The Piggly Wiggly is out of Cinna-Stars cereal. What a stupid way to go broke.
Oh, they have the off-brand. Cinnamon Galaxies, with their smug little astronaut holding a spoon out in the void, like he’s about to open up his face plate to shove some into his mouth hole, only to have his brains sucked out into the vacuum of space. Or whatever happens up there. What would I know about that? I just buy groceries for rich assholes for a living.
I want to pull my own gas mask off, rip open a box of Galaxies and give them a try, see if they’re a suitable replacement. But that’d be pointless. It’s never about the taste for my clients. It’s about the status. I give them a box of the off-brand, and the next time they’re hosting a soiree, some stockbroker opens a cupboard, sees the cheap shit and says, “My my, Nelson, you’ve fallen on hard times!” and then they’re the laughingstock of the neighborhood, jettisoned from society, cast out into the Valley without their top-of-the-line air filters, all because some punk-ass Shopper bought them Cinnamon Galaxies instead of Cinna-Stars.
They probably have Cinna-Stars in Asheville, but that’s a good fifteen miles away and if I got jumped with all the rest of Nelson’s groceries, I may as well take the gas mask off right now and save myself the trouble.
I’ve resigned myself to showing up with only 98% of the groceries on the list and receiving only 25% of my pay as a result, when I see it. The cereal aisle ends right in front of the meat shelves and there’s another Shopper looking for the right cut of steak. He’s comparing thickness, weight, date, probably texture and antibiotic levels too, and his back is turned. His cart is almost full, but halfway up, pressed against the right side, is a pristine Family Size box of Cinna-Stars.
It will be mine.
There’s no time to plan. He won’t be looking at steaks forever.
His cart is positioned broadside to my aisle and I go for it. I grip the handlebar and take off at a sprint. He hears the squeaky wheel and without even turning around to see what I’m about to do, he crouches down with his shoulder against his cart. It’s too late for me to stop. When I make contact, the impact that should knock his cart over and send the Cinna-Stars spilling out is transferred to him. I don’t even knock him all the way down. He grips the edge of the meat shelf and he’s back on his feet in seconds. This is not his first rodeo. Shit.
Now that I get a better look at him, I know I’m outclassed. The guy’s gas mask is a new model, Omni-Seal brand with the slim adhesive face grip, not like my bulky apparatus that makes me look like a ghost from World War 2. Dude’s even got a ShockStick in his belt, and honestly, if he decides to use it, I’m just going to let him. I’ve earned it. He’s clearly got a Patron; he’s not a freelancer like me.
To my surprise, instead of popping me with enough volts to cook a chicken, he puts both his hands up like he’s surrendering.
“What do I have that you need, friend?” he asks. His voice is clear.
I’m completely unprepared for his tone and his accent. He sounds almost posh, with that crisp unaccented diction you only hear out of newscasters. Definitely not from the Carolinas.
Everything about this interaction is confusing. There’s no point in trying to play tricks. Best to be honest.
“The Cinna-Stars,” I say.
He grabs the box from his cart. “This? I’ve heard good things about them. But you probably need them more than I do.” He proffers them to me.
Hesitantly, I take them, expecting him to have a spring-loaded bear trap up his sleeve and snap my forearm in half. But no. He lets go as soon as my hands are on the box.
“Do you have any recommendations for a replacement?” he asks. “I was hoping to try them out.”
I have no answer. It’s a simple question, but there’s so much about it that makes no sense. Nobody actually inside a grocery store ever cares what something tastes like. We only care what our clients think it tastes like. Unless his Patron actually allows him to eat meals with them, there is only one explanation.
“Are you…shopping for yourself?” I ask. I should be sprinting away, straight through the barcode scanners and out to my car, but I’m too fascinated. Nobody shops for themselves. That’s like cleaning the toilets in a public restroom for fun. You let the professionals handle it or you could get killed.
“Figured I’d give it a go,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. Like he isn’t one wrong move away from ending up in the body disposal units behind the Piggly Wiggly.
I suddenly become aware of how vulnerable I am, distracted by this strange man. I’m easy prey. Anybody could sneak up behind me and sever my oxygen tank or steal from my cart. I whip my head around, but it’s just us.
“You haven’t answered my question, friend,” the stranger says.
“Uh, right. Cinnamon Galaxies,” I say. “I hear they taste the same.”
“Very kind of you.” He makes a gesture like he’s tipping his cap at me. His Omni-Seal doesn’t budge, not even a millimeter.
