Death. It’s how these stories always end, but my boss didn't pay me to save people, he paid me to brainwash them. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror in my crummy apartment, I applied expensive lipstick, layered my face with top-of-the-line make-up, squeezed into a body shaper, then a tight black dress, stuffed my manicured feet into a pair of stiletto hills, and brushed my gleaming blond hair so that it fell below my shoulders. Standing in front of the mirror again, I smiled. Everything I wore had been paid for with government funds and I looked hot. I grabbed my purse and walked to the front door. If all goes well, this gig will be my last and all I have to do is sell one, final lie.           My name is Meagan; I am a failed journalist who became a social media influencer after a colleague turned me onto the latest internet craze. Political celebrities. I thought it was a joke, another trend gone wild, but she had a sponsor already lined up. A candidate that had won an election and wanted to use his platform to become a king. He had gobs of cash and was willing to throw some of it at me if I promoted his shtick. I was broke, late on rent, and was in dire need of the newest Jimmy Choos so the gig was a no brainer.           Heading down the cracked concrete steps outside my door, I walked toward the gaudy red bus waiting for me at the curb. It was empty, save the driver. I flashed a smile, and the driver offered me a hand up the steps. His skin felt like moist sandpaper and his body odor smelled like sour milk and whiskey. It slapped me in the face as I got onto the bus and walked to the seats in the middle to discourage small talk. The driver, like the other people I was heading to meet, thought my boss was a god and after a few videos accentuating my busty features in skimpy clothes, I became their goddess. Keeping small talk to a minimum was part of the gig.           My target demographic was people dumb enough to believe that one man could change the world, but they weren’t simple followers or fans. These people were Heaven’s Gate type folks that would follow my boss off a cliff. I called them lovelies on my social media accounts, but in private I called them worshippers. They had plots of land all over the country. I was heading to the one near my apartment in Colorado. The worshipers thought I was coming to support the political monster that had just paid for my Bentley. As usual, they had no clue.           The bus climbed the mountain near Crestone, and turned onto an unpaved road guarded by an electrical fence and ten, maybe even twenty ‘No Trespassing’ signs. There were militant men and women standing along the road, each one decked out in full riot gear, and they held automatic weapons. I gave the militants a wink, flashed a smile and pushed my boobs up against the glass for a touch of excitement. I got a smile from one of the guards, but the others stood with faces of stone, their focus on the dusty road behind the bus. The driver continued to another gate made of steel, and we waited for it to open.           The worshipers called the plots, “The Land of the Free”. I called them compounds, but only in my head because the gig had come with stipulations: Keep my opinions to myself. Read what they gave me. Show a lot of skin. Follow Tom, the program manager. I stepped off the bus and was immediately greeted by a sea of bald heads. Women and men alike. Thankfully, we were out in the open air, but even so, the stench from unwashed skin filled my nose and turned my stomach. Everyone on the compound wore burlap pants and red shirts that hung over their hungry, tired bodies. The shirts were branded with the same motto printed in white.           On the front they read: “This is not a cult.” On the back: “It’s the future.”           I swallowed a laugh, flashed my expensive smile and followed Tom through the crowd. Securing my phone onto a selfie stick, I started a live stream. Another stipulation of my contract. My boss wanted the world to see his lemmings' dedication and encourage more worshipers to swallow his obvious, yet effective lies. Turning the camera so that my face filled the feed, I flashed my pouty lips, threw up a peace sign, gave hundreds of thousands of viewers a wink, and then swiped the phone over the crowd.           There were a few emojis of anger and a wave of nasty comments on the scroll, but they were from influencers working for the opposing team. Their hatred fueled the worshipers into a frenzy and within seconds, my viewership doubled. I silently cheered. I had earned a bonus with the enormous number scrolling on my cell phone screen. I could put down a deposit on that house in Aspen and finally leave my crummy apartment behind.           The compound looked like every other compound I had ever seen. There were numerous trailers, one large building, multiple tents and RVs and vans all haphazardly parked around a large bonfire. The compound itself, was surrounded by a forest, and I could hear a river running not too far away.           “Isn’t it illegal to have all these dwellings on residential land?” I asked Tom, placing the screen in front of us so that the viewers could get a good look at what they called success.           Tom puffed his chest, making sure that the logo on his shirt was seen on the screen. “Actually, this land has been purchased by a corporation set up by our glorious leader. All who voted for him, and can show proof are welcome to come.”           The feed went wild. Free rent, and a group of people that not only looked alike, but all believed the same, small-minded things was like a fairy tale to those watching the stream.           “You heard it here first folks,” I said, flashing another wink. It was part of my brand. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell your family out there in the unforgiving woke world Tom?” It was one of the questions I was obligated to ask.           Tom’s red face lit up as a smile spread from sunburned ear to sunburned ear. He took a step away from the cell phone and pinched the top of his shirt with both hands, lifting it and shaking it vigorously. “This is not a cult. It’s the future!”           I stifled a chuckle as the crowd behind Tom mimicked his movement and the chant began. “This is not a cult. It’s the future.”           The feed went wild as thousands of people typed the motto over and over. At first the letters where small, grammar proper, but then they changed to all caps with multiple exclamation points. I couldn’t have set it up better if I tried. I didn’t believe a damn word my boss said, but I couldn’t deny that his shtick was doing the job.           We headed through the crowd and further into the compound. I subtly held my breath, letting out small ones, and inhaled quickly to avoid the growing stench around me. The sun was high in the sky, and the heat worsened every smell, but my smile held firm even as I passed a crying child in soiled clothes. I was here to do a job. I had to get it done.           I had studied cults for an article when I was still a journalist. That’s how I got the gig as the psycho’s goddess. I was hired to use the information I had gathered to further my boss’s reign because people who fell for cult tactics were the easiest targets. All the cults boiled down to the same two things, acceptance, and the promise of something better bestowed by something greater: the devil, aliens, God, or in this case, a rich white man with an enormous beer gut. Most cults ended up the same but… “This is not a cult. It’s the future.”           I shook away yet another giggle as the motto flowed through my head. I shouldn’t laugh. Thanks to these people, and what I was about to do, I would go from internet celebrity to correspondent. I’d be a journalist again. The contract was signed.           Tom, followed by the rest of the compound, walked me past amateur busts with my face placed between the dwellings of the property. They stood next to the statues of my boss. Well, statues that represented what my boss could be if he laid off the cheeseburgers. The concrete busts of me were crafted to replicate poses from my social media accounts. Each one had a plaque beneath it with a quote I had been hired to say. “We can be one.” “Your truth his lips.” The worshippers ate that shit up.           “We pray at them every night,” Tom said with pride.           “And we watch your reels on that big screen over there,” a tiny meager woman pointed to a white sheet hanging between an RV and a trailer.           “Mind yourself Karen. You’re speaking out of turn.” Tom’s jovial face had transformed into stone as he glared at the tiny woman. She slunk back into the crowd, her eyes cast down, and her hands tightly clasped in front of her chest.           “Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” I said.           Tom’s chest swelled again. “That’s right.”           The crowd cheered and the feed on the stream went bonkers. It took everything in my will power not to burst into laughter. The quote was from A Handmaid’s Tale. A story about female oppression and ultimately war. Had they ever read a book or watched anything other than the news they would’ve gotten the joke. I flashed a smile, twisted my hips and did a little hop so that my boobs bounced with the crowd. The real reason I had come was quickly becoming something I wanted to do, instead of something I had to do.           We walked through foot paths toward the large building in the center of the compound. In front of it was a humungous bonfire. Hanging over the fire, and from a spit were multiple black cauldrons with herbs boiling in water.           I turned to Tom. “Is that?­­—”           He cut me off. “The preparations of course.” He threw me a wink.           I smiled, but couldn’t hide the furrow in my brow.           “It’s for the ceremony. I thought you were aware,” Tom said, his brow furrowed too.           “Of course,” I smoothed my face and lifted my chin.           We headed into the large building, Tom and I first, followed by the rest of the worshippers, all their eyes bright, their bodies eager to enter behind us. The building, maybe three-thousand square feet or more, had no furniture, only a stage and empty space filled with bean bags, portable chairs, and blankets. The walls were covered with pictures of my boss, each paunch and wrinkles smoothed to perfection, his smile wider than in real life and his stance far more powerful than the one I had seen. Tom stood at the bottom of the stage, waiting for me to take his hand so that he could help me up the steps. I twisted to take another look at the crowd, and my gut churned. Could I really do what I was here to do? I remembered the last line in my contract.           “If you choose not to fulfill this obligation. All funds paid will have to be repaid and we will offer the contract to someone worthy.”           I thought about the house in Aspen, the Bentley, and those sweet Jimmy Choo heels I’ve had my eyes on all month. These people weren’t worth giving up any of it. Especially when they chose to be here. I took the last step onto the platform, did a sexy little twist and faced the crowd. They rushed to the front of the stage, some of them crying, some of them lifting their hands in prayer to the statue of my boss behind me. In front of the statue were ornate leather chairs with a table in between them. On the table were two wine glasses filled with green liquid. Mine was tea, a specific blend I had requested for the occasion.           