The Agent

The city is silent tonight. It always is these days. My mom used to have photographs of Atlanta all over our apartment. They showcased a street full of cars, bright lights, and crowded sidewalks. As I cross Piedmont Avenue, I realize the city looks exactly like one of my mom’s old photographs. Cars still litter the roads, and pedestrians still gather at crosswalks and shop doors. The lights on the billboards continue to advertise the newest movie release or the next model of truck. The city’s night sky is just as bright as in the picture, and everything is just as still. 

I was nineteen when the world stopped moving. I still don’t know what caused it or how long it’s been since. I was walking down Piedmont Avenue– the same street I’m on now– when everything suddenly stopped. People ceased all movement. They stood still, their clothes and hair suspended by a wind that no longer blew. Those crossing the street stood in the middle of the crosswalk. The flashing billboards were stuck on one screen. None of the streetlights or blinkers moved. Traffic halted, every vehicle immediately freezing in place without a sound. It was as if someone had paused a television, leaving the characters static and lifeless on the screen. I seemed to be the only one unaffected.

I rushed back to my apartment that night. Everyone I passed on the way resembled department store mannequins. Everything I touched seemed suspended in its place. I tried to throw the door of my apartment open, but it ceased all movement the second I removed my hand from the doorknob; it was as if momentum and force were irrelevant. I called out to her, but there was no response. It was so quiet. The usual noise of the city was gone. The only sounds were the footsteps of my boots on the wooden floor. I checked every room. My mother wasn’t there; she hadn’t returned home from work. I ran to the hospital a block away, where my mother worked as a nurse. I checked every room on every floor. Everybody remained frozen in place. My mother was not among the statues in the hospital. It felt like hours had passed, but the moon had not changed its position in the sky. 

My life since the incident has been a lonely one. At first, I tried to wake people up from whatever trance affected them. I found I could move them, but– like the door– they froze again the second I let go of them. They never regained consciousness, no matter what I tried. After I accepted that I was the only man awake, I started to steal things. I’ve pickpocketed just about every person on Piedmont Avenue. I keep the collection in my apartment: gold watches, leather wallets, and car keys of varying makes and models. I have a stack of cash that would make any banker’s mouth water. After a while, I realized how useless my hoard was. What good is a fortune if there is no need to spend it? When I’m hungry, I go to one of the countless convenience stores in the city and take something off the shelf. When I feel sick, I raid the pharmacy. 

I still haven’t found my mother. I spend my days looking for her. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’ve aged a bit. I have a beard now, and I’ve lost weight. I’ve covered every inch of downtown Atlanta but have found no trace of my mom. Earlier, perhaps a few days ago, from what I can tell— I found my friend Jules. She was in her sister’s hair salon, sitting behind the office desk. She hadn’t changed a bit since I saw her last. The incident had stopped her while writing a letter with my name addressed at the top. She had gotten through “Dear Hector, we’ve been friends forever. I have come to the point where I need to start doing what I want to do, and not what everyone else expects of me. Therefore, I think our friendship-”

I’m unsure if she was cutting me off or asking me out. I suppose I’ll never know. As the last living man on earth, I’ve encountered a few others I once knew. My friends from school were stuck on the basketball court, probably having snuck out that night. The lights around the court were still on. Tony was suspended midair, inches away from a slam dunk that would never be completed. Jet stood across the court, groaning at his impending defeat. Ever the artist, Phoebe had set up a canvas just outside the wire fence. She had been painting the boys, and her brush had stopped at the top curve of the basketball. I wondered if the paint would still be wet against my finger. I didn’t bother to find out. Andre sat on a bench behind Phoebe, watching her work. Even in the lifelessness of the current world, I saw a light in his eyes as he gazed eternally at her. We had all known Andre was in love with her, but no one ever put it into words. I suspected Phoebe knew too. She never mentioned it, though, and she never brought it up with Andre. She never will. 

Now, I’m attempting to hotwire a car. My mom and I never had the money to get one of our own, and I’d seen Tony start up his old truck with a piece of wire and a paperclip. The only problem is, I have no idea how he did it. I spend an hour trying to get the engine running, but nothing happens. It’s tricky business; there’s no way to know if I’m doing something wrong or if the unknown rules of the incident prevent electrical current. I take a break, sitting back on my heels. I’ve tried a few different cars, and I’m becoming increasingly frustrated. I let my eyes wander Piedmont Avenue, a break from the constant staring at small wires. A flash of light catches my eye. I turned my head again and the flash repeated. I looked at the crowd of pedestrians, and my eyes landed on a stingy-looking man in a suit. I remember him. I took a brand-new Rolex off his left wrist long ago. Apparently, I didn’t notice the set of car keys in his right hand, the metal reflecting the moonlight. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before trying to hotwire a car, but at least no one was alive enough to notice my error. I yanked the keys out of his pudgy fingers. A Tesla. Now, I just have to find the damn thing. I have a motive for stealing the car. My petty theft days– or maybe months– are behind me. At some point in my new existence, I realized that Atlanta likely wasn’t the only city affected. I didn’t know exactly how far this blight extended, but I knew it had to be big. The military would’ve come to Atlanta by now unless there was no military left anymore. My plan is to drive up to Washington D.C. Hopefully, there is someone there who can help me. 