I nod to him and sprint out of the store, past the scanners at the door charging everything to my client’s account. On my way to load up my rusted Honda, I pass a 2051 Jaguar Luna, with solar panels so efficient, they charge in the moonlight. There’s only one person that car could belong to. What the fuck is he doing here?
“Congratulations, Maddox, you’re a star on RichTok,” my roommate, Nance, says when I get back to our apartment.
Nance’s job is combing through privileged people’s posts on social media and calling out problematic behavior to his substantial following. Enough rich people feel guilty enough to send him some cash to his Patreon that he doesn’t need to do anything else. Still, he hasn’t moved into a better neighborhood yet, so he can’t be doing that well.
“Shit, he was filming?” It has to be the guy from the grocery store. I can’t think of another interaction I’ve had that’d be worthy of going viral online.
“Livestreaming.” Nance points me to his computer screen as I watch myself charging down the cereal aisle. The bastard had a rear-facing camera. No wonder he was ready for me.
“Hilarious try with ramming his cart,” Nance says. “You would’ve gotten your ass kicked if he wasn’t trying to make himself look like a hero.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’ll say. I’ve been scrolling through this guy’s posts. He’s been training in jiu jitsu for three months to participate in an ‘Empathy Challenge,’ where they try to see how the less fortunate live.”
I laugh. “Yes, we less fortunate with our personal combat instructors, Omni-Seal masks, ShockSticks, rear-facing cameras with live feed to our eyepieces, Jaguar Lunas, and then driving back to our mansions in Biltmore Forest.”
Nance narrows his eyes. “How’d you know where he lives?”
“Where else could he possibly live?” Biltmore Forest is one of the last places in the Blue Ridge Mountains that still has birds. They built a dome over it to keep the poisoned air out. But if I even get within sight of the Biltmore Dome, I’ll get shot by a sniper. Can’t have the rabble lowering property values.
“Fair point,” Nance says. “If you’re curious, RichTok seems to like you well enough. You didn’t actually try to kill the guy, so they think you’re one of the good ones.”
“That’s me. A noble savage.”
Nance snort laughs. “You want to monetize this?”
“How much?” I would rather die than be on social media regularly, but I’d be willing to open an account for a few weeks to rake in extra some money.
Nance shrugs. “A few thousand, maybe. The guy you ran into has a pretty big following. He might even signal boost you if you make a post asking for money, then we’re talking tens of thousands. At least enough to cover expenses for a few months.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Oh, man, you don’t understand rich people at all, do you? They’ll do anything to make themselves feel like good people as long as they can keep some distance from the rest of us.”
I can feel the genesis of an idea brewing in me. I should just count myself lucky I ran into this rich guy, milk it while I can, and then get on with my life. But if I were the type of person who made good decisions, I probably wouldn’t have ended up as a Shopper.
“Besides going to grocery stores, what other things do they do for these Empathy Challenges?”
“It’s all stupid. Like eating ramen for a week, wiping their asses with the single-ply paper, going a day without air conditioning.”
I shake my head. “I’m not interested in what they do at home. What types of things get them out of the Dome?”
Nance pauses. “Why?”
“Because if a single interaction with a rich guy can pay the bills for a month, just think how much a recurring character could earn.”
Nance and I spend the rest of the day scrolling RichTok and coming up with a plan. I create an account and message the Shopper, whose real name we discover to be Callum Raines. I thank him for his help, apologize for trying to steal the Cinna-Stars, and make it seem like he was my hero. Which, I hate to admit, isn’t far from the truth. Because of him, I was able to complete a perfect delivery and receive my full payment, which means I can take a couple of days off shopping and relax for once. And plan how to fuck with him for money. I almost feel guilty about that last part. Almost.
Twenty minutes later, Callum responds:
Hey Maddox, I’m glad I was able to help you out today! And don’t feel bad about trying to take the cereal. I know how it is out there now lol! I’m just glad you were the one trying to get them instead of someone violent. That could’ve been bad. I’m happy I could give your story a boost. It’s the least I could do. -Callum
“Good news,” I tell Nance. “Callum knows how it is out there.”
“Another Empathy Challenge success story.”
Over the next three days, we spend our time browsing other Empathy Challenge posts, trying to get a sense of what Callum might do next. Nance is more excited about it than I am, but he lives online and he’s a pro at turning social media into money. This is his area of expertise, so I stay out of the way.
Despite our intensive research, Callum’s next challenge still catches us off-guard. I’m out on another Shopping run when Nance calls me.
