Life is an illusion.
Cooked up by the corrupt and greedy corporations that control our world. Every day I walk past their giant skyscrapers. I can just imagine what I look like to them from way down here. Even standing in front of them, all they see me as is just another one of their little worker bees. Too insignificant to remember my name. You can call me Z, I won’t burden you with my full name.
I work for one of the lower levels of B.I.G. Corp. If you were wondering what that stands for I’ll tell you. It stands for “Basic Intellectual Geniuses”. Honestly I don’t know what it stands for, but that would be my guess. My job is to basically sort good files from bad files. Simple as it may be, I have to do it for forty-eight hours straight. I forgot to mention that the world you knew has changed. Our world now has seventy-two hours of daytime, and forty-eight hours of night.
They said something happened to the Earth’s rotation, but I was never really into science. It actually kind of helped society in a sense. Crime is at an all-time low, and the death rate has drastically declined. However, poverty has increased dramatically. After “the incident” as we call it, the economy took a quick and sudden nosedive. All except those wealthy enough already.
The government had to take action. They devised a system in which every person would be chosen for a specific job. Colleges and universities were quickly demolished. As soon as you finish high school, you are put into a career. The average American makes around $5.50 an hour, and working roughly forty-eight hours a day. The rest of their day is spent at home or certain sanctioned recreational areas. When the sun sets, curfew is in effect. All citizens must stay in their homes and sleep for forty-eight hours. If anyone is caught breaking curfew they risk a month in jail.
Compared to how long days were a hundred years ago, one month would be the same as roughly five months in olden times. Of course most people had trouble adapting to the new sleep hours. Some even refused to sleep, which caused major accidents. The government built stations all over the country that held small bedding compartments that people could pay to use. These compartments would create a relaxing environment and release a safe toxin that would give people a good night’s rest.
The called them “Sleep Chambers”. They were incredibly expensive, I still have to save up for another week to use one. I normally get an average of fifteen or sixteen hours of sleep every night, maybe. It’s never enough. I hear from people that use them that they wake feeling more energized than they’ve ever felt in their lives. They can work harder and faster. Some people say that they can even go weeks without sleeping and have no accidents.
I’ve also seen the downside of it. There is this group of activists that is led by this elderly man. He is always running around and preaching about how the chambers are corrupting our minds. He says that he was the first one that used a chamber over sixty years ago. He claims that the B.I.G. Corp helped design the chambers. That they put subliminal messages into our heads while we sleep. His group of anarchists have been responsible for over a hundred different bombings and fires at multiple B.I.G. Corp facilities.
They call themselves “The Awakening”. I have never witnessed an attack, but I’ve seen the bloody aftermath. They are nowhere near as strong as B.I.G. Corp’s security, yet they still fight on. B.I.G. Corp’s head of security, Maxim Holt, has held nationwide broadcasts saying that anyone who is affiliated with the awakening will be executed. He has offered awards to anyone who is willing to turn over any information on the anarchists to him. Like anyone would be that stupid.
None of this really concerned me until last night. I was just fine living my simple yet miserable life. I’d really prefer to go back, but now I can never go back. I must make a choice. Either I help B.I.G. Corp ruin this country, or lead The Awakening. The worst night of my life started when I got an email, from someone named Uncle Sam.
© 2017, Zachary Rhoads. All rights reserved.
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