Instead, I make promises.
I’ll have the money in an hour.
I put together an online landing page with payment details and then upload a new brief video with instructions to Nole’s channel. Its activity level is dependent on the time of day, due to spotty internet and people sleeping their lives away, but the moment the new video goes live, the viewer count is triple what it normally is.
People have told their friends.
The community isn’t dead. Not yet. If anything, it brought us more together during the Awake periods. People shared fears, diagnoses, conspiracy theories, memes, and now I’m sharing a cure.
A very expensive cure.
I charge them only for the ingredients plus one single dollar profit so I can pay for food—if I can find anyone to sell me food.
What else am I going to spend my money on? one commenter says.
Payment comes through a minute later. Nole used to tell me that if the apocalypse happened, money would be obsolete. We’d have to trade in butter and cigarettes and things. I think our country grew so reliant on valuing virtual dollars that it was too hard to break the habit.
Another payment comes in.
Then another. Then 10. Then 20.
I get tag alerts from the few social media accounts I have: I trust this guy. Worth a shot. Here’s hoping he found true help.
It snowballs from there.
One good thing that came from the virus is efficiency. Since people’s lives are counting down, they don’t hesitate to take action during the handful of hours they have before their next Sleep.
As soon as payments roll in, I purchase the serums. The Shadow Market dealer delivers it to a set of lockers in an abandoned train station within the hour. There’s a moment of tense exchange when I send him some money and wait for him to give me the locker codes. But we both follow through and then trade in bigger numbers.
Only a few hours pass before I’m back in the lab concocting again.
Hundreds of orders have rolled in with the information I asked for—body weight and current time-card status. I have enough serum for all of them. As careful as I was programming the ImagiSerum for myself, I’m even more careful knowing this is being programmed for other people. I can’t afford a single mistake.
I complete over two hundred orders and take a break to let the generator recharge, as well as deliver the orders. For the first time in weeks, I’m not worrying about how much time I have. I’m not rushing, though I’m tempted to.
There are no more Nightmare Sleeps for me. The sense of freedom and hope is so strong it banishes the desire for sleep or food or anything other than spreading the good news.
Was this how the twelve disciples felt? Having the answer? Hope? And being able to tell the world?
I snort at the thought. It’s something Nole would say, which is probably why it enters my mind. The only thing missing from this picture of victory is his presence. But this is for him. He always saw it as his “Great Commission” once the Nightmare started spreading.
I can’t say I get much inspiration from the disciples. Robin Hood, however . . .
Delivery is tricky to figure out. I don’t want to use the train lockers like my Shadow Market guy did because 200 people converging at the same train lockers could result in violence. Like people fighting over lockers or killing someone else for an extra dose of the cure.
Instead I do something far more illegal.
I choose a handful of neighborhoods nearby and assign each order an address. Then I slip a cure into the respective mailboxes. It’s a federal crime to put anything in someone else’s mailbox, but I don’t even know if there are any cops left. I include a note in the email cautioning people to please check the mailbox during the day if possible. And be safe.
Now I sound like Mom.
That’s the best I can do to ensure everyone’s safety.
What’s hardest is ignoring messages from people who don’t live near me. All I can do is hope they find a way to travel to New York. There’s no other way for me to get the serum to them. Snail mail has been down for I don’t know how many months.
Orders keep pouring in. I finally pause the form with a backorder apology, otherwise I risk not having enough ingredients.
Messages, posts, and comments spread over social media.
I got my cure serum! Three hours until I use it! – @w.sherrodfashion
I can’t believe the timing! My sister has one day left until she’s trapped in the 24-hour nightmare cycle. I had given up hope until this point. – @2014ninja
On my way to pick up my cure! Please, God, let this be legit. I used the last of my money on this. – @shortbreadredhead
What a crook! Can’t believe how much this guy is charging for his snake oil and ppl are actually buying it! Fools. – @spacebeast147
This last comment irks me. I know I shouldn’t reply, but I do anyway.
I’m not making any profit. The cost is for materials only.
He answers with a rude GIF.
I don’t have time for this. As though agreeing with me, my alarm clock rings a 15-minute warning. Time to take my own dose. I don’t even know if I need to take it, but I’m not willing to risk it and end up back in the Nightmare.
The exchange with Spacebeast147 eats at me. It sends a wiggling worm of doubt into my mind. So many people are resting their hope, their savings, and their lives on this formula. I remind myself this is like clinical trials. I showed people exactly what happened to me. They know I’m not Nole. They know I’m not a doctor. They know I’m doing the best I can.