“Code Red. The target is on the move.”
“English, Nance.”
“Look at Callum’s livestream. If we want to do this, we have to do it now.”
We haven’t worked out the logistics of anything yet, other than the basic outline of a plan. We were going to catch Callum on his next challenge, Nance was going to pretend to try to rob him, and I was going to step in and save the day, thus endearing myself to his audience, and hopefully raising enough money to not just pay a few bills, but to lift ourselves out of the Valley entirely, to somewhere the air is only sort of poisoned and you don’t need a mask indoors if you have the right home air filters.
I switch on Callum’s stream. He’s on a bus, sitting near the front so as to catch as many of his fellow riders in the background as possible.
“As you can see, while most people are minding their own business, there are a handful who seem to be hostile to my presence here,” Callum says to his camera. He’s still wearing his Omni-Seal, but he has the Transparent feature on so his whole face can be seen.
“The smell isn’t too bad,” he continues. “But it still manages to sneak into the Omni-Seal somehow. I can’t tell if it’s the air or the people, though I’ve heard if you live in it, you get used to it.”
He’s talking loud enough that everyone around him can hear. The bus is pretty full, and while most people are actively ignoring him, the couple in the seats one row back and on the other side of the aisle are looking agitated.
“I’m a little surprised by just how dirty the people here are,” he says. “I know outside the Dome they don’t have the water rations to take daily showers, but I didn’t think dirt could build up that fast.”
The other bus riders are maskless. The buses clean the inside air enough that it won’t kill you, and the more we use our masks, the quicker the filters wear out.
The guy behind Callum reaches over and taps him on the shoulder. “Buddy, can you shut the fuck up before I rip that mask off and show you what it really smells like downtown?”
Callum turns his head to apologize, and I catch a glimpse through the window of the old Mellow Mushroom restaurant. It’s all I need to place him. I close the stream and call Nance back.
“He’s in Asheville, riding the 5-Line southbound,” I tell him. “About midway through the route. What is this challenge, just riding a bus?”
“End to end, and back, yeah. The 5-Line lets off at Beaver Lake by the Country Club on the north end. The south end stop isn’t nearly as nice. The Club has a secure parking lot there where he could leave his Jaguar. That has to be where he got on. You’re sure he was going south?”
I’ve wandered away from my cart. Sorry to the Smallwood family, but I have more important things to worry about than getting the right frozen breakfast burritos.
“Yeah, man, I’m sure. They just passed the Mellow Mushroom on the left. We have maybe an hour before he’s back at Beaver Lake. Are we doing this?”
“Drop everything and meet me there.”
I cancel the Smallwood order, which will lower my rating on CashCart, but if everything goes right, I’ll never have to set foot in a grocery store again.
By the time I get to the Beaver Lake bus stop, Callum is on his way back, but it’ll be a while before he reaches me. I shoot Nance a text letting him know where I am and ask when he’ll be there. He texts me back a minute later.
Change of plans. We have to be sure we get this on camera. What if he wraps it up as he pulls into the last stop? We’d just be assaulting him and no one would see you play hero. I’m boarding downtown so I can start shit while we can be sure he’s still streaming.
I hate improvising something like this. There are so many ways it could go wrong. Am I supposed to wait here and hope that Nance is able to keep up an assault long enough for me to jump in without getting jiu-jitsu chopped straight to the hospital? There’s no way.
The plan was always supposed to rely on surprise, for me to save Callum in the split second before he realizes he’s being attacked and reaches for his ShockStick. The only way this works is if I’m already there. Which means I have to go back a few stops and board and hope Callum doesn’t recognize me. Fortunately, I was wearing my mask last time we interacted.
I go back to my car and drive toward Asheville, and I’m able to find a street parking spot only a block away from the bus stop. It’s a bit of a No Man’s Land out here, too far away from downtown to have any businesses, but not quite into the suburbs. Nobody else is at this bus stop and nobody is underway. This part of town is residential, and I’d guess most of the people who live here work at the Country Club, keeping it in pristine shape for their patrons.
I let Nance know my plan and he responds moments later.
Good thinking. Bus is almost empty now. Three stops away from you. Will commence as soon as you’re on.
While I wait, I take my mask off. The mild sulfur smell becomes overpowering, and there are notes of other things in it, too, like a complex coffee. The smell of a rotting carcass, likely coming from the sewer grate nearby, is a reminder that humans aren’t the only creatures that have adapted to this version of the world. We’ve still got plenty of rats and bugs, too. I breathe in deep through my nose and take in the rest. There’s gasoline and petrichor and charred meat and also a synthetic mint smell that’s the primary reason we can’t be without our masks for more than a few hours.