I spend an hour scouring the street for the car. I find it in a parking deck a block over. I should’ve known a man like him would never park on the road. To my relief, the car comes to life with ease. It seems I was just bad at hotwiring cars. I pull out of the deck and onto the road, only to be stopped by my next obstacle: the other cars. Atlanta is known for standstill traffic, but these cars are stuck permanently in place. The only way around the cars is the sidewalk, but I don’t want to risk hitting pedestrians in case they are still aware and feeling. Despite likely living in this environment for years, I still know next to nothing. I’m hoping someone in D.C. has more information. 

After considerable thinking and strategizing, I choose to slowly push the other cars out of my way. My foot is barely on the gas pedal as I wedge the Tesla between a Mercedes and a beat-up Chevy. They slowly part for me, the metal of all three vehicles scraping and denting in the process. It feels like hours before I’ve even escaped Piedmont Avenue. Once I’m on the highway, though, it clears up considerably. It was around one in the morning when the incident occurred, so the highway was much clearer than the city. I had to drive around the occasional big rig, but it was no big deal considering all the cars’ lights were still shining bright against the dark sky like beacons. 

I count the minutes as I drive if only to give me something to do. At minute 583, I come across the capital city’s entry signs. It has the same eerie stillness as Atlanta, but the scene is more apocalyptic than down south. I get out of the car and walk down Pennsylvania Avenue. Military tanks surround the White House, their guns pointed at the sky. Soldiers are paused mid-run throughout the streets, rifles in their hands. Civilians scream silently as they attempt to cover their heads. I pass a mother shielding her young daughter with her body from an invisible attack from above. Neither of them appeared injured, just frozen in place like the others. 

Whatever caused the incident had been targeted here. The citizens in Atlanta never knew of a threat. They simply ceased moving suddenly and without warning. The people in D.C. though… were terrified. Maybe they had known the source of it all. Whatever they’ve seen or heard, they can’t tell me. My hope for help dies with every step I take. The silence is telling. I’m still the only one awake. 

A whirring noise cuts through my thoughts. It’s a clicking, spinning noise as if someone had set loose a wind-up toy. My heart jumps into my throat as I look around, my eyes darting to find the source of the sound. It’s been so long since I’ve heard anything that wasn’t from me. I can’t bring myself to run from it.

Then, at the corner of the road, I see a small, moving disk. It’s a silver piece of round metal. It’s flat like a pancake and smoother than anything manmade. It’s completely electronic and yet, it moves as if it’s alive. It scurries up to frozen bodies, surveying them. It nudges a man’s boot as if trying to rouse him from his trance. When the man remains a statue, the disk moves on to the woman and her daughter. It seems confused at the scene, turning circles around the pair. Then, long, spindly arms eject from the disk, poking and prodding at the mother. My stomach sinks a bit. Then, the creature tries to pull the daughter away, dragging her from her mother’s grasp. My legs start without thinking, pulling me towards them. I can’t let this thing separate them. It notices me before I can get too close. I stop a few yards from them, panting at my sudden sprint. 

“Let her go,” I huff. The disk retracts its arms and floats off the ground. It hovers at eye level as I stare at it. I back up a step.

“I have been searching for you,” a robotic voice calls from the device. “We all have.” 

“Searching? Searching for me, why?” 

“You are the target, Kitok,” it replies in a monotonous tone.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “I don’t know anyone named Kitok. I’m Hector.” The disk merely hovers in silence. I stare at it for a moment, and then I turn away. Perhaps turning my back to an alien device is a bad idea, but I don’t have much else to lose anymore. I start walking down the street again. I hear the whirring sound as it follows me. I glance over my shoulder. The arms are nowhere to be seen.

“I have been searching for you, Kitok,” it repeats. I face forward again.

“I’m Hector,” I say calmly, though I can’t stop the tremble in my voice. More clicking and whirring ensue. 

“Hector may be your Earth-given name, but you are Kitok Jonokbon, one of the proud citizens of the planet Drotikar.” I scoff a bit. The disk may be an alien, but it seems docile at the moment. If it wanted me dead, I’m sure I already would be.

“Kitok Jonokbon of Drotikar,” I repeat incredulously. “If I’m an alien, then why was I born and raised on Earth?” I can hear that the thing still follows me. 

“You were one of many sleeper agents, all part of a program called Operation 32669,” it explains. “You were a living satellite signal, so that we may keep tabs on this planet. Why do you think you are the only one unaffected by the Time Pause?” I stop walking then, my eyes fixed straight ahead. The noise stops too.

“So what now?” I ask slowly. 

“There are three steps in the process. First, insert the sleeper agent. Then, when the agent is fully matured, we initiate the Time Pause to easily locate them. The last step in Operation 32669 is the termination of planet Earth and the extraction of the sleeper agent.” Suddenly, I’m not on Pennsylvania Avenue anymore. The dark street turns into a blinding, empty, white space. The disk hovers off to my left. 

“Begin Phase Three: Termination.” Before I can let the creature’s words fully sink in, it’s floating towards me. As it gets closer, images of faces pass through my mind. I see Jules in her sister’s office, writing to me. I’ll never know what she wanted to say. Tony and Jet will never know who won their game. Andre will never be able to tell Phoebe he loves her, and she’ll never be able to return his feelings. I’ll never see my mother again. 

The disk is inches from my face now.

“Welcome home, Kitok.” Its spindly arms reach for me, and the world goes black.