The world has about 7 billion people in it right now. Every second, five people are born. Simultaneously, every second two people die. This means we’re adding three people to the world, on average, every second.
*
The first sign of the morning is a bright light, red against my closed lids. The next are the rustling of sleeping bags as four people sit up around me, preparing for breakfast. Then, the rustling of sleeping bags from the cubicles on our right and left, through the paper-thin walls. Soon, a new wall is built—a wall of sound—as five thousand people wake up around us; five thousand people; five thousand lights; five thousand shades of the same beige. One crowded apartment building.
The next sound is the whir of breakfast being spat out through a hole in the beige walls. A green tray smacks onto my lap, complete with a red apple, glistening like plastic, and a slice of bread that isn’t buttered. There’s a shot glass of water.
A small, square television turns automatically on, and a woman dressed in a bright pink plasters on a smile, and begins to talk. She tells us it’s a sunny day, and that traffic is looking good. She does a dramatic pause, and then shouts—and it hurts my ears more than anything—“Now, what you’ve all been waiting for! The countdown!” She does an annoying giggle. “We’re down to 13, 999, 894, 224!” A picture appears of the large, digital sign that stands in the middle of the town, displaying the very number. I hate to look at that, and I’m glad when the camera’s back on the reporter. “That’s right, people!” she continues, “105, 776 down, and a lot more to go! But we’re getting there! Do your part,” she turns serious, and glares at each and every one of us, “to save humanity.” The morning update is over, and the TV shuts quickly off. We’ll be forced to tune in for the afternoon.
The wall regurgitates for a bit, but I don’t notice. It spits out a few pieces of silverware to go with my drab breakfast. This time, I’m distracted, and the tip of a fork slices my pinky and leaves a red dot of blood. “Are you crazy?” sputters the woman on my right, snapping away from the TV as she promptly sticks me with a disinfectant bandage. “Do you want to be in the countdown, too? You’re going to kill us all. Put your mask on,” she adds. I nod, and slide my white mask closer. I’d put it on after eating.
Looking at the white mask, I remember when I was a doctor. I thought these made me look Official. My heart drops. I’m not a doctor, I remind myself sternly. I’m not a doctor because the seriously ill people have to die. They have to die because we need to get our 14 billion down to 13 billion, at least, by January. It’s terrifying, but everyone around me is trying to stay positive, I know that. And I have to do my part—I have to farm so the 13 billion left can eat. Nearly everyone has to farm; I’m not special.
Reassured at my little mantra, I nod my head and finish breakfast. Once done, I shove it through the hole in the wall, maybe a little sharply. With absolutely no thoughts in my head, I walk out the door and down ten sets of stairs, where I grab a car pass and pack into a truck. Thirteen other people in white masks grimace as I step in and squeeze into the back. I try not to think about them or their families or their life. I try not to think, period. There’s nothing I can do.
*
Three months go by before anything interesting happens. Three months I wake up next to two women and two men in a small beige cubicle to the sound of a screechy morning update with a new number every day and repressing fear. Three months I rake until my hands have grown blistery and tough. Every day I wish I were anywhere but here—the inhabited land up north—but I know this is by the water and this is where you have to be to survive.
But this morning is different. It’s the update. It’s not that there’s a slight chance of rain or that the countdown’s gone down by another 5 just this morning. It’s what she says next.
We’re not moving fast enough. Only a hundred and fifty thousand people have died in hospitals and that simply won’t cut it. “We’re running out of resources,” a guest government official admits, and the reporter nods. She tells us that all people with a genetic disease must be turned in. In order to eliminate weakness in our race, they would be sent Away. I don’t know where Away is, but I know there isn’t food or water in Away. If you were sent Away, you were as good as dead. I shudder, and pick at my fingernails. I shut out the woman on the television from my head. There’s nothing else I can do.
*
The evening update says a riot broke out in support of family members and friends with genetic diseases. Rioters were blatantly ignored, and after smashing the Governor’s window, larger measurements were taken. Every rioter was sent Away. “You’re making this easy,” a burley guard in navy blue chuckled to a squirming rioter, and the news reporter blurted her opinions as the clip went on. “This is our only choice! You have to go with it. If you fight it, you’re just another obvious target.”
I hated how they were using this issue to control people. They were the ones who ignored this and covered it up for centuries, and now they were acting as though it was our fault. They were punishing us for existing.
