Tag: Dystopia

Testing Day

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Sci Fi, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

The room is white. The room is cold. The room promises anxiety. I scrape away at my cuticles (a disgusting habit I’ve always had under pressure) and try not to shift around on the table. The paper gown against the paper on which I sit makes a sound that reminds me of where I am. I wish there was a window, or at least that the doctor would hurry back. When I finally notice the blood smeared across most of my nails I lick it all away, ashamed, and focus my attention on the pamphlets taped to the walls.

Getting Tested is the First Day of Your New Life.

Stay Healthy, Stay Happy.

The World Needs You. Get Tested Today.

Finally, the door swings open. My heart seems to quiver and I sit up straight as if concerned that my poor posture will annoy the doctor and she’ll leave again. But she doesn’t even look at me. She stares at her clipboard and makes checks and exes here and there. I try not to make a sound, try not to disturb her concentration. Mostly I just want us both to forget I’m here; to simply disappear. She is short, with thick round glasses and straight smoky grey hair. When her head springs up her chubby cheeks swing back, loose with age.

“Fertile.”

That’s all she says. Then her head bows again as she sticks her pen back in her jacket pocket, clears her throat and walks out of the room. I will never see her again. Her only job is to test the fertility of every 18 year old boy and girl in the sector, and then she disappears forever.

I slowly reach for my clothes and become suddenly aware of how drab they are. Beige pants and a grey button down shirt with my identification number plastered to the left breast pocket. That number is more important than my name; authorities know me not as Gen, but as 504576. Today, though, I will become known to them only as fertile. I am hope.

Once a young woman is determined to be fertile a sigh of relief sweeps the nation like a cool, crisp, awakening breeze. They can match me with a fertile young man now, and assign us our national duties which will include jobs based on our levels of skills and intelligence, and on the nation’s needs. As a fertile couple, we will be given five years before we must clock in to work. These five years are to be allotted to childbearing and child rearing. We will be given a house, because we are the pride and joy of the nation. We are hope. Our sector will survive because of the few who are fertile. The many who are not will work harder and longer to provide for those of us who are. They are just as important to the new system. And who am I to shame the new system? After all, things used to be worse – but somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

I dress, unsteadily, one foot at a time. The buttons take forever because my fingers fumble with them through the tremors. I feel a burning sensation rising from my chest and radiating into my sinuses. To fight this from exploding into tears I hold my breath. I do this for so long that by the time I walk into the bright daylight I am dizzy. I quickly glance to the left and then right, and when I’m sure my mother is not here yet I exhale so fast and hard I cannot even recognize the sound that comes out of me. How could this happen to me? What are the odds? I haven’t taken any precautions to ensure fertility. I even live in the most toxic end of the sector. Ironically, discovering that I have been virtually unaffected by these toxins is the first thing that makes me feel as though I am truly suffocating.

Just as I prepare to embrace my sadness a car pulls up and I see my mother’s stern yet forcibly bright face in the driver’s seat. At this, I immediately pull myself together. I stand up straight and sigh, taking on again my typical expression of impassivity. She jumps out of the car with such specious excitement the car itself might still be in motion. She runs around the back of it to reach me as quickly as she can. Arms wide, she yells “So?!”

“Fertile.”

I say it and that’s when I know it’s real and has to be accepted. My mother squeezes me tight, a rare show of affection. “It’s going to be fine, Genesis,” she whispers unconvincingly. “Everything’s going to be fine.” A bromide for people who are either too afraid, or too weak to tell the truth.

I nod and shrug. Maybe it will be fine.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Rhapsody Lament

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Sci Fi, Shyla's Stories6 Comments

Boyd had never been a penitent person. Never impressionable. Never reserved. Never burdened by an arbitrary sense of right and wrong; white and black. He had always lingered between the dichotomies. Even now, as he scrambled to wash the dried blood from his hands, he felt no remorse and no thrill. The snowball between his hands crumbled, rather than melted. He squatted in the street, scrubbing away, until his hands were more numb than clean. Since the running water had stopped four months ago, this was the closest Boyd ever came to a bath. The scruff of his chin was concealed by a scarf tied tight around his neck. He wore two jackets, neither one sufficient on its own. He imagined his skin was quite dry by now, but removing his clothes to find out would be a waste of time and energy. The wind was just starting to pick up when Boyd rose. He was unsteady on his feet, the result of having traded food for companionship. Food and sex; they were the only currencies left. Boyd looked around. It was dark now and the streets were lit only by the colors people chose to wear. A crowd of women were headed straight towards him, not one bothering to side step. The collision was inevitable. In fact, Boyd kind of enjoyed slamming into the petite woman who had been too absorbed in her inconsequential small talk to look up – to see him. No one ever saw him. It was a blessing and a curse.

Gale felt an impact against her chest, and then her back. She swung upwards just in time to see the broad shouldered man shuffle through her crowd of friends and disappear. She rolled her eyes, wondering why she bothered to expect more from people these days. She had smacked hard against the wet ground. She let herself sit there for a moment as the frost snuck its way up her back and buried itself in her spine. The cement had torn right through her jacket, but that was of little consequence since the thin material it had been made of was never meant to hold up against the temperamental elements. Her friends gasped and cackled. Gale assured them she was fine. She didn’t even notice the blood that was now smeared across her back until the man who bought her for the evening demanded his bread back; as if it was the unidentified blood that was the most disgusting aspect of tonight’s scenario. Gale chomped down on the bread and ripped her chipped teeth through its stiffness. The man yelled inarticulately (everyone did, these days) and she threw the rest of the bun at him. She watched with pleasure as it bounced of his chest and landed in the snow. She had always enjoyed the sight of a man bending over, his pride tumbling before him.

