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You can contact the author at drew@deadspin.com, or at twitter.com/drewmagary.
A Note About The Text From
The Department Of Containment,
United North American Territories
FEBRUARY 6, 2093
In March 2090 a worker for the Department of Containment named Anton Vyrin was conducting a routine sweep of an abandoned collectivist compound in rural Virginia when he stumbled upon an eighth-generation wireless-enabled projected-screening device (WEPS.8) that was still functional after charging. Stored inside the device’s hard drive was a digital library containing sixty years’ worth of text files written by a man who went by the screen name John Farrell.
The text files appear to have been written as posts for a blog or online journal. It’s impossible to know which of these files Farrell actually published in a public forum, as all mentions of his name in the cloud as it now exists lead to sites whose servers were destroyed during the Great Correction. There is also no way of corroborating that John Farrell was ever a licensed end specialist for the United States government for twenty years prior to the Correction. All U.S. Department of Containment servers were destroyed in June 2079.
However, considering the level of painstaking detail and the highly personal nature of the entries, combined with many of the articles and interviews Farrell saved, his writing is itself evidence supporting its own veracity. As such, his collected entries must be considered one of the definitive personal records of life in the former United States during the sixty-year period that followed the discovery of the cure for aging. It must also be considered the most important first-person account yet of the end specialization industry that thrived in America at the end of the century.
Farrell was a remarkably fastidious record keeper. He used a LifeRecorder app to preserve and transcribe virtually every human interaction he ever had, and he incorporated many portions of those transcripts into his writing. In its entirety, the collection contains thousands of entries and several hundred thousand words, but for the sake of brevity and general readability, they have been edited and abridged into what we believe constitutes an essential narrative, the fundamental goal being to offer incontrovertible evidence that the cure for death must never again be legalized.
NB: The whereabouts of Solara Beck are still unknown.
I
Prohibition: June 2019
“Immortality Will Kill Us All”
There are wild postings with that statement all along First Avenue. If you’ve been in Midtown recently, you’ve seen them. They’re simple black-and-white posters. All type. No fancy fonts or designs in the background. No web address. That one sentence is all they say, over and over again, down and across. When I walked by them, they were clean, as if they had been posted the night before. But I noticed, as I got towards the end of the block, that one of them had already been defaced. The second one from the bottom. Someone had used a cheap blue ballpoint pen to write something underneath the slogan. It was small, but it was unmistakable: EXCEPT FOR ME.
The doctor I saw has an apartment located near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. I got the address from a banker friend. He told me 99 percent of the guys he knows in finance rushed to get the cure for themselves the second it became available on the black market. So if you know a finance guy, it’s not that hard to obtain the name of a doctor who can give it to you. Even now, after the arrests, and even after what happened in Oregon. In fact, it’s much easier than getting weed, at least from my personal experience. All I needed was an address and phone number on a scrap of paper. That was it.
I should have been required to do more to get it, like cross an ocean and fight off a tribe of bloodthirsty headhunters, or answer a series of complex riddles asked by an evil bridge troll, or defeat some really big guy using karate. Something like that. But I didn’t need to do much of anything, and I didn’t feel at all guilty about it. I still don’t. Once I realized that I could get the cure, I instantly wanted it, more purely than I had ever wanted anything. More than any woman. More than any long overdue sip of water. Normally, any decision I make is forced to navigate the seemingly endless bureaucracy of my conscience. Not this one. This impulse was allowed to bypass all that nonsense, to shoot through the gauzy tangle of second thoughts and emerge from me as pristine as when it first originated deep within the recesses of my mind. It was a want. A hunger. A naked compulsion that was bulletproof to logic and reason. No argument can be made against my profound interest in not dying.
The doctor’s apartment is located in a doorman building, but the doorman wasn’t exactly a palace guard. He didn’t ask me to sign in. He didn’t ask me who I was seeing. I’m not even sure he looked up from his racing form. I just walked into the elevator and pushed the button. All too easy.
