Short Story, Science Fiction
Dystopia
In this new world life is lived one minute at a time, privacy is gone, and the risk of isolation is ever-present.
“C’mon, Rick, you know my rules. I gotta see your score, or you’re not coming in here. Don’t make a fuss about it, I’m sure you’re fine, but please?”
I’m not the kind of person who takes chances. Rick is reckless. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t last long. I don’t like to let people into my apartment with a score below 50. I’ve kept mine in the upper 80s and want it to stay that way.
“Oh, baby, don’t be like all the others”
I’m not opening the door.
Ever since the outbreak of the last pandemic, the government is tracking the health status of all individuals in the zones. What used to be a country has now been subdivided into individual zones under the pretense of limiting mobility.
Where I live, most people keep their protective gear on when going outside. I have invested in a permanent protective body transformation. Only my mouth shield comes off when I get home. Otherwise, I’m fully protected, permanently.
After the outbreak, and once the antibody had been identified, each territory was given the option to limit personal freedom to prevent a recurrence. We’re all terrified the virus comes back. Where I live, we are all chipped. The chip constantly measures the level of antibodies in us, reports it to a central database, and allows us to read the score on our phones.
“Show me your phone. Nothing personal, Rick. Just do it. Don’t be a jerk about it.”
His score was on the low end. I had seen him regularly over the past weeks and he was healthy at first. But over the past few days, his antibody score gradually declined from the upper 80s to around 50. That’s getting dangerously close to losing his immunity to the virus.
In our territory, I’m not too worried. If the score drops below 25, the State Sterilization Agency sends a team out and picks individuals up wherever they are. I don’t want to be around when Rick gets picked up. The agency doesn’t wait long. That’s why travel to other zones, the ones with a more relaxed approach, is highly restricted.
I open the door. He looks fine, none of the typical signs of deterioration. His body looks as hot as ever. Jeans, a faded t-shirt, boots. He’s sending a clear message that he doesn’t care about post-pandemic social norms. He won’t wear the standard protective suit.
Sitting on the couch by the window, his eyes are full of emotion as he looks at the streets below; we used to have fun, be care-free. The days when stepping outside is met with harsh punishment have changed our sense of freedom. Now we’re cautious. To this day, nobody knows how quickly the immunity can drop. We’re all slaves to the chip implants. The agency knows when we’re deteriorating before we do.
He checks his phone again; 48. Why can’t it be like before again? I liked him and there was a real chance we would hook up. But he has been sick and despite the chip, I don’t trust his health. The last thing I want is to get infected. But I love his uncompromising identity. His freedom. I love seeing his bulge in his pants when he looks at me.
I once saw a person go from healthy to sick in a matter of hours. The response was swift and severe. He was wrapped in airtight gear within minutes and transported away. It was so fast, no time to say good-bye to anyone. And when these drops occur, some are never seen again. Rumor has it, hopeless cases are dumped across the border to a neighboring zone. There, the virus is rampant, but people live free.
His phone flashes red — 42. His score has dropped just in the few minutes he’s been here. I ask him to leave. I’m scared. At this rate, it won’t be long before the alarm is triggered and he is picked up. If I’m found to be with him, to be intimate, have sex, I’m picked up with him.
Oh, fuck it. If I ever want to have sex with him, it’s now or never. My protective suit is genetically bonded to my skin. I’m dressed, and yet, naked. It always turned him on. Rick gets the message. He unbuckles his pants, stands up, and starts stroking his cock.
I don’t need to moisten my pussy, just opening the crotch zipper releases drips of moisture from my cunt. We need to be quick, they could come knocking on my door any minute. No time for foreplay, he likes me to ride him hard. The couch will have to do.
He feels good, not quite as hard as I like it. I squeeze his cock and he pushes deeper. Sliding up and down his cock, he gets hard. Now I get his full penetration when I push down on him.
“What’s your score?”
“38”
There is no room for error in this new world. Life is lived one minute at a time, privacy is gone, and the risk of isolation is ever-present. I ride him faster and harder. He grabs me by my waist and slaps me up and down his rod like a toy doll. It’s how I like it. Hard. Fast. Harder. Faster. Deeper.
We both come. It lasts only a few seconds but feels like an eternity.
“Your score, Rick, fast!”
“29!”
Run. Don’t worry about me.
His phone is flashing red now. The first sign that he’s been picked up as a risk to our society. To everyone’s health. Nobody wants to have the virus come back.
“You don’t have a choice anymore.”
He is tired of running away. He’d rather live with the virus and take his chances, but not in this Zone.
“Take my car and make a run for Territory 4. There you can live the way you want. You know what the consequences are. You may not have a chance to return.”
Looking out the window, I see him driving off in my Huracán. The border is just 10 miles away, close enough to outrun the agency. Besides, while nobody can get through the border without going through quarantine, leaving our zone is easy. Nobody will chase him once he crosses into Zone 4. He’s their problem.
I’m glad we had this moment. I remember the good days, before the virus. We had fun. Now he’s gone. He can’t live like this anymore, and all I’m left with is one question. Can I?