Everett snatched up his fallen bun with virtue. He had worked hard for it all day and was disheartened by his own eagerness to give it up for a few minutes of potential amity. He shivered under the darkening sky and tucked the coveted bread into his sweater. The snow would make it soggy and Everett did not kill for soggy bread. He preferred the fruits of his labor to maintain a robustness in his own likeness. The insert in his forearm began buzzing just as he had come upon a shelter: a single dwelling tent. Inside it smelled of rot and old death. There was no body, but he would have spent the night even if there was. A good tent was difficult to come by, and his own house had been dismantled in the last explosion. In that instant, the streets became safer than his useless cowering. The attacks were usually targeted at houses; the price of being comfortable was an exhaustive threat against your life. All of the free states were like that. Everett had seen a few, but the differences between them were not worth mentioning. Tonight, he had his bread and a tent, and that was all a man could ask for out here. He chose to ignore the buzzing in his arm. There were plenty others in need of a job. Tonight, he had seen enough blood.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Creating Genesis

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Horror, Sci Fi, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

“The implantation process was simple. I’m just not sure it’s going to take. She’s heavily sedated.”

Lewis nodded to acknowledge his colleague’s concerns, then entered the adjoining room. The two-way mirror that now separated the two doctors served only to represent the dissolving border between theoretical science, and the monstrosity of creation.

“What’s Lewis doing in there?”

Sierra looked up at Charlie, who seemed to materialize from thin air. Since he had launched the Genesis project he had lost several pounds, become irritable and, at times, unresponsive. He was approaching his 50th year now, and the result of his stress was sunken cheeks and drooping eyes, which only served to age him quicker. Together, he and Sierra watched Lewis curiously lean over their test subject. She seemed not to notice he was there, even when he stroked her hair, and then her stomach. It was only starting to protrude. Sweat rolled down her forehead, and shoulders. Her chest heaved, and her limbs twitched. The doctors had resorted to sedation when they caught her trying to escape. Now, she was only a shell of a person – no will; no desire.

“He’s pleading with her, I suppose,” Sierra whispered.

Charlie grunted his approval. All three of them knew this was their last shot. No other test subject had ever carried to term, but Marcy had come the furthest. This fourth try might very well be all her body would take. The anticipation filled the lab like a thick fog of impending doom.

“Fourteen more weeks to go,” Charlie sighed. With that, he disappeared into the back room.

*****

“How are you feeling today, Marcy?”

Marcy heard the voice, but it seemed so distant she feared her reply would not reach it. She mumbled incoherently and tried to raise her arms. She could not.

“We had to tie you down, I’m afraid. You got a little out of control, but you’re going to be fine.”

The voice was calm, and although she identified it as male, there was something inherently feminine about it. Marcy pulled her head up as high as she could, hoping to catch a glimpse of her surroundings. All she saw was her own belly, high and mountainous. Her cries were muffled by her own lack of energy, but Lewis could see the fear in her eyes.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he speciously reassured her. “You’re going to have a daughter, Marcy. I really believe so. If you can just hold on a little longer.” He smiled, nodding frantically – his nerves having finally got the best of him. His eyes were beginning to flood. “She’ll be our little Genesis.”

Lewis stroked Marcy’s head paternally as she struggled to remove herself from his touch. The air smelled repugnant to her, and she associated it with the mysterious man who had strapped her down and put a person inside of her without her permission. Quickly, Marcy surveyed her memories to assess her whereabouts, and the date. Most of it came back in flashes:

There had been a raid in her sector.

All the women wearing numbers were identified as fertile and taken away.

She had kicked and screamed.

She saw men in riot gear beat her father when he tried to pull them off of her.

She had been so hot, secluded in a bare, metal, space.

There had been blood tests; they had taken blood. But they had also injected something… what was it?

A cage.

Women caged.

Women bleeding.

Women losing consciousness while having monsters ripped from their bodies.

Herself in pain. So much pain she could not think, swallow, or fight.

There had been so many needles.

The doctors all had fire in their eyes.

As the flashes converged, Marcy tried to process what had happened to her body. Her thoughts still lacked linearity, and the more she forced it, the weaker she became. Eventually, Lewis’ sobbing faded to black with the rest of it.

*****

“They’ve discontinued the research on cloning in Sector 8,” Sierra offered as small talk as she and Lewis prepped for surgery.

“I know,” he replied solemnly.

“It’s a good thing. It means there’s more funding for us. More faith.”

“Faith? We’re creating monsters, here.”

Sierra’s glare manifested a gravitational pull that kept Lewis’ eyes glued to hers. “We’re creating people. A population,” she exacted. “There are no monsters in science.”

Lewis frowned, not knowing what he believed anymore. It had been eleven years since he had agreed to Genesis, motivated by a sense of supremacy. It had been naïve to think three scientists could save the world. The world had been relinquished long ago. Still, he couldn’t let go of the feeling that something big was going to happen; that Marcy was the key. It would be foolish to give up just yet.

*****

Screeching; whimpering; gurgling.

The sounds were nearly incomprehensible.

They were certainly undecipherable.

Marcy coerced her eyes open, unsure that she even wanted to see anything. The room was in utter commotion. Everyone seemed to be in hysterics. Finally, Marcy saw what all the fuss was about: a baby lie sprawled on a metal table beside her own. It was swaddled only in wires and tubes; liquids pumped in and out of her tiny body. It was a grotesque and morbid picture. And yet, all Marcy could think was that she had somehow done it.

An easy wave of calm fell over her. Yes, she had done it. Tomorrow, she might awaken to a whole new world. That is, if she were to awaken at all.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©