The man floats in eternal nothingness. All around him there is nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to smell. He can taste nothing, and the sound of nothing deafens him. Moving his hands he feels nothing. He screams, a silent cry of outrage against his terrible punishment.

The place: anywhere. The time: anytime. It doesn't matter. A man once walked along a street at night. Maybe he whistled. I have no idea. He went into the cafe and sat in his usual seat. Around him the dead faces ate and drank with mechanical precision. He ordered coffee.
"On the rocks", he muttered to the waiter.
The iced coffee arrived, but he did not drink. Carefully he poured the liquid into a pot plant at his right elbow, and examined the bottom of the cup. It was there. He removed the slip of waterproof paper, carefully watching the citizens around him. They did not notice. They were programmed to notice nothing. He dropped some coins on the table.
Moving across to the publis terminal, he kept his eyes low. The terminal wasn't broken. A nice change. At the access prompt he entered the code from the paper.
The screen filled with information, but he really wasn't interested. His job was done. He figured he had about five minutes before the virus was noticed. Another five before the point of infection was decoded. Plenty of time. He hoped.
Outside the air was alive with static electricity. His hair crackled as he pulled his hat low. Slowly he shuffled into the crowd. As the hand fell upon his shoulder he swore bitterly. It was over.

Remembering does no good. It is too late for regrets now, and besides, there is nothing to remember. He is in limbo. Eternal nothingness is his. The most gloriously awful punishment ever devised. Slowly he goes mad. But then, madness is nothing here.

Copyright © 1998, Tom Massey
URL: http://www.oocities.org/SoHo/Atrium/8864/stories/nothing.html

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