The tall man and the health-freak woman are taken from my cubicle that night. I wonder who will replace them. There are always hundreds on the waiting list.
I fall asleep quickly, before I have time to think.
*
Sometime in the dead of night, I’m awoken by a small sound. It’s a small squeak, as our cubicle door opens, and four people shuffle in. I squint, but I can’t see their faces in the dark light. I can see that two are taller and fatter than two. The other two are skinny and frail, and the shorter one is clinging to the medium-sized one with obvious fear. “Goodnight,” says one of the (what I can assume to be) patrol officers, in a gruff growl.
“Goodnight,” whispers the shortest inhabitant back, and her voice shakes. The men leave, and, closing the door behind them, the room goes black.
I turn around to find sleep again. I don’t like being disturbed, but my gripping curiosity gets the best of me sometimes. Knowing I’ve already messed up my sleep pattern enough, still somehow I can’t get the new additions off my mind. It bothers me. Was this their choice? Did their job also go under? Where’s the rest of the family? Where did they live before?
Outside the tiny window, something catches my eye. I love this window; we’re one of the few lucky cubicles to be on the outside of the building. But there’s something weird, now, something bright and painful on my sore eyes. It’s moving, and shining, and I struggle to see it. It looks vaguely familiar.
Inching closer, I can finally make out the shape. It’s a star. I struggle to hide my gasp—I’m flooded at once with five thousand thoughts.
It just seems to hit me; this tiny thing. I used to sing songs about it with my parents, when I was five. I used to make wishes when I was twenty. Not one of those wishes is possible now, and my only wish is that we can somehow build a big rocket and take over the star instead. But what hits me most of all is that I’ve been sleeping through the night, every night—sleeping to get up the next day, to stay healthy and rested, to avoid sickness, to avoid death—and I haven’t seen one of these in, what? Three years? Four? But it was right there in front of me all this time.
I miss my old life so much I could scream. I turn away from the star and slide back into my sleeping bag on the cold, hard floor.
*
Putting all thoughts out of my mind, I wake up the next day to a bright light and a new update.
Apparently, “stats had been shown” that there aren’t enough genetically diseased people to really make an impact on the population. I smile, hoping this meant they could let them all free. But, I soon realize, no. This only means they need more.
“Any deformed or diseased person, weather it be genetic or self-afflicted, must report him or herself immediately. Any mutation, abnormality, or contamination, must be dealt with. Only the strong will survive,” says the woman, blatantly reading off her notes. “Come on, citizens!” she then wails, looking at the camera. “Do your part!”
I gasp, and bite my lip to keep from exploding. This isn’t right.
*
As I eat breakfast, I can look to my left and see the two new people. I focus all my attention on observing them, instead of the horrible thoughts in my head.
The shorter one is a woman—not too old and frail to be sent Away but definitely not young, either. With curly brown hair piled messily on top of her head, she looks tired and exhausted. Her blue eyes flash in anger as they watch the TV, and she whispers something to the taller person. He’s a boy, only about 8, and he nods. I’m taken aback by how young he looks. He must have just made the deadline. Six years ago, birth was prohibited, after all. He’s quiet, with brown eyes that look sad and lifeless. There are many black circles under them. I bet he had to leave school to work as a farmer. I can’t imagine working so young—no wonder his mother looks distressed. I wonder what their story is.
“Preposterous!” someone shouts, interrupting my thoughts. A woman is stamping her foot in a fit of rage, as the TV switches off. “How could they?” another joins in. Soon, as the information sinks in, there are shouts and cries and smashing-of-glass. I’m too emotionally dead to care.
I look back at the boy and his mother. In the moment of chaos, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He sniffs. He thinks nobody sees, but I do. I stare at him for a long while, with sudden understanding. The boy is Sick.
*
It’s the common cold, I decide as I plow the rough and unwilling land. He shows all the symptoms. A runny nose, a slight cough, a hoarse voice... it’s obvious. With his weakened immune system, simply by touching a contaminated bottle cap he could contract the flu. And if the Sick boy got worse, well, he couldn’t get fixed. He’d be labeled ‘defective’ and surely be taken Away. He can spread his Sickness, too. This is dangerous. Very dangerous.
