The Last Lullaby

A short story

Photo by Hernan Sanchez on Unsplash

Robert Petti was twelve years into his job as a Caretaker when he violated the contract. 

The contract had been a solemn promise carried forward for four generations. Robert’s father, grandmother, great-grandmother, and great-great-grandfather had also been Caretakers, and all had obeyed the contract. 

Nothing in Robert’s grandmother’s diary hinted that she would have broken the contract for any reason. His other ancestors thought the same. Even Robert’s father had insisted the contract was the most important document in human history. He said, “Son, one day the plague will end, and when that day comes, it is our responsibility to restart humanity.”

On Monday, Robert and his sacred oath had been eternal; on Tuesday, he shattered that vow.

The pandemic began in Los Angeles on December 4, 2024, rapidly spreading around the globe. The virus invaded the heart, causing sudden cardiac arrest. The only known cure was sleep. If you slept, you lived. If you were awake, the virus could stop your heart. 

But how to stay asleep? While billions perished, scientists raced to answer that question. Twelve months later, the United States government, in cooperation with Xixor Pharmaceuticals, launched a new drug, Somulpax, that induced indefinite hibernation. One injection a week kept you asleep. 

But somebody had to give that weekly injection. 

People who could afford Somulpax slept in safety; those who could not afford Somulpax became caretakers. 

“Morning, Robert,” Carolina said before giving him a peck on the cheek. She carried a basket of fruit and vegetables in one arm while her beagle, Bangor, studying several nearby squirrels, tugged her other arm. They often met at the outdoor market in Central Park at 58th Street, across from the abandoned, vine-covered, Plaza Hotel. Several dozen Caretakers milled around, chatting and shopping for food, clothing, and other necessities. 

Parrots and macaws flocked from tree to tree while four foxes played on the far side of the meadow. 

A couple close to Robert and Carolina’s age, mid-thirties, leaned against a hackberry tree’s thick trunk, drinking wine. 

Today, Robert’s mission was food shopping, but he would need new clothes soon. He'd been wearing freebies from assorted, abandoned shops and department stores, such as Macy’s and Bloomingdale's. Since he met Carolina Orr a year ago, he’d grown self-conscious about his century-old, out-of-fashion wardrobe. 

Like Robert, Carolina was one of the three thousand Caretakers in Manhattan, roughly one for every hundred Sleepers. In the first decades after the pandemic, there had been one Caretaker for every seventy-five Sleepers, but because Caretakers only slept when their biological clock permitted it, the virus continued to kill them. 

Despite their dwindling numbers, the Caretaker system accounted for their inevitable deaths and could last another two hundred years before there were not enough Caretakers for Sleepers. 

Caretakers had a job and a function. The Caretakers’ job was to maintain the Sleepers, the two billion people who survived the first and second waves of the pandemic—to keep them asleep with weekly Somulpax injections, replenish their intravenous nutrition bags, work their legs, arms, neck, hands, and feet to maintain muscle, turn them to thwart bedsores, and remove their waste. Some Caretakers read to their Sleepers, but the contract did not require it.

How long would the Sleepers need to be unconscious? That’s where the Caretakers’ function came in. The contract specified that when a year passed without the virus killing any Caretakers, it would be time to wake the Sleepers. 

“Did you hear the news?” Carolina asked. 

Robert feigned excitement, but when he noticed Carolina's dulled eyes and downward listing lips, he replied flatly, “Yes, I heard. None of us have died from the plague in the past twelve months, which means the virus is gone. The contract is over, and it’s time to wake the Sleepers.”

Lightning zig zagged in the west. The storm was at least an hour away.

“But? Your tone suggests misgivings.” 

“It’s different now. Before today, reviving the Sleepers was just a clause in the Contract. Now I’m not sure I want to.”

“You sound certain you don’t want to, like I am positive I want them to remain in stasis.” 

Robert nodded. “It’s a good life for them. No responsibilities, no work, no worries—just dreams. They can be anywhere, do anything in their dreams. We’ll continue to care for them in perpetuity.” 

Robert and Carolina often talked about what it was like to be a Sleeper, enjoying limitless adventures—scaling mountains taller than Everest, exploring ringed planets orbiting distant suns, flying like a bird, and, of course, endless sex. They must dream because what else is there for Sleepers to do? 

“Why should we revive them? Our world is perfect.” Carolina waved her arm in a circle. “It’s quiet and peaceful; the air and water are clean. Millennia from now, our descendants may upend the planet as our ancestors did, but that’s in the far future. If I revive my hundred Sleepers, and you revive your hundred Sleepers, and all the other Caretakers revive their hundred Sleepers, it will be—” 

“An invasion,” Robert said. 

“And we can’t have that, can we?” 

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If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also like my story, The Twenty-Six.