“What did we do?” you cry. “Why are they doing this to us? We’ve done nothing wrong!”
But you would have, the voice intones. That’s why we’re stopping you before you could do the damage.
There’s a jolt. You feel the box turning.
You dare to look outside.
What shocks you the most is the sheer number of boxes following yours up the conveyor belt; a seemingly endless sea of smooth brown crates, all punched with tiny holes, so they resemble chocolate Swiss cheese, all, presumably, containing bodies within.
As the flames get nearer and the heat more intense, you notice, stamped in bold red on the side of the box closest to yours — 24, fire, accidental, number of deaths: 5. On the box behind — 17, fire, deliberate, number of deaths: 16.
And underneath, the one common bit of writing, printed in smaller letters — by order of the Death Prevention Agency, sanctioned by the World Peace Organisation.
What in Christ’s name is the World Peace Organisation? you wonder.
And whose deaths are they preventing?
Certainly not yours.
Your vision expands to see other conveyor belts — hundreds of them all over the land, crisscrossing each other over and between the statuesque pine trees. There are thousands of boxes rolling through the forest and these are the signs you can make out: Serial Killers; Motor Vehicle ‘Accidents’; Gang related Shootings. You watch with a sickening punch to the stomach as the boxes in their respective groups are: sliced with over sized swords; rammed into each other with powerful hydraulic arms; and shot at with all types of guns.
You turn away from the ghoulish sight. Catch a glimpse of a large sign over your section just before your vision fills with orange. It reads — Fire-related Deaths: Accidental & Deliberate.
The woman lets out a soul shattering scream. You’ve never smelt human flesh cooking before (you never got the chance), and it’s worse than anything you’ve ever (would have) smelt.
You close your eyes, hoping to shut your mind off from the horror, but you see the spectre of the grinning skeleton, only now it’s surrounded by a red glow which infuses its eyes with demonic glee and the only sound coming from the woman now is her sizzling flesh.
The skeleton smiles, says without moving its rotted mouth:
Two by two, just like on the Ark.
The punishment fits the crime.
What crime? you scream in your head.
The crime you would have committed. Had you been born.
But I remember my life — my wife, my job!
Future events that were projected into your mind. We wanted to show you what would have been, the life you would have lived. You deserve at least that much.
When you feel the sting of fire, you hazard a guess as to what your box reads: 38, fire, accidental (surely not deliberate), number of deaths: 4.
You think you’ll miss your wife and kids.
But you’ll never get the chance to find out.
This is one of my few sci-fi stories, inspired by some of the more socially-minded sci-fi stories such as Logan’s Run and Minority Report. And like those stories, ‘Unborn Lives’ stems from a fear of technology; or, more accurately, a fear of the abuse of technology (as well as the Government). It’s a fear that constantly plagues my mind — not only the over-reliance on it, but the concern that it will someday take over our lives to a point that’s dangerous to our well-being and even to our individual freedom.
COME MORNING
…I will be free. Free to taste the sun without a wall of concrete around me. Free to run where I like, when I like, how I like.
But first, the night.
For fifteen agonizing years I’ve been holed up in this room, my life a routine of sleep, shower, eat, shit, play — but not too much play — rest, eat, sleep…
Fifteen years waiting for tomorrow to come and it all comes down to this.
One night.
One night that, once done, will spell the end of my burden and the beginning of my life.
One night.
For two lovers, parting the next morning, one night feels like a blink of an eye, painful in its brevity. But for a kid waiting for Christmas morning to arrive, unable to sleep, night seems to roll on forever.
One night and then I’ll be free. Gather up my clothes, my belongings, say goodbye to the heavy clanging, the even heavier silence, the violence and the madness, the rotten food, the rotten guards, the crying. All left behind in a capsule of my mind, fading with each passing day, until the memories leave only a whisper of a mark and the long years will seem like no time at all.
But first, the night.
Lights out, like every other night, only tonight isn’t like those other nights for tomorrow brings shower, maybe a shit, but not eat, and not play; at least, not the way they say. No, tomorrow I will eat pancakes or eggs over easy. A pot of coffee you say? Bacon strips, waffles and fresh fruit if you please. And I will play, oh yes I will play, but not on the concrete like so many dogs, lifting this and bouncing that, eyes watching from the towers. I will play, but on a soft mattress in a soft room with a soft lady — or a hard one. Whichever I can afford.
So one night is all I have to endure before I walk out into the light; but night can be long, it can be lonely, and too many thoughts can roll around in too many heads. So though I anticipate the coming of the dawn, it will be a hard night this night, the hardest one of them all.
I lay in my cot, like a good obedient boy, trying to drown out the cries, the slapping, the groaning, by listening to my heart, my breath. I stare out at the darkness, at the bars that have crisscrossed my life for fifteen years, waiting for sleep to overtake me, for I know that when that happens, the night will pass like a bird by my window. I will wake and the darkness would’ve turned to light and then they will come for me and I will be free.
Free.
Such a small word, but one containing all the heartache and joy of all the men, women and children in all the world.
I’m not tired, I’m much too excited, but still I close my eyes, think of what life will be like once I’m out of this prison.
I see trees spreading their wings and long cracked roads leading to somewhere, anywhere. I see bars at night, smoky women, stained eyes and good times. I see a girl lying on the ground, pants ripped, exposing tender white flesh…
My eyes flash open.
I frown.
I can’t think of such things, I’m not allowed to. I’m not supposed to, I’ve been cured, I’ve done my time, so I shouldn’t be thinking of flesh and sex and violence. I’ve left that in another time, I was a different person then. I’ve had fifteen years of shedding my skin. I’m all better now.
Again I close my eyes and imagine simple pleasures: staying up and watching the late show; being able to hop in my car and go cruising; calling my ma on the phone, day or night. These are the things I should be thinking about.
Sometime later I drift to sleep.
When I wake, the room is still gloomy with night. The block is quieter now, only the jab of crying, or a punch of laughter kills the silence. Probably Wilson three rooms down; in for murder, he’s as crazy as they come. But he’s not mad. I remember when I first arrived here, many, many nights ago, how he had cornered me, told me if I gave him all of my cigs, he’d only rape me once. Well, I gave him all my cigs and he did rape me, but more than once. A lot more.
I think of this and I’m all primed to laugh, but it halts in my throat. I almost laugh not because I enjoyed it, but because I’m going home tomorrow and Wilson will still be here, asking the next piece of fresh meat for all his cigs.