I got out, walked down the hall, and knocked on the door of the apartment number I’d been given. A voice from the other side of the door, and seemingly from the opposite end of the apartment, asked me to identify myself. I said my name and that I was there to pick up Ella’s toaster. There is no Ella, and she had not left a toaster at the apartment. I found this part of the process far more exciting than I should have.
I heard the doctor walking over to the door and I watched the knob turn. He didn’t quite look the way I thought he would. He was middle-aged, but still youthful looking. Tan. Sharp silver hair. He didn’t look much older than forty. And more like a banker than a doctor. I expected someone a bit dweebier, with glasses and a lab coat and whatnot. Someone far more careful looking. I think I would have preferred that. He shook my hand without identifying himself and shepherded me through the door.
I have to say, visiting a doctor for illegal purposes is a far more satisfying consumer experience than going for legitimate purposes. You ring the bell, and, boom, there’s the doctor. No hostile receptionist. No signing in. No presenting your insurance card. No forgetting to get your insurance card back after the hostile receptionist copies it. No eternal waiting. Hell, no waiting of any sort. It was lovely. I was tempted to ask the doctor if I could visit him like this for all of my future ailments.
“So, John,” he said, “you’re here for the toaster.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I need to see your driver’s license.”
“Okay.” I handed him my ID. He began nodding.
“You’re twenty-nine. Good. That’s just about the perfect age. I don’t give it to people over thirty-five.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because it would be foolish. Here, sit.”
He sat me down in a leather chair and took the seat opposite me. I didn’t feel like I was talking to a doctor at all. He had the air of a very cool English professor.
“Now, do you know exactly how the cure works?”
I was briefly disappointed that he stopped referring to the cure as “the toaster”. I really wanted to see how long I could keep it up.
“Yes,” I told him. “I think so. I mean, I know how it came about. And I’ve read everything about it that I could, like everyone has. Some of it conflicts. I’m not entirely certain of what’s true about it and what isn’t.”
“Do you know how gene therapy works?”
“Vaguely.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to go over all this anyway, even if you know it. So, what this involves is me taking a sample of your DNA, then finding and altering—or, more precisely, deactivating—a specific gene in your DNA, and then reintroducing it to your body through what’s known as a vector, or a carrier. In this case, that means a virus. So I’m going to take some blood from you today, isolate the gene, change it, create the vector virus, and then inject that vector back into your system at three distinct points: your inner thigh, your upper arm, and your neck. That’s two weeks from now. And then we’re done. After you go home, the virus will replicate that new gene code throughout your system. Within six months, it will be present in all of your tissue, and your body will stop telling itself to age. The aging of your body will be permanently frozen in place. The rest, after that, is up to you.”
“Will it make me sick?”
“No. No side effects. No allergens.”
“Is it guaranteed to work?”
“Well, I’ve had to re-inject two or three people. But that’s pretty rare, and it’s never taken more than two tries to get it working. I won’t charge you if I have to do it again.”
“Can I still die afterwards?”
“Yes. Of course you can. You can still catch cold. You can still die of AIDS or a heart attack. You can still get cancer. People can still murder you. In fact, that’s why I give people two weeks until they come back.”
“What do you mean?”
He took a deep breath. “Well, you have to take a moment to consider what all this entails for you. When people come through my door, the first and only thing they think about is, ‘Oh boy, I’m gonna live forever.’ But they don’t stop to consider what that means. They want to live forever, but they don’t think about what they’re going to have to live with. What they’ll have to carry with them. And whether or not that’s something they really, truly want. Let me ask you: Why do you want to do this? Is it out of vanity?”
“I don’t think so. I’m just curious, I guess.”
“Ah, but think about what curiosity is. Curiosity is seeking out answers to your questions. It’s about satisfying everything you want to know about you or things around you. It’s about your personal fulfillment, isn’t it? So really, is there much difference between curiosity and vanity?”
He had me nailed there. I don’t know why I tried to sugarcoat it for the doctor. I always lie to doctors. Maybe that’s why I want to stay healthy forever and ever. So I can avoid situations where I inexplicably lie (poorly) to stern-looking medical professionals. I relented and gave him the raw truth of it all.