This time I can’t stop myself from thinking. I remember the drugs I pocketed from the pharmacy the last day on my job. They were in case of emergency. They were to protect me, and only me—instant cures for the common cold, virus-fighting injections, small capsules of fluid to strengthen the immune system. There were only about five pills and two needles but I knew they could do a lot. I knew the boy needed them more than I did.
The question was, with the small camera in the corner of the room, how would I get it to him? Whenever I went outside I was rushing to a car. He wasn’t at my job. I’d have to talk to him—that was allowed—and somehow manage to slip it into his hand. I wonder if the camera saw him wiping his nose. I don’t think so. The cameras are mostly for big things; fights and schemes.
I just know I owe it to myself to help someone.
*
That night, I can’t get to sleep. In silent awe and apathy, I watch the stars. I think about myself, mostly, but also the boy, and the rioters, and the world. Like a twisted and disgusting nightmare, I wonder what will happen next.
*
A few days go by before anything happens. I almost start to think we’re settling down a bit. On Saturday, I’m proven to be very wrong.
“‘Progress is going great, but to speed it up,’” quotes the news reporter sternly, reading her notes, “‘we’ve decided to go further.’ Another official adds, ‘not only will we be removing deformations and diseases from the human race, but we will put the common cold into extinction as well. We need to eliminate half the population at least, and this seems like the right way to do it. If you are, or know anyone who is, sick in any way, it is your duty to report them and take all necessary—’” But I’ve stopped listening.
I risk a glance over to the boy, who is trying his best not to cry. I have to do something, and fast.
*
A moment doesn’t go by where I’m not thinking about the Sick boy. He reminds me of my parents with his fierce determination to live no matter what. He’s still doing a very good job of hiding his cold; except at night, when his hacking cough erupts underneath the thousands of snores.
I need to talk to him. He’s going in the tiny washroom in the corner a lot, lately, and turning up the fan to full blast. I hope he’s not throwing up.
On Tuesday, I finally get the chance. Because of the downpour of rain, the farmers are sent home early today. The water-purifiers, government employees, car drivers, and patrol officers remain intact. The boy, his mother and I sit side by side in silence, eating our half sandwiches and listening to the rain pour. I know I should say something soon, before the afternoon update pops on.
“It’s good to meet you,” I smile, just for something to say.
“You too,” says the mother, and the boy nods. His hoarse voice would give him away in an instant.
“Listen,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I know you’re Sick.”
There’s an instant sputtering of fury and denying, denying, denying, followed by an angry questioning of weather I’m going to, or have, reported him, and how I can be so sure I’m right. The tired woman, apparently, is quite feisty. I brush it off, and tell them I was a doctor. “I can tell when someone’s Sick,” I say.
“So what?” she demands now, with that fire in her eyes.
“So I’d like to help. I can’t stand to see another person being taken Away.” I have no idea why I feel the need to tell them this, but for some reason I continue. “My parents were taken Away two years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” whispers the boy. I nod.
“Thanks.”
“So what do you plan to do?” his mother gets to the point.
“Meet me somewhere,” I tell the boy. I know there’s no time now; the work day’s almost over. “Outside,” I add. “Tomorrow, at five a.m. If they ask, say you’re looking for a lost watch. I’ll be behind the building.”
The boy nods.
That night, I get no sleep.
*
I get out of bed at four-thirty, grab the bag of medicine, and make my way down the many flights of stairs. My white mask catches my hot breath and warms my face; it’s freezing outside. I remember in high school, when I’d sneak out of my dorm room like this. It was exciting. My heart’s still beating fast—I know that this time, if they catch me, the punishment will be far worse than seeing a balding principal with a stern look. I’ll be seeing Away. It’s illegal to exchange medicine now.
I find the spot and wait, watching the sun rise.
*
“Hello.”
“Hey.”
The boy emerges from the corner, looking frightened and vulnerable. “Did you bring it?”
“Yes.”
He sits down with a sigh, and takes off his white mask. I keep mine on.
“I just want to tell you how much this means,” he says in his tiny, scratchy voice, and I know he means it. “I guess I don’t have to tell you, but—” he gives me a meaningful look, “—it’s horrible to lose a parent. I miss my dad every day.”
“I’m so sorry,” is all I can think of to say.
“Don’t be. I’ll be fine.” He sighs. “I want to get better, and get a good job and move away from here. That’s all I want.”
“Me too.”
