Chapter 7 Nothing Wrong With This Car

Nothing Wrong With This Car

     It's 6:00 p.m. John punches out and heads to his car.

He's tired. Drained. But there's comfort ahead: the drive home, the sound of his stations, the voices that affirm everything he needs to believe. The fix.

He slips into the driver's seat and turns the key.

Nothing.

No click. No sputter. No start.

He tries again. Still nothing.

He leans back against the door and exhales, lips tight. His head drops to the steering wheel. He tries again—harder this time, as if force might change the outcome.

Still dead.

Panic doesn't hit all at once. It creeps in slowly, behind his thoughts. He looks at his phone.

Battery: 4%.

Maybe enough for one call.

Maybe.

But more pressing than the car—or the ride—is the withdrawal. He's been off the signal for too long. His last fix is wearing thin. His thoughts are getting fuzzy. The ache is back.

The car ride home is his ritual—his pipeline to reinforcement. Without it, the voices are silent. And the silence is dangerous.

     He looks up and spots the store security guard cruising by in his SUV.

John waves him down.

The guard rolls to a stop. John explains: “The car won't start. It might be the battery.” The guard nods, pops his hood, and pulls out jumper cables.

They try once.

Nothing.

Twice. A sputter, then silence.

Third time, it catches—then dies again.

"Could be your alternator," the guard says, frowning.

But John barely hears him.

He's not thinking about the alternator.

He's thinking about the itch. He feels the sweat collecting under his collar. His hands shake slightly on his thighs.

If he can't listen, maybe he can simulate the fix.

He turns to the guard.

"Crazy how they're still trying to pretend that birth certificate's real, huh?"

He watches the guard's face closely, hunting for agreement.

A nod. A grunt. A yes—even a partial one—might help. Just enough to hold him over.

Just enough to make the pain stop.

"It's not the alternator!" John snapped.

"There's nothing wrong with this car."

He climbed back into the driver's seat like it was any other day, turned the key with conviction—like belief alone could bring the engine back to life.

Nothing.

He tried again.

And again.

Still nothing.

     The security guard stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching quietly. He wasn't confused. He'd seen this before. The bug didn't just affect memory or belief—it corroded reality itself.

This wasn't about the car anymore.

It was about denial. Complete, unfiltered denial. The kind that replaces facts with faith. The kind that rewrites flat tires as conspiracies and dead batteries as sabotage.

John refused to look at him. He just kept turning the key. Staring straight ahead. Determined. Sweating.

     The guard took a step back. He knew better than to argue. Infected people could become unstable when challenged. Sometimes violent. And John was already teetering—sick, agitated, disconnected from consequence.

The guard said nothing.

He got in his SUV, pulled away slowly, and left John there—alone, surrounded by silence and self-deception.

He glanced back once through the rearview mirror.

John was still trying to start the car.

The car didn’t start, and his only choice at this point was to catch the bus.  He reluctantly headed for the bus stop. As he headed for the bus stop, his steps were heavy, his pace was quick. annoyance radiating from every movement. Now he wondered whether he could make it home in his condition.