Unfit

by Karma Chesnut

  “If they are worthy and their blood is pure, they have nothing to fear,” Elder Kingsley said. “It seems the only people who would be upset by the new transparency of the screening process are those with something to hide. And the same goes for those who would resist allowing us to screen their children.”

  “No,” Bell said, his entire body trembling now. “You are changing too much. We need to remember the people who appointed us in the first place and keep them on our side. We need to appease Northridge.”

  “Northridge will fall in line like everyone else once we explain the necessity of Dr. Goodell’s plan. I believe this will help all of Haven.”

  “How exactly is civil war supposed to help Haven?” Bell protested.

  But Elder Kingsley was done listening. Standing to address the room now, his voice boomed throughout the Council chambers. “Some of you may be losing sight of what it is we are trying to accomplish here. We did not establish the Genetic Fitness Evaluation because it was popular or because it was what the people wanted. The people don’t know what they want, so we must direct them. We are so close, gentlemen, so close to achieving the Utopian society our predecessors dared to imagine all those years ago. Now is not the time to lose faith or become negligent. We must continue our crusade until we have bred out every last drop of aggression, insanity, sickness, stupidity, and slothfulness. Rid ourselves of every deplorable trait common to man, until all that is left is the perfect citizen and the perfect society. We have the chance to make people better, gentlemen. Let’s not falter now because we fear it may be unpopular.”

  Cheers echoed throughout the Council chamber, vibrating the pillars and walls. Almost every Council member was on his feet, applauding Elder Kingsley and Dr. Goodell. Those who hadn’t joined the throng wore a look of trepidation.

  Algernon Bell and Dr. Arthur Loughlin were among the silent, watching helplessly as the crowd erupted with renewed vigor towards the cause. Elder Kingsley raised his arms, silencing the room, and called for a vote. One by one, every hand in the room raised in favor of Dr. Goodell’s proposal.

  Bell looked to Loughlin, his expression clear. They needed a new plan.

  “That little snake,” Loughlin shouted, bursting out of the Council chambers, Bell at his heels. “Did you know about this?”

  “Of course not,” said Bell. “If I had known that son of a bitch was going to say all that I would have had him thrown out of the building. I needed our plan to pass, Arthur. My family was counting on it. And now they’re going to start screening children? What am I supposed to do?”

  But Loughlin was interrupted before he could respond. “Tough break in there, Loughlin.” Elder Townsend stood behind them, shaking his head. “I thought your idea was the better one, but these things don’t always work out the way you want them to. That Goodell fellow is an arrogant little bastard if you ask me.”

  “Thank you, Elder,” Loughlin said, still seething.

  “How are things at the asylum progressing?” Elder Townsend asked.

  “Everything’s on track,” said Loughlin. “There are some issues with the pipes we weren’t anticipating, but it should be resolved in just a few months.”

  “Keep me up to date,” Elder Townsend said, folding his hands behind his back as he retreated down the hall.

  “Of course,” Loughlin said, waiting until Townsend was well out of earshot before turning back to Bell.

  “Here’s what you do,” he said. “Tell Henry to be careful and keep him out of sight until we can get this whole thing taken care of. If there are any other factors that could spell trouble for us, eliminate them immediately.”

  Bell nodded. “And what do we do about our friend Dr. Goodell?”

  “He’s young and hungry,” Loughlin replied. “Let him have his little victory. He may have won the battle today, but history will remember who it was that won the war.”

  Plague, warfare, insanity… No matter what form the enemy may take, we—as a society—have the right to protect ourselves. In the same way we rid our streets of criminals, we must also cleanse our city of vicious and self-destructive traits. Together, we will take the first steps towards a healthier and more sane society. A nation of weaklings and imbeciles can never grow into something great.

  -Council Address, reign of the Council, Year 43

  John sat in a remote corner of the courtyard near the fence that separated the terminal from the temp ward. The entire stretch across the fence was empty, the other patients huddled together and talking under the shade of the asylum. It seemed strange how no one else came over by the fence, out into the sunlight. But as the temp patients watched John walk towards the fence, their eyes wide, John got the impression most of them preferred to give the fence a wide bearing, as if it and the surrounding area had been infected by the reds. The proximity to the terminal ward didn’t bother John, though. And, in a way, he liked that none of the other patients followed him over.

  Kneeling in the dead, dry weeds, John made sure he was just far enough away from the chain-link fence that the terminal ward patients couldn’t reach him. The proximity would have made the other temp patients cringe, but here in the sunlight, a cold breeze against his face, John felt like he could finally breathe.

  “You want to go home, boy?” a man in a red uniform shouted at him from behind the fence. “Come on over here, and I’ll fix ya right now.” The man’s friends erupted in uncontrollable laughter, whistling and calling to John, but he ignored them, closing his eyes and savoring the fresh air until the men decided that tormenting John had lost its appeal and disbursed.

  The old man who had been staring at John the other day sat on the terminal side of the yard. A young boy John had never noticed before sat next to the old man. He didn’t look much older than twelve or thirteen, but his flattened features and small build made it difficult to guess his age. The boy looked as if he was in a trance. His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest as he forcefully rocked himself, throwing his body weight back and forth while he hummed loudly. The old man didn’t seem bothered by this odd behavior, reading his book as if he hadn’t noticed, but John caught other patients sneering at the boy from time to time, the disgust on their faces apparent.

