As we tell our friends, the wedding is a beacon of light amidst the gloom. We set a date a month away. That is still five months before the impact, and the hope is that Star News will fly us out shortly afterward. I organize the wedding while Lynn works non-stop.
I’m struggling to find a band for the reception when my phone rings. It’s Lynn. “Hey, Love! How’s your day going?” I ask.
“This fucked-up world has somehow done something right.” She is so excited that I can picture the phone shaking in her hand. “The UN is announcing that they are going to expatriate people from North America to other countries. It starts in two weeks. My editor just told me an announcement is coming later today.”
I can’t quite let myself believe what she is saying. “So we’ll be able to leave for another country?”
“Yes. I mean no. It’s not that simple. There’s going to be a lottery, an expatriation lottery. There simply isn’t enough time or resources to move a half billion people from one side of the world to the other.”
I do the math in my head, and it doesn’t add up. “Sure there is. There have to be enough ships and planes to get everyone out in half a year.”
“I told you; it’s not that simple. Do you really think Saudi Arabia would take a few million Christian refugees? Some countries won’t accept any Americans, and others are focused on their own disaster preparation. So we’re basically on our own in terms of making it work.”
“Then we may not make it.”
“Jesus, Em. Can’t you at least be thankful for a little bit of good news? At least we now have a better chance! Think of it this way: This takes pressure off Star News to save everyone on their staff. Our chances of them flying us out are much greater. Plus, we may even win the lottery.” She pauses, and then adds, her voice tentative, “Should we change our wedding plans?”
“Well, it sounds like there’s still so much up in the air. Maybe we should just continue with business-as-usual?”
“Yes, of course, but we should be prepared to be flexible.” I’m used to Lynn’s hope and optimism, so her response is a pleasant surprise. Flexible? That I can embrace. Hell, moving from likely death to having to be flexible is about the best thing ever. Getting married in Austin and then emigrating to France? Fine. Emigrating to England and then getting married there? Also fine. Before I can reply, she adds, “Although it would be nice to get married in Venice.”
I can practically see her smile through the phone as she says it. She hasn’t been this happy in a long time, and I realize I need her happiness. I don’t want her to be flexible. “Or Kilimanjaro!” I reply. Lynn was right. I should be thankful, and I am. My enthusiasm is real. Lynn makes it real. We discuss kisses at sunset and sweetheart necklines, and I am so full of joy that I can barely breathe.
• • • •
Lynn covers the impact of the Lottery on families as it starts—the winner, the losers, the joy, and the pain. I beg her to stop after a third man who was not chosen commits suicide in front of her and her cameraman. Despite the good intentions, the lottery is a near universal target of anger and suspicion. The details of the lottery cause riots, but they make sense to my political mind: all military and their families are automatically eligible for expatriation. This is deeply unpopular, but it makes the management of the lottery work. Corruption is minimized when the benefit of any bribe is far outweighed by the possible punishment of losing your family’s spot on an outgoing boat or plane.
However, people ignore the rational, and it scares me with Lynn in the middle of it all. It’s made worse by the process. While the internet and the country’s infrastructure still function at a basic level, the lottery is decidedly non-technical. Selection is done ahead of time at local offices and notification is done face-to-face at heavily guarded buildings in urban centers. You go. You find out your fate. You leave.
“What if one of them decides to take out others before taking his own life?” I say to her. I don’t mention that I worry about her own psyche. How many deaths can you witness before it scars you forever? She came home in shock after the first one, but after the third she barely considered it worth mentioning.
To my surprise she agrees. “It’s already an old story,” she adds. The lottery has been in effect for a whole week, and the suicides are already an “old” story. It saddens me, although I’m glad Lynn doesn’t seem to grasp the pathos illustrated by her words. She adds, “Plus, we have a wedding coming up!”
The wedding is in two weeks. I never did book a band, but a friend agreed to act as DJ. We are to get married at the Four Seasons in Austin, which will be convenient for our family and friends, and has the benefit of a waterfront background for the ceremony itself. It’s not what I had in mind, but it still makes me gasp when I think of it.
Both of our expatriation interview dates are a month out, so we don’t think about the lottery very much. It’s hope for an indeterminate future, and that’s good enough for now.
• • • •
For once I find out something before Lynn. A friend of my mother’s is in the Expatriation Office and mentioned something to her in passing. My mom immediately called me in a panic. Marriages have been suspended.
“Wait, why would they do that?” I can’t quite believe the news. It makes no sense.
“Because there are two components to the lottery. The first is that every individual in the country is eligible, and the second is that if you win, you get to emigrate with your entire immediate family. Do you understand?”
“No,” I reply. Maybe I do understand but just don’t want to. I just can’t believe that something as basic as a life-saving lottery would have a loophole.
“People are getting married to increase their odds. And if you have a lot of kids your odds are even greater. Haven’t you seen the news about the explosion of marriages?” I did, but I assumed it was due to the impending mass death and others in Lynn’s and my position—wanting to finally get married before it was too late. That people would get married to game the system didn’t even cross my mind.
“So they are canceling marriages entirely because individuals with kids are getting married to other people with kids, and all they need is one from the entire group to win and then they all are saved?”
