Consider

by Kristy Acevedo

  “Wow,” I say, impressed.

  Dad immediately covers up a pile with a sheet and clears his throat. He knows he’s gone overboard.

  “Shelves keep emptying faster than we can refill them at the store,” he explains. “Shipments haven’t been arriving on time, people not showing up for shifts. Shoplifting’s been rampant since there’s just not enough manpower to control it. The gas station at the store has cars lined up around the perimeter of the lot. Bet they’ll be outta gas soon enough.” He points to gas containers in the corner. “I don’t like storing it down here, but we don’t have a garage or a shed. I should’ve built a fallout shelter years ago.”

  As he pulls another sheet over a section of canned goods, my heart acknowledges how hard he’s trying to protect us and how much time he’s wasting.

  He clears his throat again. “I’m trying to prepare for anything. I keep thinking that I forgot something.”

  I hate to admit it, but he sounds like me.

  “Dad, you can’t prepare for everything. It’s impossible. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “True. But serious trouble’s brewing. Have you heard the saying ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures’?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  He pulls the corner of another sheet to cover his treasure. “We can be our own worst enemies. Our own sources of destruction.”

  His comment carries with me for the rest of the day. Despite how much I want to refute or ignore him, sometimes Dad strikes a note that resonates and cannot be unheard.

  One of my earliest memories is hearing that Dad had been discharged and was coming home. Benji and I spent the morning coloring a huge Welcome Home banner in a rainbow pattern to hang across the porch. I remember waiting in the front window, holding a bouquet of handpicked wildflowers from our backyard. By the time he walked through the door, most of them had wilted.

  “Daddy!” I cried.

  He crushed me in an embrace. “I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you, too. But the flowers . . .”

  He took them from me and tossed them on the coffee table. “Alex, flowers die.”

  He moved over to hug Benji, and I was left staring at the table, wondering what happened to the daddy I remembered, the one who loved when I gave him flowers, who would squish and dry them in books and save them in a cigar box.

  Sometimes I still feel like that girl in the window, waiting for Daddy to come back.

  Chapter 12

  Day 109: November—1,810 hours to decide

  Question: What do you do with people who break the law? Do you have a judicial system? Do you have prisons?

  Answer: Most people do not break the law because they are happy. If someone is exhibiting violent or other disturbing behavior that infringes upon the rights of others, we have medical knowledge of the brain’s thought pathways to reroute the misfiring neurons. It’s called brain regulation mapping and thought reconditioning. It’s rarely used. It’s rarely necessary.

  Each state has been asked to vote on a timely debate.

  Should prisoners have the right to decide whether or not to leave through a vertex? If not, should they be forced to stay? Or should they be forced through a vertex?

  The last one has been popular in North Korea and parts of Africa.

  The question also has variations depending on crime and sentence. Since I just turned eighteen, I’m allowed to vote. I never thought my first ballot would be about choosing whether or not to let convicts travel to a future parallel universe or fry in an apocalypse.

  I make a serious list of crimes in my journal to help me decide how to vote. Who deserves a chance to leave, and who faces a comet?

  Terrorism/Hate Crimes

  First Degree Murder

  Second Degree Murder

  Involuntary/ Voluntary Manslaughter

  Kidnapping and False Imprisonment

  Rape and Sex Offenses

  Larceny

  Burglary

  Fraud (Identity Theft, Credit Card Fraud, other)

  Aggravated Assault and Battery

  Arson

  Drug Distribution/Possession

  Criminal Possession of a Weapon

  Solicitation

  Other?

  The voting will take place in one week. I thought the list would help, but it’s making me realize that it’s just another decision I don’t feel qualified to make.

  And I want to be a lawyer.

  Thankfully, I find out on social networks that the voting won’t list specific crimes, but instead will be based on the amount of time sentenced.

  Dad says they should all stay, but he thinks everyone should stay put. Mom thinks that only heinous criminals with sentences over ten years should stay. That seems like an arbitrary number to me. Dominick thinks we need to let the prisoners decide, especially since the holograms say they deal with crime through brain regulation mapping and thought reconditioning, whatever that is. Maybe the prisoners can be reformed. What if it’s alien rhetoric for forced lobotomies? I grab for my prescription.

  I guess it’s good that the government is allowing us to vote on the issue, letting people decide what’s ethical in a world apocalypse versus exodus situation, but at the same time there are some things that no one is qualified to answer. I think the government just wants us to decide to take the guilt off their conscience. The good old Pontius Pilate approach. And we know how the masses voted in that decision.

  Maybe there’s something to the meritocracy in the other world. They make the hard choices. They keep all the blame.

  After dinner that night, the debate begins.

  “Vote no. No choice. Period. Easy decision.”

  Dad has spoken. Benji nods his head in male agreement. Mom stays silent as usual. I take the bait. I can’t just let his obstinate opinion go unchecked, especially when Benji’s present.

  “Are you saying that someone addicted to drugs deserves to die in an apocalypse?” I question.

  “Yes,” Dad says. “Absolutely.” He sips his beer.