“It hope it’s not impossible,” he shrugs.
“Don’t think like that,” I frown. “Actually, don’t think at all. Just wait. Someday the world will go back to how it was, just with more sadness in it. And we’ll re-build what we’ve destroyed.” I don’t know why I’m talking so much.
“Yeah,” he nods, and smiles. He wipes his eyes—he’s crying. On an impulse, I hold his hand.
With my other hand, I give him the bag of medication and say, “Take a pill every day. They’ll start working in about a week.”
“If I don’t get caught by then,” he reminds me. He pulls his hand away. “You really shouldn’t touch a Sick person.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
He says ‘Thank you’ about a million more times before we finally go our separate ways. I feel happier than I’ve felt in years. Finally, I’ve done some good—I’ve helped someone.
*
Two days later, though, I’m not feeling so well. I’m planting seeds, hunching over in the overwhelming heat and sweating hard. The sky is cloudy, and the sun is long gone, but I’m still so hot. My breathing is coming in fast gasps, and I’m dizzy.
I can’t believe I touched someone Sick. I feel horrible, and I know the boy has used all the medication.
Maybe it’ll go away soon.
*
We’ve just eaten our dinner—rice and a celery stick—and we’re setting up for bed. We unroll our sleeping bags, slip off our white masks and head one-by-one into the bathroom to brush our teeth. I watch the boy, who’s talking with his mother about her work. His voice is getting much better.
Officers have now taken to patrolling the buildings; sometimes they’ll even stop you on the street if you look “shady” and go through your bag. Though I try not to look at it, sometimes I catch glances of the large countdown sign on my way to work. It’s diminishing at a fast, frightening rate, thanks to the officers. One now emerges in our cubicle, to check that we’re alright. He stands there for a long moment, x-raying us with his eyes.
I act natural, gathering up my toothbrush from my small suitcase and getting ready to line up. I can’t wait for him to go away so I can watch the stars again. The clouds will pass, and the brilliant stars will sparkle in the night. I love watching them. They bring back so many memories.
I’m sitting silently on my sleeping bag when it happens.
I feel a horrifying tingling in my throat and nose, all of a sudden. It’s weird, and surprising. It grows bigger with every millisecond. I try to stop it. Water floods my vision as I fight it back down—it’s getting stronger and stronger; harder to repress. I concentrate with all my might, but if I breathe, I know it will erupt.
I have to breathe. I take a quick breath in, but that’s all it takes; it explodes in front of me.
I sneeze.
Everyone stares, wide-eyed, as I wipe my nose. The officer’s beady eyes zero in on me, and he grabs his small radio and says, “We’ve got one in room 105 A.” I stifle a scream. I want to run, but he’s blocking the doorway. I feel an overwhelming sense of helplessness and fear. I can’t believe I felt so happy just a day ago—just a moment ago, even, and now I’m living my worst nightmare.
The boy is crying, I can tell. All eyes watch me as five officers arrive and drag me away. They don’t bring my possessions or even a coat—I’m shivering under their firm grasp.
Through the cold night, they drag me—over grass; over hills; into a spacious, official car; over fields; on roads; and finally, after ten minutes or so, we arrive by the water’s edge.
There sits the tiniest ship I’ve ever seen, all broken wood and leaky water. There have been so many people on and off this ship, and others, I’ve lost count. “Boat 375,” reads a label on the side. About eight other Sick people sit on Boat 375, and one official-looking driver asks, “Ready to go?”
“Ready,” says a man holding onto my arm, and he pushes me forward. There’s a small, silver scanner I hadn’t noticed. “Scanner 375,” it reads. I press my fingertip to an electronic, blue pad and it reads my print. Far in the distance, the glowing red sign that reads 13, 998, 655, 280 blinks, and becomes 13, 998, 655, 279.
The men shove me on the boat. All the Sick people are silent, except for small sobs. They’re ghostly white—I must look the same.
Again, I push all thoughts out of my head. I don’t think about what Away is like: I focus on the sky and the moon. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the night like this; so full, so open in front of my eyes. A shooting star dances past, and I make a wish. I wish for the boy and his mother; for them to get better and to get the life they deserve. I don’t mind dying, not really. Not if I’ve saved someone else’s life in the process. It makes it have worth.
As I drift off to Away, I lie down, relaxed, and watch the stars.