“Yes.” The sadness in my mom’s voice breaks my heart. Losing any moment of joy in the midst of such darkness is almost too much to consider.
“So unmarried people are screwed.”
“I wouldn’t say—”
Anger bubbles over. “But what about Lynn and me? We weren’t trying to game the system! We spent years waiting for marriage to be legal, and now just days away from our wedding it is illegal again.” The unfairness is overwhelming. I need to talk to Lynn.
“I know, dear. If there’s anything—”
“I have to go.” I hang up, dial Lynn, and explain what’s happening. Lynn is quiet on the other end of the line. I cling to the absurd hope that she will somehow make things better.
“I’ll be right home,” she says. I wait, trying to not dwell on the worst.
She arrives minutes later and tosses her bag on the floor. She gives me a cursory hug and starts pacing while I sit down. Her nervousness while I recline on the couch is a stark reversal of our normal roles. Still, she is all business, and I find it comforting. If there is a solution here, she will find it.
She stops and faces me. “Okay, one.” She holds up a finger. “We still could both win the lottery.” I nod. “Two.” She holds up another finger. “We could still be flown out by Star News.” I nod again. “And three.” She holds up the finger and then drops it into a fist as she continues, “We will still be able to get married when the lottery is over, right?”
I had not thought of that. Once the lottery is over, there is no need to protect the system, and marriages could resume. “I guess . . .”
There are too many unknowns for me to think anything other than we are still fucked, but before I can say it Lynn replies, “This really doe
sn’t change anything!”
• • • •
Lynn is driving us to the Expatriation Office, and the streets are a mess. The military is keeping order, but cars are pushed to the side of the road and abandoned where they broke down. Traffic accidents lead to gunplay. The roads to downtown Austin are a war zone.
There’s a delay when a pair of bucketlisters have their friends block off Interstate 35 for a drag race. We wait for the military police to arrive or for the race to finish, whichever comes first. I sympathize with the increasing number of bucketlisters sprouting up across the country. They are at least being proactive about their impending doom, but this pair is now threatening Lynn’s appointment, and my sympathy is in short supply. “Fuckers,” I mutter. We gave ourselves two hours for a drive that three months earlier would have taken thirty minutes, and now we’ll need every second.
Lynn looks over and squeezes my leg. “We have plenty of time.” I nod but cheer quietly when a military truck from behind us splits the air with its loud siren. The bucketlisters scatter, and the road clears.
The Expatriation Office is in a heavily fortified compound. There are concrete barriers on the sidewalk. Thick walls and razor wire. Soldiers are everywhere with machine guns. We park in a large, mostly empty, lot outside the walls. “I love you,” I whisper.
Lynn smiles and wipes my tears with her thumbs, her hands cupping my face. “I know.” She kisses me. “I love you, too.”
Only Lynn is allowed in, so she heads to the gate while I walk to a nearby building where friends and family are allowed to wait. It’s a sterile storefront with lots of plate glass and uncomfortable plastic chairs. It looks like the waiting room at the DMV. The room is about half full, but no one talks to anybody else. I take a seat and stare at the walls.
Individuals make the long walk from the walled compound to the waiting area, and the near constant flow of hopelessness is overwhelming. One person after another approaches, shakes his or her head, and then breaks down, soon joined by others’ screams, wails, and tears. No one commits suicide while I watch, but the dead eyes are almost as bad.
A few people walk in with good news, but they are subdued, their happiness tempered out of respect for the walking dead around them. Still, the hushed cries and tears are of happiness, and it is oddly uplifting. As a young man walks in and nods his head, a woman rushes over and throws herself in his arms. I am genuinely happy for them and wonder where they will settle. London? Tokyo? Madrid? Moscow? It doesn’t matter. They walk out with a future.
And there is Lynn. I cannot read her face. Did she win? Is she safe? She sees me through the window, and gives a half wave from her waist. I run out to her, and we meet on the sidewalk. I look in her eyes, and she nods her head.
She hugs me, and I cry.
A couple in another car pull in as we walk across the parking lot, Lynn’s hand in mine. I catch a glimpse of their faces but turn away. Lynn is waiting for me, and I close my door on the pain and uncertainty outside.
I don’t remember the trip home. I don’t remember much at all. I just hold Lynn in my arms, afraid to let her go, afraid that maybe it isn’t real.
I am filled with more happiness than I knew was possible as the love of my life will be safe and this wonderful amazing woman who has filled my life with such joy will not have her light go out due to the cruelty of the heavens or fate or whatever has decreed that life is now nothing more than a lottery she will live she will live she will live.
• • • •
A few days later, Lynn comes home at lunchtime, which surprises me because she is still on the Star News beat. I don’t know which story she is covering, but I assume it’s something amusing; the stories of riots, murders, rapes, and suicides are unpopular, and Europe appears addicted to stories of bucketlisters doing crazy things, so Lynn has been covering every bucket list item imaginable and enjoying every minute of it.
“Hey, what’s up? Slow news day?” I smile. There is no longer such a thing as a slow news day.
“I quit.”
I put my book down and stand up. “What? Why?”
