Ben Fowler

Period 4
March 24, 2017
Capital Punishment

Death is terrifying, and it happens more often than ever. You never knew

who will be next. The governments of the past had long since died out. Or, at least

they had Here. Thats what all cities and countries had become now, Here. Here was

run by a group of people called Them. The Them controlled everything. The people

of Here would wake up, go to work, work, come back, and go to sleep. If they were

late, they were killed. If they rebelled, they were killed. If they committed crimes,

they were killed. The collector killed them. They didnt know if he was human. They

didnt know if he was a he. They didnt know if he existed. All that they knew was

that he was the most fear-inspiring living creature ever known to man.

Rodger Raife awoke to his bed giving him an electric shock. The shock made

small children cry, but everyone got used to it. It was designed to make sure that

nobody had any excuses to be late to work. Roger lived alone, and in turn had one

cramped room that worked as everything a single man might need in life. He sat

down at his small square table. Out of the slot in the wall came a plate with two half-

fried eggs and a glass full of liquid sandpaper. He ate his breakfast quickly and in

silence. After finishing, he ran outside of the house to make sure that he didnt miss

the bus. If he did, he would be late for work. He would die. He made the bus with

plenty of time. He always did, but it never got less scary. The sign on top of the bus

read Hospital District.

The bus-ride passed without a noise. Nobody talked to each other for fear of

saying something that could be classified as rebellion. The silence pressed around
Rodgers ears, making him think to stay sane. Them couldve come one of two ways.

They could be the unnamed terrorist group; the one that utilized the fear of the state

that the death penalty itself had created to lead a civil war into full action. Or it could

be the old government; the one that may have decided that taking a fascist approach

to ruling its citizens wasnt so bad. He wasnt sure which option was worse. Though

he supposed the first would be more ironic. The death penalty that threatened

thousands into obeying today was the very thing that launched Them into power

hundreds of years ago. But it didnt matter what he thought anyway. The polls told

that the next three years of his life were the ones where he was most likely to be

killed.

His age was 27. He was already the oldest man on his street. He hardly

bragged about it. If he did the collector might come for him just to send a message.

The oldest man alive at the time was 39, and his family had already divided up their

inheritance. Nobody lived more than that. Only the collector was eternal. Or, at least,

that was what they had been told since childhood. The bus came to a stop, and there

was a mad scramble for the door. Attendance was counted by who was in their

office chair in time. Rodger was the fifth one out. He always was, for some reason.

He stood on the platform with his name labeled on it. It rose into the air and carried

him to his station.

He had always been very proud of his job. It had taken 8 years of education

added on to the required 10 (not attending school was punishable by death, as was

getting a failing grade in 2 or more classes). He was, by the Thems definition, a

doctor of the highest prestige. He slipped on his work uniform without talking to
any of his assistants. He had never liked any of them much, except for Angela. The

Them created an environment of constant dislike in the work environment, but

always set up couples for the sake of baby-making. Angela was his, and he was

Angelas. He pulled todays files towards him on his desk. He opened the first file. A

construction worker, Hector Marches, who had been scheduled to work all night and

late into the day had fallen asleep at the jackhammer and drilled the front half of his

foot off. Rodger did some quick calculations.

Bring him in. He said quietly. Two medical assistants brought in the man on

a stretcher. He grunted in pain every time someone brushed against him.

Doing alright Mr. Marches? He said, Because it looks to me like a good

chunk of your foot is gone. Now, you cant build a 12-story building with that kind of

pain, can you? But if you dont log todays work in you record, you cant exactly hope

to see tomorrow either, can you? Mr. Marches gave a wail. He knew what was

coming. It was one of the reasons why jobs that may result in injuries were awful.

Rodger removed a syringe from the wall. It was filled with a sinister-looking green

liquid. The medical assistants bound Hector and fitted him with a mask connected to

a long tube. It pumped him with gas of the same sinister color. The mans eyes rolled

back into his head. Rodger plunged the syringe into his upper arm and hoped that he

had done his calculations right.

The medicine had no name. It was ten times more addictive, effective, and

excruciatingly painful than the olden days morphine. It was not meant to heal, but

get the average citizen through the rest of their workweek, and it was very useful to

that end. Within ten minutes Hector Marches was on his feet and more ready to
work than he had been at the start of that work cycle, despite his new found lack of

right foot. Rodger had five more patients that morning. At Lunchtime, he sat, like

everyone else, alone. He held out his bowl, and a red liquid poured from above,

landing in his bowl without spilling a single drop. It tasted like a mix of liquefied

potatoes and tomatoes. In other words, it was not very good.

To pass the time, he did what he always used to do, he remembered. His

remembered the only encounter with the collector that he had ever had. He had

come late in the afternoon, when Rodger was six years old. He had come for his

father. His father, who had whispered an unspeakable word in his sleep, his father

who had dared to say Britain in his dreams. No one alive had ever seen the collector

in person. All those who had lived to see him attack recounted the same thing. They

recounted a cloud of black smoke entering room. They recounted a deep voice

saying the name of the guilty and their crime. The smoke then filled the room

completely, and the guilty was never seen again. All those who were in the room,

and all those who knew the guilty had their memories of them immediately wiped. If

they werent in the room, the smoke came from their food slots.

He tried to eat as fast as humanly possible, for he knew what was going to

happen. But, alas, he was too late.

Hi, there are no more seats. Do you mind if I sit here? It was Angela. It was

sweet beautiful Angela who was perfect for Rodger. He wanted nothing more in life

than her. But she was a lie. She was a nightmare, the perfect nightmare. She was a

Trojan horse, something designed to entice, and distract him until he was trapped

with five kids and no future, not that he had had one anyway.
 Please, I was just leaving. He said, leaving half of his soup.

Back in his office, he had the rest of his Lunch hour to think. He thought of his

family, two sisters, a brother, a mother, and a father. He thought of his brother, dead

for having an affair. He thought of his sister, dead for hitting her head on the bus and

getting amnesia. He thought of his other sister, dead for walking into work with a

tear in her pants. He thought of his mother, dead for leaping out of the crowd,

embracing and embarrassing him after his name was called during his medical

school graduation. He thought of the dark cloud, absorbing criminals, stealing their

memories, their identities, and their souls, and leaving nothing but their crimes

behind.

He thought of Angela. He thought of all the matched couples in the world. The

romanticism of falling in love had been taken by Them. Everybodys other halves

had already been decided. Everybody was doomed to marriage. Every woman

doomed to become a human waterslide, spitting out squealing children every two

years. Every man doomed to give up everything only to make sure that his children

did the same. He fastened the mask on his mouth.

He cranked the lever. Sweet relief filled his mouth. His seemed to be trying to

break out and live alone. He didnt want it to. He was going to die either way. The

smoke would not kill him. He would not be stolen from the world. Nor would he

become some slave to Them. Goodbye world. Fuck you.