“Okay,” I confessed. “You got me. I don’t want to die. I’m terrified of death. I fear there’s nothing beyond it and that this existence is the only one I’ll ever possess. That’s why I’m here.”
He patted my leg to give me reassurance. “That’s why they’re all here. Even the ones that believe in heaven and seventy-two virgins and every other good thing supposedly waiting for them in the afterlife. But again, this is no cure for death, even if everyone is calling it that. It’s merely a cure for aging. In fact, if Malthus’s theory is right, you almost certainly will die. It may be a hundred years from now. It may be ten thousand years from now. But it will happen. And not in a pleasant fashion, mind you. What this cure guarantees is that you will never die a natural, peaceful death. And you’re going to have to spend the next two weeks asking yourself if it’s worth all those extra years knowing that your demise will inevitably come at the hands of disease, starvation, or a bullet.”
I immediately pictured myself being gunned down in an alleyway, a smoking revolver barrel the last thing my eyes ever have a chance to focus on. Then the sliding door in my brain shifted and I was eighty-five years old on my deathbed, fat nurses sponging off my rotting skin.
“I don’t think most people die natural, peaceful deaths,” I said. “All the loved ones I’ve seen die have died sick, frail, and helpless. Undergoing chemo. Lying in hospitals. Soiling their beds. Two of my grandparents died alone, with no one to talk to. I don’t think natural death offers much in the way of gentle relief. I think it’s a slow, wrenching thing I’d like to get far, far away from.”
“Okay.”
He stood up and gestured to me to do the same.
“How many of your patients have come back after two weeks and decided they didn’t want the cure?”
“Oh, I think you already know the answer to that. Come on. We’ll take your blood in my lab.”
He walked me over to the apartment’s open kitchen. The cupboards and drawers were all white, painted ages ago and done so in a sloppy fashion, with big streaks of dripping paint frozen and hardened in places. Inside the cabinets, where you normally would see dishes, glasses and assorted sundries, were medical supplies: swabs, gauze, syringes, scalpels, tongue depressors, etc. I marveled at the lack of food or items to help prepare it. He quickly got out everything he needed to extract the blood and slapped a tourniquet onto my arm.
“What do you do if you want to eat here?” I asked him.
“I never eat here. Tell me, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Oh, dear. Another lawyer? I should put a moratorium on you folks. Last thing we need are a bunch of godforsaken lawyers hanging around forever. Here comes the needle.”
He pulled my arm toward him, gave a firm slap to the underside of my elbow, and drew one large vial of my blood. I’d never stopped to consider my own blood before. I’d only really thought of it as the fluid that occasionally seeps out of my body, causing me great alarm. Nothing deeper than that. Now I stared at the blood filling the vial, and it was that deep, rich, unmistakable red, the kind of red they try to reproduce in paint and in lipstick but can never quite match. It looked vital, as if it had its own pulse. Active. Alive. If all went according to plan, I thought, it would soon return to me even more so.
“Let me ask you something, Doc.”
“Of course.”
“What’s your normal practice? What’s your doctor day job?”
“Orthopedics.”
“Ah.”
“I almost went in to plastic surgery, but I didn’t. Thank goodness. Those guys will be doing nothing but sucking out fat from now on.”
“So you run a successful practice, yes? I assume you make a nice living just through your day job.”
“That I do.”
“Then why do this? Why do more than what you need to do? Why risk losing your license to practice medicine by giving this out? Hell, you’re risking your life. What’s the benefit to you, besides making extra money you really don’t need?”
He grinned. “Well John, with this cure I have the power to grant anyone the ability to live thousands of years—possibly forever. Let’s just say it appeals to my curiosity.”
He bandaged me up.
“This won’t cause me to sprout fangs and sleep in a coffin, will it?”
“No, that’s a different gene. Would you like me to alter that one?”
“No, no thank you.”
“Well, you’re all set. I have you in the books for this same time two weeks from now. Don’t bother calling to confirm. Just show up with your money—no denominations higher than fifty dollars, please. I’ll be here.”