“The government has commandeered all of Star News’ North American transportation to maximize expatriation efforts.”
I collapse back on the couch. “Oh.” There goes any hope of the company getting us out.
“They fucking lied to me, Em. They knew this was going to happen for weeks. My boss knew! They just were negotiating how late they would have to wait before handing over the keys to the government.” She slams her fist into the wall. “They knew. They fucking knew!”
“Then why didn’t they fly us out earlier?”
“I don’t know. Because they’re evil bastards. Because I was doing my job too well. Does it matter?” She sits down next to me. “We’re fucked.”
I put my arms around her and rest my head on her shoulder. “No we’re not. You’re safe. That’s something. And my appointment is in a few days.” I had hoped my appointment wouldn’t matter, but now it would be the single most important moment of my life. Lynn—who has been my rock for the past eight years—looks like she’s going to fall apart. I didn’t realize she had invested so much in Star News getting us out of the country. “Hey.” I lift my head, touch her chin, and turn her face to mine. “You know me. I’m the luckiest person in the world.” She isn’t crying, and that somehow makes her pain seem worse. “After all, I have you.”
She is crying now. I hold my palm against her cheek. We kiss, and there isn’t anything else to say.
• • • •
When we arrive for my appointment, I leave Lynn behind, and it his her turn to wait amongst the desperation. During my walk to the gate I think about the unfairness of it all. This entire trip would be unnecessary if Lynn and I were married. She’d won, and thus I would have won, too.
I go through a metal detector, a magnetic resonance scanner, and a chemical detector of some sort. Signs everywhere warn people that if they are carrying any banned substances at all they will lose their place in the lottery. A few people are going through the process with me, and they look nervous and drawn, almost haunted. I wonder if I look the same way. The soldiers are business-like and intimidating but nice enough.
I walk up to a guard at a booth on the other side of the security room and hand him my ID. He looks at it and then at my face. He nods and swipes the license through a magnetic stripe reader. “Room 5A.” He points to his left. “Down the hall and make a right.” He hands my ID back and waves to the person behind me.
I enter room 5A. Lynn had already walked me through the whole process, so I’m prepared. Still, the utter ordinariness of the office is striking. I am about to face life or death, and I’m sitting in a metal folding chair facing a metal desk with a computer and a phone. The name on the desk says “Samuel Esposito.” Mister Esposito, who looks to be in his thirties, is sitting behind the desk wearing a drab suit.
“Ms. Hollister. Nice to meet you. I’m Sam.” He stands to greet me and sits down only after I say hello and seat myself.
He proceeds to recite a script about the background of the Meyer Asteroid, the difficulty in dealing with the scope of such a catastrophe, and how if the government could relocate everybody then, my goodness, of course they would.
But they can’t, he notes, and he continues to go on about the origin of the Expatriation Lottery, why it’s not perfect but that it’s the best anyone could come up with.
He says all this with a natural cadence and a pleasant voice. He’s friendly, and I’m rather fond of how sympathetic he sounds as he outlines something that will kill hundreds of millions of people. But before he can continue with his well-worn script, I stop him.
“Now Sam, is it really the best the government could come up with?” I ask the question with my most pleasant politically-honed voice.
“Well, um, yes it is. We are a democratic country, and we wanted to give everyone an equal chance.”
“But you get to emigrate even if you don’t wi
n the lottery when your other family members win. Is that fair?”
“Well, you see, Ms. Hollister, it would be a real tragedy to break apart families. Certainly you can understand that.”
I stop myself. There is nothing to gain here. I could get into an argument over how I was not able to marry my beloved partner of nearly a decade, how the ignorance of a bunch of zealots has me sitting in this very chair praying for my life, how even when marriage was made legal a bunch of selfish pricks looking to game the system destroyed our last chance.
Instead, I reply, “Oh, I understand the tragedy of breaking families apart all too well.”
Thrown a bit by my answer, Sam’s script comes out awkwardly at first, but he quickly recovers and proceeds to tell me that he is required to outline what happens both if you win or lose the lottery. He starts with grief counseling, which is optional but highly recommended. It will be available immediately after this meeting in a convenient room down the hall if I decide I need it. A new law put into place allows euthanasia, but you must first discuss that option with a grief counselor.
He then outlines what to expect if I win. Transportation will be via either boat or plane, and the destination will be a country determined by a second lottery. Immediate family members emigrate together but distant family are not guaranteed that they will be able to settle in the same country.
“Are you ready?” The question comes so suddenly that I am unprepared to reply. “Do you need more time?” Sam asks, sympathy in his voice.
“No. It’s okay. I’m ready.”
I wait for him to open an envelope or to check his screen or something, but he just folds his hands on his desk and speaks. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hollister. You have not been chosen to emigrate.”
• • • •
I skip the grief counseling. I walk down the hall feeling calm. I’m not sad for myself; I’m sad for Lynn. The moment Sam spoke the words, I knew that my new goal in life was to convince Lynn to leave me behind. She deserves a long life. The world needs her strength, her passion, her optimism, her beauty. Me? I won’t die alone. There are tens of millions of us, and that knowledge is oddly comforting.
The End is Nigh (The Apocalypse Triptych) Page 10