Ten people entered the building carrying trays of wooden mugs also filled with green liquid from the cauldrons that had been boiling outside. Once the last person entered, the doors were closed and locked. The mugs were handed out, and each person took one, thanking the servers for the blessings they were about to receive. Behind me, a large white screen dropped from the ceiling, and at the other end of the room a projector began to play. Thousands upon thousands of people beamed onto the screen, all of them in compounds like the Land of the Free, but in different parts of the country. They were all bald and wore the same red shirt proudly displaying their motto: “This is not a cult. It’s the future.”           I popped the tripod out of my selfie-stick, faced the camera toward the crowd, grabbed my green tea and sat elegantly in my chair. Just like the goddess I was expected to be. Tapping the table beside me with a long, manicured fingernail, I remembered my last meeting. ***           We were at a steak house. It was me, Theresa, the social coordinator, and a lawyer named Mack. We sat in a booth far away from the other patrons. I had just read the contract, combed through the fine print and couldn’t believe what I had just read.           “But why them?” I asked. “Aren’t they the reason he’s in office.” We were never allowed to say our boss’s name in public.           Mack leaned back and tightened his suit jacket around his ample gut. “Our plan to turn the others against each other have failed. The police shootings were designed to start riots that would lead to the extermination of the black neighborhoods. They became stronger, more united. The racist posts by other social media followers were supposed to divide the poor whites against the others in their communities. They had no real effect. The lettered population,” he rolled his eyes, “were our original targets, but there is a spotlight on them that can’t be dimmed. And the immigration raids are costing more money than we can spare. We’ll have to pull out soon.” He leaned over the table. “We’ve made certain promises to certain people you understand. The burden on our government’s budget must be lessened. This is the only way left to achieve that.”             I stared at the contract, but didn’t answer. There were too many questions running through my mind, questions I couldn’t ask without risking the gig. I asked the only one that would keep me safe. “But if we do this, won’t it hurt his chances at re-election?”             Mack scoffed. “I can see you are hesitant,” he slapped a fat hand over the contract and slid it across the table.             “I’m not saying I won’t do it.” I slid the contract back. “I just want to be clear that I won’t face any consequences.”             “Other than the promotion to correspondent,” Theresa added.             “Yes, other than that,” I replied.             Mack reached over to the contract and grazed my hand. I cringed, but hid it well. “As you can see, right here,” he pointed to a tiny line of script. “In the case of litigation, a lawyer will be appointed. That’s me, and I’m the best. I don’t foresee conviction, but if there is, full pardon will be granted. And let’s not forget the funds that will be deposited into your account upon completion.” He flipped the page to the front and tapped on a number with a whole lot of zeroes. ***           My gut churned again. My instincts were running amok. They screamed, begging me to stop, but I had a job to do, and damn it, my future depended on it.           Tom lifted his wine glass to the crowd. “Today. We become one. A great and powerful nation that will stand against all that defies us. This is not a cult! This is the future!”           The crowd in the building and on the screen roared, filling the space with a wall of sound. They lifted the cups to their lips and drank as if the green liquid was life itself. I drank my tea, stood from the chair, and lifted the glass to the crowd. “To the future!” ***           The next morning, as I packed up my apartment, I watched the news. Thousands, upon thousands of dead and bloated bodies filled the screen, all of them on compounds across the country. I ran to the toilet and emptied my stomach of the guilt consuming me. The cauldrons over the bon fire had been filled with hemlock. Everyone died except me and Tom. I pulled myself up from the bathroom floor, and gurgled the mouthwash I had left unpacked. It didn’t rinse out the taste of death, but it did cover it for a while. Fixing my lipstick again, I returned to the living room to finish packing the final box. A knock rasped at my door, and I hustled to it, eager to get out of the ratty apartment and head toward my new life. A man in a suit stood on the other side, my driver. A perk of the promotion.            “Would you like me to carry that box down to the car?” he asked.            “That would be great,” I replied, still holding my stomach.            He entered the apartment as a news anchor appeared on the screen with pictures of the dead bodies in a small box at her side. The driver huffed and I saw a smile on his face as he lifted the box and headed for the door.            The broadcaster began to speak. “Tragedy struck yesterday as thousands of cult members calling themselves The Land of the Free committed suicide.”          I grabbed my purse and slipped on the Jimmy Choos that had arrived when I returned home. “It’s not a cult,” I mumbled as I closed the apartment door. “It’s the future.”​