(Note: The total cost was seven thousand dollars. Not bad.)
I walked to the door. Four million more questions flooded into my brain. I felt the urge to ask all of them simultaneously. Instead, I offered only one.
“One last thing.”
“Sure,” he said.
“Have you given it to yourself?”
“Of course I have.”
“But you’re over thirty-five.”
He shrugged. “Oh, well. I’ll live. I’ll see you in two weeks, John.”
A cursory wave goodbye and the door shut behind him. I walked back out into the street. A massive thunderstorm had come and gone while I was getting my blood drawn, and as I walked out, all that remained in the sky was that odd, sickly glow that happens when a thunderstorm clears out at summer twilight. It’s an unsettling kind of light. Almost puce colored, as if the sky hasn’t been feeling well. I was stuck between the violent darkness of the storm and the last flickering embers of daylight.
I rushed home. And now here I am, a day later, comfortably seated in immortality’s waiting room.
Date Modified: 6/7/2019, 8:47AM
“Death Is The Only Thing Keeping Us In Line”
I know it’s mere coincidence, and yet it I find it discomforting that the pope would officially come out and damn all postmortals to hell right in the middle of my mandatory deliberation period. This article posted ten minutes ago:
VATICAN THREATENS CURE SEEKERS WITH EXCOMMUNICATION
By Wyatt Dearborn
BUDAPEST (AP)—The pope today issued his strongest condemnation yet of the so-called cure for death, officially codifying it as a sin and promising to excommunicate permanently from the Roman Catholic Church anyone found to have received it, including priests.
Still on his weeklong goodwill tour of eastern Europe, the pontiff purposely chose to deliver his edict in the city of Budapest. Hungary is one of only four industrialized nations, including Russia, Brazil and the Netherlands, that have officially legalized the cure.
“This cure is affront to the Lord and His work,” the pontiff told a crowd of nearly seventy-five thousand at Puskás Ferenc Stadium. “But more than that, it is affront to our fellow man. What responsibility will we feel compelled to bear for one another if we know we can eternally put off standing in judgment of the Lord? Death is what makes us humble before God—knowing that our lives will come to an end and that when that end arrives, we will be forced to answer for them. If we answer not to Him, to whom do we answer? Death is the only thing keeping us in line.”
The pope then went on to issue this warning: “You cannot avoid God’s judgment. Not even if you live for another hundred thousand years. This planet and the sun that keeps it alight are all fleeting. There is no ‘forever’ down here and to believe so is a blasphemy. That’s why, from this point forward, the Vatican officially condemns the taking of the cure as a sin and an excommunicable, unforgivable offense.”
The pope’s words were met mostly with silent reverence from the crowd. But thousands protested outside the stadium, nearly all of them in their teens and twenties.
“The pope hasn’t condemned us,” countered Sasha Delvic, a twenty-three-year-old student. “It’s his church he’s just condemned—to a life of obscurity. How can he expect the people of his faith to accept dying while everyone else out there goes on being happy and healthy? It’s insane. He’ll lose constituents by the millions.
“No one should listen to him,” she added, “he’s just a stupid old man.”
It is believed the pope chose to deliver his address in Budapest as an attempt to pressure the Hungarian government to begin drafting anti-cure legislation. But thus far, here in one of the youngest countries on the planet according to median age, very few government officials appear willing to speak out in favor of doing so.
When I was a kid, I saw religion as insurance against death. It’s what the preachers on the TV used to say. You’re better off believing in God, they’d warn you, just in case. Because you’d hate to arrive at the gates of heaven a nonbeliever and find out the Christians had been right all along. It was a pretty ingenious line of thinking. It almost made me want to go to church. Not enough to actually go, but still.
I wonder if we’ve completely flipped the script on that now. I wonder if the cure represents insurance against religion. Because what if the pope is wrong? If I forgo the cure and end up dying at seventy to please a Lord who turns out not to exist, I’m gonna feel like a real jackass. Isn’t it better to live an extra thousand years or so, just in case?
I guess I’ll find out at some point. Some very, very distant point. Twelve more days till the cure.
