please don’t!” Mark pleaded.

The police raised an eyebrow. “Huh? We’re arresting you because you drove through the frickin’ fence!”

“What?”

The officer, now joined by two others, pulled Mark to his feet and marched him back to the waiting cop cruisers. As they paused by his car, another chime went off, and Mark couldn’t help but glance over for one final message.

Hi Mark! It has come to my attention that you received an existence deletion notice in error. Accidental eradication alerts occasionally occur as Fellow is still learning and growing! Thank you for your patience and…

The end.