  “Fine,” the debater in me thinks up an argument. “Let’s say it wasn’t vertexes and holograms and a comet. Let’s say an area is flooded. Would you evacuate the prison in that situation, or would you let all the prisoners drown?”

  Dad stares at me. His authority is being ruffled. “There’s a big difference.”

  “Yeah, big difference,” Benji echoes.

  I look from Benji to Dad and back again. Apparently, we’re playing on teams. Two on one. Boys against girl. Mom begins to clear the table. She’s not even bothering to play referee. Where’s Penelope when I need her? Napping. Figures.

  “What’s the difference?” I ask. “In both cases, their lives are in jeopardy.”

  Benji traces his finger on the kitchen table like he’s writing an invisible battle plan.

  “First of all, yes, we evacuate during flooding,” he illuminates. “There’s time. And prisoners would be evacuated in a timely way, all at once, under guard.” He slides his finger down the table and back around again. “They would then be relocated and put back in prison to finish serving their sentences. But in terms of the vertexes, you are allowing choice, allowing them to escape one at a time before the threat of danger even becomes real. And then you are allowing them possible asylum on another world.”

  Dad takes a long, proud swig of his beer. I want to knock it over and spill it onto both of their laps.

  “But if the comet is real,” I continue, “then the threat is coming. We don’t know if the government’s plan will work. If it fails, then what? They just blow up? Shouldn’t prisoners have the right to live? To at least get to choose?”

  My face is hot. I’m starting to wonder if I’m fighting for prisoners’ rights or mine.

  “What about murderers?” Benji goes off. “Rapists? Terrorists? You would let
them have a choice? Most of them should have life in prison or death sentences anyway.”

  “Bingo.” Dad eggs him on.

  I burn with frustration. They’re not listening. They’re playing their military loyalty card. I can play that game. “In some countries, people would consider you a terrorist.” I point in Benji’s face. “Did you ever kill anyone?”

  Dad turns red in the face. “Alexandra, you never ask a soldier that question. Ever.”

  I’ve never seen Dad so flustered. He takes a sip from his beer, slams the bottle on the table, and doesn’t release his grip. Then he takes another long gulp.

  Benji stares at the table. Then he whispers, “No.”

  Dad slams the bottle down. After a pause, he replies, “Count yourself lucky.” Then he walks out of the room. The empty bottle sits on the table.

  “You had to go there,” Benji whispers and follows Dad’s exit.

  I’ve cleared the room. I think this is called winning the battle but losing the war.

  Late that night I wake up to noise coming from the kitchen. Groggy, I stumble down the hallway and find Mom pouring boiling water into a mug from a teakettle. A tremendous weight lifts from my chest, accumulated worry that Zombie Night had returned.

  “What are you doing up?” I ask while I rub my eyes. The time on the microwave reads 2:54 a.m.

  “Your father had a nightmare again. He hasn’t had one in years. I think it’s because of seeing Benji again, knowing that he’s still manning the vertexes after those bombings. Don’t tell your brother that, though,” Mom adds quickly. “I think seeing him return from duty is bringing up old wounds.”

  I nod as if that’s true, but I know it’s because I pushed the limit. Maybe Zombie Night is coming next.

  “Want tea?” she offers.

  “No thanks. I just heard noise and wanted to see who was up.”

  “Alexandra,” she pulls out a chair and sits. “I’ve been wanting to discuss something with you.”

  “What?” I ask and join her at the table.

  “How do you really feel about the vertexes?”

  It’s a loaded question. It’s choosing between living and dying. Between lover and family. Between fact and faith.

  “I don’t know yet. I just know that I want to decide for myself. I don’t think it’s a decision that should be made for me.”

  She smiles. “We are more alike than you know.” She means it as a compliment, but it’s not what I want to hear. I want to be independent. I want my thoughts and decisions to be completely separate from her. Her focus has always been on Benji. And now, after all these years, she thinks we’re alike? No, we’re not alike. I never would’ve become so self-sacrificing. So damn invisible.

  Chapter 13

  Day 115: November—1,658 hours to decide

  Question: Do you live in families?

  Answer: Yes, we live in communal housing situations with like-minded people if we choose. Some also live alone and prefer a more solitary lifestyle. We do not have the same static definition of family as you do.

  As the weather in New England shifts from fall to an early winter, the neighborhood landscape also begins to change. While hotels and motels remain full, more houses are empty. It’s hard to notice during the day, but at night the streets are darker than usual because fewer and fewer houses have lights on in their windows. The news calls it the “Great Vertex Migration,” more people traveling to be with family, staying closer to a vertex just in case, or leaving through a vertex and abandoning property. Normally, the homeless would squat inside the homes, but most of the homeless have left via the vertexes as well.

  The darkness gives my neighborhood a more sinister atmosphere, like a forest of wolf houses ready to attack me. Where there’s emptiness, there’s space where things can hide and come out to bite you when you least expect it. I’ve never been afraid before to walk around at night, so at first I think my anxiety is acting up. When Dominick insists on staying inside after dark, I realize my fear is real.

