The Resilience Gene

The sudden crackle and fizz of white noise on the communal television set jolted Dana from his stupor. He'd drifted off during the Morning Broadcast (rations reduced again: same old, same old) and he felt as though he'd been dozing for a while. So it must be time for-

"Hello, and welcome back to another edition of Second Chances! I'm your host Clement Paisley, and I'm really excited to welcome our guest this week, Jenny, who's joining us from Sector Three." 

Dana’s fellow survivors murmured. Many were so exhausted they could barely look up, and none wanted to watch what they knew was coming. But they had no choice; it was a government-mandated broadcast. Once, JD, one of Dana’s bunkmates, had managed to throw one of his bedrags over the wall-mounted screen so they could at least avoid watching the show, even if they had to listen. But the Order Maintenance Team took it down within minutes. The whole sector had half-rations that week. 

Everyone knew the “game” was rigged; no guest had ever got through it, and the side-effects of each new treatment were often horribly grotesque. All the survivors had heard the scuffles late at night, too. The guests weren't there voluntarily.

“So, Jenny – we’re so glad you’re here, thanks for coming in. What did you do before the pandemic?”

Even through the dusty screen, Dana could see that Jenny was sweating and pale. She rocked nervously from side to side. He’d not been to Sector Three, but Dana guessed from the look of her clothes and her gaunt jaw that conditions there were similar to his. 

“Hi Clement. I was a school teacher.”

“A teacher! That’s great. Well, I’m sure what we’ve got in-store for you tonight will be a walk in the park...” – the presenter turned to look at the camera – “parks! Who remembers those?!” The crowd laughed, and Paisley grinned. 

“No, but really – I’m sure it’ll be a walk in the park compared to dealing with a pack of screaming kids. As I’m sure you know, Jenny, our scientists are working day and night to find a vaccine for this terrible disease, and it’s only because of brave contestants such as yourself that we’re able to test it and give humanity another shot at survival. So, there’s only one question left for me to ask: are you ready to play Second Chances?”

The crowd cheered.

Jenny sat in a large leather chair in the centre of the set. Two burly porters strapped her legs to the chair. Her feet shook uncontrollably. 

The camera cut to Paisley’s beaming, bronzed face. “Today’s Second Chances test is … drumroll please … an oral liquid administration! A crowd favourite, for sure. That’s right Jenny, you’ve got a nice, tall drink coming your way. Well, we can’t promise it’ll be nice, but I’m sure you knew that when you volunteered.” The audience laughed again.

In the Sector Seven bunker, the viewers groaned. Drinks were always the worst. And it somehow always seemed to be that after a 'drink test' on Second Chances, their liquid rations arrived the same colour as the concoction on the show. The Rations Team put it down to shortages and new recipes.

“Come on Jenny, drink up!” Paisley laughed and gestured to the crowd. They knew what to do. 

“GULP! GULP! GULP!” The audience were on their feet now, laughing and yelling. Jenny had nearly finished the pint of off-grey goop, but was struggling to get to the end. One of the porters tilted the cup so the last of the liquid sloshed down her throat. The crowd went wild, then settled to an excited hush.

Jenny wiped her mouth and sniffled. Nothing happened. 

“How do you feel, Jenny?” Paisley asked.

“I feel OK.”

Paisley looked at the camera. “Well, this is a first. Things are looking good for Jenny – and maybe the rest of us too. We could be witnessing history here.”

Dana nudged JD, who lay next to him. “Hey – I think it might be working. I actually think it’s working!” JD and others stared up at the screen, new hope in their faces. Thirty seconds passed. 

Then, Jenny coughed quietly. She coughed again, this time louder. She suddenly arched in the chair, clutched at her throat, then retched loudly. The camera stayed trained on her as the veins in her neck bulged and her face turned red. She vomited a thick, grey, gloopy slush. Dana could make out streaks of what looked like blood in the chunks. He put his head in his hands.

Jenny was convulsing now, scratching at her eyes and desperately trying to free her legs from the shackles. She tried to scream, but the noise was clogged. The camera pulled out to a wider shot as she tried to wail, and blood started to stream from her ears. Then she slumped, and was still. The porters untied her and carried her off the set. 

Paisley reappeared, with a look of faux disappointment. “Well, that was certainly a good try from Jenny. Better luck next time, I suppose. I know our live audience enjoyed it – and I hope you did too! We’ll see you tomorrow on Second Chances!” 

In Sector Seven, the atmosphere was despondent. For Dana, the real question was why the Leadership Committee insisted on broadcasting the show. Few people had an issue with testing new treatments, even if they carried great risks. But why must they see it, every single day?

–– 

"So as you can see, we consistently worsened conditions for the test subjects over the 12-week experimental period. Through the successful roll-out of our revolutionary Temporary Memory-Wipe/Scenario-Implant software and consistent messaging by our actor-researchers, the subjects believed with full conviction in the "pandemic" story we created."

One of the journalists raised their hand. "Dr. Reed, do you think there's any chance that the subjects will continue to believe they're living in this scenario once the experiment is over?"

"The chance is about as close to zero as it's possible to be," the doctor said, looking benignly over his glasses. "We performed very significant testing before the experiment took place. And anyway, all subjects willingly signed their waiver forms." 

The doctor shuffled his notes. "Now for the really interesting part. Despite such significant negative stimulus – a seemingly hopeless future, very poor living conditions and arbitrary, authoritarian cruelty such as the fabricated television show – the vast majority of the subjects persisted in their efforts to create a better world for themselves. They fed and clothed each other, banded together, sang songs and told stories. Of course, they all struggled, but none appeared to give up hope. This is why we gave them the simple but futile task of pedalling on static bicycles connected to fake generators. We never forced them to do it. But we wanted to see if they'd try, and they did."

"What we discovered, through twice-daily blood tests and brain scans that we carried out after pumping anaesthetic gas through the ventilation system, was a chemical and physical change across the 12 weeks. The part of the brain responsible for determination, persistence – trying again, basically – showed significant activity in every single test subject. What’s more, it surged immediately after each cycling session, which we think is the result of the sense of accomplishment and contribution towards a greater goal – even if misplaced.”

“That’s what we plan to take away from this experiment. We think we can harness that chemical change for the greater good of humankind. If we can extract it, package it and deliver it – which we believe we can – it will be an exceptionally valuable asset in so many walks of life. Picture this: after a natural disaster, during a war, recovering from an injury, attempting to beat a mental health breakdown, whatever it is, you can simply take a pill, and your determination surges. Miracles happen when people tap into their deep reserves of dogged persistence, when they decide to simply try again, no matter how slim the odds. We can recreate that miracle.”

“We call it the Resilience Gene.”