A mechanical trash pigeon coos on the sidewalk beside me, but the speaker is busted and the sound is garbled. It scoops up a wad of discarded chewing tobacco in its beak and flies off somewhere else.
I’ll be really sick tonight because of this. I have to remind myself what we’re trying to accomplish. We’re not meant to live like this.
Soon, the bus pulls up, and I get on near the back. I expect to see Nance in one of the seats a few rows behind Callum, but he’s slumped over against the side wall with a trickle of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth.
Alarm bells go off in my head.
“Nice to see you again, Maddox,” Callum says with mock sincerity.
“What did you do to him?”
“Webber Nance, lives at 1923 Wallace Avenue in a one-bedroom apartment with Maddox Fisher, who recently created the account @MadFishermann on RichTok. I wonder what these two are doing on the 5-Line this far away from home? Could it have something to do with me?”
He’s still streaming, the bastard.
Nance still hasn’t moved, but I’m afraid if I go check on him, Callum will cheapshot me. Whatever weapon he has on him, it obviously packs a punch.
“Shoutout to user @Renegade_Wealth, you win the bet. Maddox did try to crash my stream. I’ll be gifting you a year’s sub to the channel and sending you a box from Modern Vintage Winery, the sponsor of today’s stream. New wines with a distinctive, aged flavor. That’s the Modern Vintage promise.”
During Callum’s ad break, Nance starts convulsing.
“What the fuck happened to him?” I ask.
“He was threatening me, so I used a PunctureDart, the newest product from ShockStick. Friend of the channel. Love their products. As you can see, they’re very effective.”
“Will he be okay?”
“That’s gonna be a wrap for today’s stream. I’m coming to the end of the line. I’ll have a video up tomorrow collecting my thoughts and talking about what I learned from this Empathy Challenge, so be on the lookout for that. As always, thanks for watching!” Callum touches something on his mask, which I assume disables the livestream.
It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to try to choke Callum, but I know I’ll get a PunctureDart to the lungs just like Nance if I do anything.
Instead, I repeat myself as measured as possible. “Will he be okay?”
“If you get him to a hospital, sure. So what was the plan, he jumps me and you save my life? I’m so grateful, I buy you a house in the Dome and you grift your way into untold riches?”
I bite my lip. “Something like that.”
“A word of advice, then. You will never be one of us. You might get some scraps from our plates, but you’ll never dine at our table.”
I don’t know why it makes me so angry to hear it spoken aloud like that. It’s something I already know. It would take a miracle for someone like me to live anywhere but the Valley. I know that.
But it’s the dreaming that makes it bearable, isn’t it? Not that I want to be a part of the ruling class, or drive a Luna, or wear an Omni-Seal, or wield a ShockStick.
I want to hear a real fucking bird.
And I know it’ll never happen, because even if I fight back, I’ll end up unconscious with a punctured lung.
Callum sighs, then pulls out his wallet. “Look, I’m just trying to help you. Here’s a thousand. Use it to pay for your friend’s hospital bill. We don’t have to be enemies just because we’re from different worlds. I know how hard it is for you all.”
And that’s what breaks me. I scream with a rage I didn’t know I had in me and charge, and I actually manage to land a punch on Callum’s face before a jolt of electricity hits me in the ribs.
We do make it out of our apartment, in the end, but by means of eviction.
Nance and I woke up in the hospital, each of us with punctured lungs and a thousand dollars stuffed haphazardly into our pockets. It covers about 5% of our bill each. The rest has to come from what we’ve saved for our rent.
After a few days living in my car, we get approved for a studio apartment a few blocks away from our old one. Once we get everything set up, I log onto RichTok and send Callum a message.
Thanks for not killing me. I hope I broke your jaw. You should send me your Omni-Seal since I have to do extra Shopping to pay my hospital bill.
Two days later, a package arrives from Callum with no return address containing both the fancy mask and a spare ShockStick.
It’s just scraps, and I’m still going to be hungry tomorrow. But for now, I strap the mask on, enjoy the smell of brand new plastic for once, and head into the Piggly Wiggly to earn that star back on CashCart.
Matthew Pritt’s work has been published by Dark Recesses Press, Dread Stone Press, and Cursed Morsels. He is a member of the HWA and he lives in West Virginia with his five cats. You can see pictures of them on his Twitter @MatthewTPritt.