  The day of the prisoner voting question I begin to think I’ll just skip it and let other people deal with it. But the more I recall Dad and Benji discussing the need to leave all the prisoners behind regardless of crime because they gave up their rights long ago, the more I wonder if that’s what I want to happen. Maybe my vote will matter. I decide to wield my invisible sword and cast my first and maybe last public vote.

  Dominick has to watch his brother, so Rita and I decide to meet up and go vote together. She shows up at my house an hour later than we planned. I could’ve walked to the high school by now.

  “Sorry,” she apologizes. “My parents were being difficult. They think I’m at the library.” She grins deviously. “Check this out.”

  She unbuttons her black wool coat to show me her latest acquisition of HoloVertex fashion. Companies have been cashing in and profiting off the phenomenon, creating merchandise like cups, T-shirts, hologram dolls, and key chains, both in favor of the vertexes and against them, to appeal to all consumers. Rita proudly displays her new T-shirt. Across her bulging chest is the slogan HOLOGRAMS ARE SEXY in white bold letters against black. The SEXY is in red, of course.

  “Like it?” she asks, grinning and driving. It’s her mini-rebellion. I know, like me, she’s putting up with her parents and their beliefs. Doesn’t mean she can’t have a little fun of her own in the meantime. Like I am with Dominick. Like most people are.

  “I bought a different one for you,” she says, smiling. “I figured since you and Dominick have been so amorous lately . . .” She points to her bag on the floor of the passenger side.

  I reach inside and pull out a hot pink shirt with the slogan THE END IS COMING—ARE YOU? followed by a smiley face.

  “I can’t wear this!” I laugh.

  “Why not?” Rita asks with a stupid grin plastered on her face. “It’s innocent.”

  “Yeah, sure it is,” I fold the shirt to hide the front. “Thanks.”

  “Still a prude,” she says.

  “I am not,” I say. “I’ll wear it. As pajamas. When my dad’s not around.”

  By the time we reach our voting area at the high school, the line snakes out the door and around the corner. I’m not surprised to see people holding signs, some for the rights of prisoners, some against. After Rita parks the car, we wait in line for what seems like a millennium.

  All these people. Perfect location for another bombing attack like at the vertexes. I search the line for potential terrorists—everyone looks suspicious.

  “It’s hard to believe we’re waiting to get into the high school,” Rita jokes, “when we usually can’t wait to escape.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” I lie. “Weird how the building looks exactly the same as it did freshmen year but how much has changed with us.”

  “That’s true. Hey,” she says, pointing, “Isn’t that Private Benjamin?”

  “I doubt it. He’s supposed to be guarding the vertex site.” I search the line for a Benji look-alike.

  “It’s definitely him. Up front with the sign.”

  That’s when I spot him. Benji’s with the picketers.

  “I forgot how good he looks out of uniform,” Rita comments.

  I roll my eyes. Benji’s taking his anti-prisoner stance seriously, taking work off and everything. But then, from a distance I read the sign that he’s holding: PRISONERS ARE STILL PEOPLE.

  What? Since when is he on their side? My side? After he freaking made me argue in front of Dad, giving him nightmares again, and possibly sending him back on the PTSD zombie train? What was the point? A wave of anger overpowers my reason. I don’t know whose side I’m on, what side I stand for, but the next thing I know I’m at the front of the line screaming in Benji’s face.

  “Hypocrite,” I yell and whack his sign with an open palm. He fumbles to keep it upright.
“Chicken shit!”

  “Alex, relax,” Rita says, grabbing my arm.

  “No, let go of me.” I can’t control myself. I am a banshee fighting for the life I deserve. Benji tries to block me with his sign, but I push him anyway. In front of Dad he always makes me the bad guy when I’m the only one who looks out for him.

  A cop monitoring the voting area steps over to intervene.

  “Ma’am, calm down.” He places his body between me and Benji, one hand on his belt, one outstretched to block me.

  “I am calm!” I cannot believe Benji was for prisoners’ rights all along and just harped on me in front of Dad to look good. How could he do that, just side with him and leave me hanging like a curtain without a window?

  The officer doesn’t back down. “Ma’am, if you don’t calm down, I will have to arrest you.”

  The word “arrest” knocks me back into reality, if reality exists anymore. Handcuffed and charged with domestic assault. Stuck in a concrete prison. The shortest sentence given by a judge would still serve as a death sentence unless voters release me to a glowing vertex ready to devour me alive. I take several deep breaths to regain my composure. Benji just stands there, red-faced and silent, still holding the sign.

  The cop asks, “Are you able to act civilized and stay in line, or do I have to escort you off the premises?”

  “I’m fine. I want to vote.” I say it as evenly as possible, but I really want to spit the words into Benji’s face.

  “I’ll be watching you,” the cop adds. “One more step out of line, and you’ll be gone.”

  I head to the back of the line. Rita follows me and stays quiet. I know she has a million questions to ask me, but she knows it’s not the time.

  It’s ironic that after screaming at Benji, I’m about to vote in favor of the rights of the prisoners to choose their own destiny. I don’t want to vote the same as him. It’s a childish thought, and I know it, but it’s the truth. It’s weird to fight with someone when you’re on the same side.