FICTION | DYSTOPIAN HORROR
Luck of the Draw (1 of 3)
L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Honorable Mention Recipient.
I reach the door to the staging bunker in the pre-dawn hours of the morning. The soaring skeleton of rusting metal bleachers built over the bunker stands empty. How many will make the trip to witness my run? Not that I care.
To the east, a soft glow peeks over the horizon, silhouetting the jagged skyline of the old city. It almost makes that rotting shithole look pretty, in a way. Innocent, even.
I stop in front of the door and realize that once I enter, I’ll never lay eyes on that skyline again. I’ll never see my home again.
There’s nothing there for me anymore.
The door to the bunker is unlocked, as Doc said it would be. The space is long and narrow, walled in by windowless, gray cinderblock. When I close the door behind me, the only light comes from a single, barred gate on the opposite wall that leads to the lawn.
I walk to the bars and stare out to see the cold night sky beginning its retreat from the advancing hues of the waking sun. A few defiant stars make their last stand.
I tug on the bars but the gate is locked. I squint as I try to see the far end of the lawn. Even in the relative darkness, I can make out a soft glint from the arched rectangle of gold at the top of the stairs. The Gilded Door. A doorway to dreams. The only entry point in the vast, monolithic wall surrounding the Pool of the Ancients. The towering ivory stone appears to hold up the very sky itself.
I’ve heard countless stories about what lies behind that wall. Some truth to be sure but mixed with the fantastical embellishments of legends and fairytales, most often told to young girls at bedtime. Today, I’m going to find out. I’m going to make it to that door, even if it kills me.
How many hours until game time? I wish I could have slept, at least a little. I can’t believe we don’t get drugs for this shit. For sleep, I mean.
It’s Monday. My day. Even before I drew the tile, I knew I was going to pull Monday. Just my luck. Old Betty said that everyone used to hate Mondays, back then.
Hate. Hate is easy. Fear is hard. Did they fear Mondays, back then? I’m sure some people did. I do. At least this one. I’m scared to death of this day. My day.
God, I hate Mondays.
Deep breath, Kell. Focus. Anything less than perfect out there and you’re fucked. Fini. Toast. Just another sprinkling of fertilizer on the lawn, another spatter of fresh paint on the ornaments. Like Billy.
It was Billy’s day yesterday. Sunday. The Lord’s Day, as some people used to call it. Sunday used to be a day of rest, is what Old Betty told me. I wish I had gotten some rest.
Billy got to rest.
Billy was magnificent. Machine perfection. We all thought she was going to make it. She made it to the apple trees that lined the final approach to the door. Who the fuck waters those trees?
Billy moved like water. I’ve never seen anyone move like that. She was magnificent. Until she stumbled. A moment of imbalance. Her final moment.
How? How did that happen? It could have been sweat in her eyes that screwed up a near-flawless performance. More likely, though, it was Doc. I saw the way Doc smirked when the machines were scooping up Billy’s intestines and sucking up the smaller pieces.
Rest in peace, Billy.
Doc hated Billy, mostly because of her looks and the attention she gave to everyone else but Doc.
Doc controlled the lucky charms. Superpowers in a pill. Poppers in a rainbow of colors that could give you the extra boost you need to make it to the Door.
You really could make it if you pulled the right one. Many girls have. The problem is, you never know what you’re going to get, and color don’t mean shit. Purple might give one girl super strength. Another girl gets purple and she might get speed, or maybe special eyes. I remember one of the girls got scales, like a snake. Point is, any color could give you almost anything you can imagine, and samesies are rare. It’s all luck of the draw.
I suppose there’s risk in not knowing, but we need every advantage we can get out there. Endless practice, lots of luck, and the poppers. Our lucky charms.
Everyone pops before a run. Everyone.
I remember the moments before Billy’s run. I remember Doc walking up to Billy and holding up her black leather bag full of lucky charms. Billy closed her eyes, reached in, and dug around, scrunching her face in mock determination to find the perfect one. She really hammed it up. She could be funny like that sometimes.
Finally, she pulled one out and held it up in front of Doc like it was the find of the fucking century. “Well, would you look at that, Doc? Green. Green just happens to be my lucky color,” she declared and then tossed it into her big, dumb mouth.
That’s when I heard Doc say to Billy, “Good luck.”
Doc never says that. To anyone. Ever. Doc smiled, too. She never smiles.
If I make it to that door, Billy, I swear I’ll find a way to come back here and pop that bitch’s head off. I’ll do that for you. I just need to reach that Door. I need to make it across the lawn.
The lawn. One hundred yards of fresh-cut grass. A walled-in stretch of immaculate green, surrounded by the endless grays and browns of our dead world. It’s the only place you can see flowers. Poppies, mostly, but there are tulips and lilies, too. Old Betty showed me pictures in a book once and taught me all the names.
They change the flowers out every season, but they are always red. Easier to hide the blood, I suppose.
No sign of Billy’s guts. No fresh paint on the pink birds stuck in the lawn. In fact, there is no sign of any violence at all. Somehow, the day after a run, the lawn looks miraculously untouched. This morning, the lawn appears as it does every morning before a run — a meticulously manicured killing ground.
The sun is in the sky now, but still low enough that the shadow from the east wall blankets the lawn. The shadow still covers most of the west wall, too, save for a thin sliver of light running across the top edge. About an hour to go, maybe less.
What was that? Something in the shadows down by the poppies. A bird? No, probably not.
Much like the lawn, the walls look the same as they do every day. But they mess with the walls, too, somehow. For every run, the walls contain something new and surprising. Hidden things. Deadly things. Sometimes darts. Sometimes acid. Blades, always.
I’m not so worried about the gizmos in the walls. I always fly through that stuff without a scratch during practice runs. I’m much more worried about the gen-mod nightmares that will be waiting in the cages near the apple trees. I can do darts. I can do blades. But those fucking monsters, like the one that killed Billy? Gives me the creeps.
I tried giving the creatures names but it’s impossible to get a good look at them, I can’t tell them apart. From the bleachers, they always seem blurry, like they have some kind of optical distortion field around them. The field is always glitchy, though, so you can catch small glimpses, fleeting clarity of horrifying things. I’ve seen hints of claws, teeth, tongue, tissue, and exposed organs in reds, greens, and blues. Mostly reds. The beasts are massive. Giant demons walking the Earth.
How the fuck do they make those things?
I call them all Frankie now. I got it from one of the old books Betty reads to the girls at night when she wants to give them a good scare.
As if in response to my thoughts, a terrifying squeal pierces the still silence of the morning air, echoing down the long barrel of the field. It’s one of them for sure. The sound is like rusted steel being run across a grinding stone. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck and makes me feel sick. My hands are shaking. I need to get over it. No fear, Kell. Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. Today is my day.
Can I take a sick day? Old Betty said people did that all the time, back then. Where the hell is Doc?
The sunlight is more than halfway down the west wall now. Not much time left before they open the gate. Not much time until it’s my time to shine.
I feel so tired. No lucky charms for sleep, though. You’d think a popper for sleep would be an easy thing to make, but Doc can’t give you shit to help you sleep.
Where is she? It’s almost time. I hope I don’t get a purple one.
I watch as the rising sun pushes the shadow on the west wall towards the ground, towards start time. As soon as sunlight touches the lawn, the fun begins.
Thank you for reading part 1 of, “Luck of the Draw,” awarded Honorable Mention by the L.R. Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. Claps, comments, and follows are greatly appreciated.
