FICTION | DYSTOPIAN HORROR
Luck of the Draw (2 of 3)
L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Honorable Mention Recipient.
The door to the bunker opens and a warm wash of light pours into the cold space. Doc stands in the doorway, her draping, white linen outfit billows in the light breeze. Her silvery gray hair is, as always, pulled into a single, perfect braid, every hair accounted for. Same braid, every day. The hair is woven so tight, it pulls her face taut and gives her a look of constant scorn.
“Good morning, Kell. Would you like a body enhancement for your run?” she asks, staring at me blankly through her round, black-framed spectacles.
Finally.
“Hell yeah, Doc, I’m feeling a little slow. I need a good one. Wish me luck?”
Doc doesn’t say a word as I reach into the bag. Even though I know it won’t make a difference, I carefully inspect each pill, rolling the small spheres between my fingertips. I try to detect the slightest variation, like maybe the right one will feel special somehow, like it will call out to me in some way. But no, they all feel the same. The only sensation I feel is the impatient stare Doc is giving me.
I close my eyes, pull my hand from the bag, and quickly put it behind my back. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want anyone to see it, especially Doc. Maybe I’ll just swallow it without looking at the color. I mean, color don’t mean shit, right?
“Kell?” Doc asks, demanding to see what I pulled.
I bring my left hand around and slowly open my fingers. Finally, I open my eyes and look down. There, in the center of my palm is a glossy black lucky charm.
Black? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a black one before.
“Doc?”
She’s already walking away. Is she smiling?
It’s so small. Is this tiny thing really going to get me all the way to the Door? What if I don’t take it? No, Kell, that’s stupid. Everyone pops, and sometimes they make it.
The first horn sounds. About ten minutes to start time. No time to think about it. Down the pipe, let’s hope it’s a good one.
I hear the pounding of feet on the bleachers above me. I wasn’t sure if anyone was going to show up. Everyone made the journey to watch Billy. Everyone loved her. We all cheered for her together as she made it past each challenge and outmaneuvered every trap. We all screamed in horror when she got skewered by Frankie. We all cried for her.
I’m crying for her.
No more of that. I can’t worry about that right now.
I think the popper is working. I definitely feel something. A tingle. Gotta be the popper. It feels good. I wonder what superpower I will get.
The light on the west wall is inches from the lawn. Very soon, now.
More feet above, but I know they’re only here to watch me die. Billy is the only one who would have cheered for me, who would have wanted me to make it. She would be here in the bunker with me right now. The rest are just here for the entertainment. Fuck them.
I’m at the gate now. Let’s do this. The bars feel like ice. Looking out at the lawn, I can see every blade of grass. I mean every fucking blade. My hands…my god, what is happening to my hands?
Sunlight brushes against the tips of the grass on the west edge of the lawn and the starting horn sounds. The gate opens and I step out onto the thick turf. I can feel every blade beneath my feet. There’s not a sound except for the crunching of the grass beneath my feet. What the fuck happened to my boots?
I look up and behind me to see who’s watching. So many faces. More than I thought would show up. Dozens and dozens of faces, all staring at me with shock and fear in their eyes. They don’t make a sound.
Deep breath. Focus, Kell. It’s game time. I feel really fucking good right now. I’m going to make it, I know I am.
I look towards the Gilded Door. I can see the apple trees as if they are right in front of me. They look taller from the ground. I can see every leaf from here—every single leaf. And the apples, so many apples, they all look so big. I’ve never seen an apple that big.
Snap out of it, Kell. Time is running out. The sun is expanding its claim on the lawn, creating a widening band of bright chartreuse that runs all the way to the steps. My path, illuminated. It’s decorated with poppies, tulips, and lilies. Time to hustle, Kell. I need to reach those steps before the sun touches the east wall.
Just as I’m about to take another step, I feel something pull at my insides. My body contracts. Pain. Unbelievable pain.
I blink and the universe explodes.
Sleep. Glorious sleep. I fall into the void, it wraps me in its thick, heavy folds. I dream about a fountain with water. So much water. I’m eating an apple by the fountain. There are fish. Real fish, with giant puffy heads, swimming in the fountain. The apple is bright red, the color of the poppies in the sunlight. The fish are white, red, orange, and black. They are beautiful.
But soon, one of the fish begins to eat the others. As it eats a fish, it gains another head, another mouth, another set of eyes. Five, six, and then seven fish are incorporated.
That’s strange. I take a bite of the apple. In my periphery, I notice a pulse, concentric rings ripple out across the water. I pause mid-bite and stare at the glassy surface. There it is again, another tremor. More rings. The fish scatter.
Just a few more minutes, that’s all I need. I sure would love to finish this apple. It’s so juicy and sweet, I’ve never tasted anything so good.
A violent bump, now. The fountain vanishes.
“Oh, muh fockin hed,” the words tumble drunkenly from my mouth as I rub my eyes. Everything is blurry and my brain feels like mush.
As my vision and mind slowly come into focus, I realize I’m sitting on the ground. Dappled light dances on my outstretched legs. Two large apples lay in the grass beside me and there is one in my hand. It’s so red.
Apples? I let my head fall back and stare up into the leafy branches of the large apple tree I’m leaning against. One of the apples in the tree suddenly drops from its branch and lands near my feet with a dull thud.
I try to stand up too fast. The world spins and tips at odd angles. I brace against the tree until I’m confident I can stay on my feet. Next, a full body check. My clothes are shredded and burned in places. I’m covered in dirt and blood. A serious-looking gash runs the full length of my left arm. I try to pull my fingers through my hair, but it’s caked in blood. What the fuck happened?
I look again at the apple in my hand and then to my left. There, just a few feet away are a series of steps. Twelve steps leading up to a door. A gold door. The Gilded Door.
I can’t help but laugh out loud, even though it makes my side hurt. “How about that, Billy? I fucking made it. You couldn’t even do this. You! But I did. I made it.”
For you.
I look back at the lawn I don’t remember crossing. My eyes go immediately to a large plume of smoke rolling off blackened bleachers above the bunker gate. Bodies are strewn everywhere. Several are draped over the wall. I see two down on the lawn. The smoke rises from a mass of bodies piled near the exit stairs. Was that me? Did I do that?
The sun, now directly above, shines down upon a hellish scene. I am reminded of the old city. Large sections of the walls are toppled. Much of the once-green lawn is scorched and pocked with smoking craters. Thick smoke blankets the ground and gives off a foul odor. I look to the spot where the red poppies grew. They are nothing but black ash now.
One of the holding pens near the trees is open. About a dozen feet from the pen are the remains of one of the creatures. It looks like a fleshy, bloody stew, like the goulash Old Betty makes from time to time. A few large chunks are floating in the goop. Singed, pale-blue flesh is stretched across a shattered rack of rib bones. A lower jaw the size of my torso sports several rows of pointed teeth. And there, at the edge of the sludge, looking as if it had attempted to crawl out of the muck is a torn limb ending in a tangle of twisted, clawed fingers.
I look at my own hands. They look like hands again. How could I have done all of this?
My lucky charm, that’s how. I pulled a good one. A really good one. I wonder if all the blacks are special. Maybe Doc juiced the bag, as she did with Billy, but in my favor this time. Maybe she felt bad about Billy.
This doesn’t fix anything, though. I’m still going to pop her fucking head off.
I hear a click behind me and turn to see the Gilded Door is ajar. I guess that’s my cue to enter.
Okay, Kell, let’s go.
Thank you for reading part 2 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.