  John tried not to stare, but it was hard not to. The boy made him feel uneasy, the way he rocked and hummed louder and louder, always the same monotone note. Suddenly, as if broken from his trance, the boy looked around wildly, his gaze stopping at John. John quickly put his head down, hoping the boy hadn’t noticed him staring.

  “Hi,” the boy shouted across the courtyard. He had noticed after all.

  The boy could speak. John wasn’t entirely expecting that. Based on his features, John had a fairly good idea of what this boy’s disability was, and everything he had read about those kinds of people described them as practically brain dead. John kept his head down, wondering if it was best to just ignore him.

  “Hi,” the boy shouted again, this time rising from his table and half walking, half running towards the fence where John sat. He sat down right against the fence and pressed his face against it, his nose poking out between the chain-links.

  “Hello,” John replied, unsure exactly what else to say.

  “It’s okay,” the boy said.

  “I’m sorry?” John said, taken back by the boy’s comment. Surely, he must have misheard.

  “You look sad. But it’s okay.”

  John smiled. “What’s your name?”

  “T-Tim,” the boy said, stuttering slightly.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Tim. I’m John.”

  “Hi, John. W-Wanna be my friend?”

  John smiled. There was something about this boy he couldn’t help but smile at. He had a sweet nature. “Sure,” John said.

  “That’s Bucky,” Tim said, pointing to the old man he had been sitting with a moment ago. The man had put his book down and was watching John closely now, his eyes narrowed to slits as he monitored their exchange. “He’s my friend, too.
He’s nice.”

  “I’m sure he is,” John said.

  “People think he’s n-not nice, but he’s nice.”

  “Good,” replied John. “I’m glad he’s nice to you.”

  “Skinny’s not nice.”

  “Really?” John had to suppress a laugh at hearing Skinner referred to as ‘Skinny.’

  “You’re nice,” Tim said.

  “Thank you. You’re nice too.”

  “Yeah,” said Tim, “I’m nice.”

  John suddenly felt as if a hundred pairs of eyes were burning a hole in his back. Glancing around the courtyard, he noticed almost everyone was staring.

  “Tim, we’re leaving now,” the old man shouted. He was standing now, his book under his arm and a suspicious scowl on his face.

  “Bye,” Tim said, and promptly jumped up and ran back towards him.

  John smiled, watching Tim until he disappeared. He hadn’t noticed Amos was now standing behind him.

  “What did the retard want?” Amos asked.

  “Nothing,” John said, standing up and brushing the dust off his knees. “We were just talking.”

  “Be careful,” Amos said. “No good comes from ‘sociating with reds, especially the retards.”

  The word made John flinch. It was so strange, he had heard the word used a thousand times before, even said it himself on occasion. But hearing it directed with such contempt at a specific person, someone as sweet and oblivious as Tim, made the word seem so degrading. Almost vile.

  “You shouldn’t call him that,” John said.

  “Why not? That’s what he is. What else am I supposed to call him?”

  “His name is Tim.”

  Amos scratched his beard. “Didn’t realize he had one,” he said with a shrug. The last thing John wanted to do was alienate himself from the only person who had tried to befriend him, but he was growing tired of these exchanges.

  “Did ya see the old man your ‘friend’ left with?” Amos asked, pointing in the direction where Tim and the man he called ‘Bucky’ had walked away. “The one tugging on the ‘tard’s leash? That’s old man Buck.”

  Amos said this as if John was supposed to know what he was talking about, but John just shrugged.

  “Buck,” Amos said again as if the name would mean something different this time, but if he was trying to get a specific reaction from John, it wasn’t working.

  “He seems harmless enough,” said John.

  “He’s bat-shit crazy,” Amos said.

  “Just like everyone else in the terminal ward,” John said dryly.

  “I’m serious,” Amos protested. “Guy had some sorta mental breakdown years back and went on a killing spree in Southend. The freak even murdered his wife. No one messes with old man Buck, not even Skinner. The only person crazy enough to hang around him is the retard, and Buck strings him along everywhere like some sorta sick puppy.”

  John looked across the yard to where Buck and Tim had disappeared. It seemed odd that a man who murdered his own wife would keep someone like Tim around.

  “Just stick to your kind, John,” Amos continued. “Or you’re likely to get a knife in the back.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” John said.

  John lay on his mattress and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness. It had been at least two hours since the keepers announced it was time to return to their rooms for the night, but John couldn’t sleep, even as, one-by-one, he heard his roommates drift off.

  He rolled over, trying to get comfortable, if such a thing was possible on his filthy, lumpy mattress, and closed his eyes. John willed himself to relax and try to go to sleep, but his limbs felt restless. Certain he would go crazy if he had to lay there another minute, John quietly rose from his bed and crossed the room to the door. Would the door even be locked? he wondered. The keepers hadn’t mentioned anything about locking them in at night, but surely wandering around the asylum wouldn’t be allowed.

  He turned the handle and the door creaked open. The hallway outside his room was empty, no sign of life in either direction. It was perfectly dark except for the occasional solitary lantern containing a single flickering candle. John crept down the deserted hall, his path illuminated by sparse candlelight. He kept one hand pressed against the wall to help guide his way.

  Where should he go? John didn’t have anywhere in particular in mind and to be completely honest, there was nowhere in the asylum he wanted to go. He wished he could go outside, even just for a moment, but since that was impossible, John picked the direction that looked the least familiar.

  The asylum seemed different at night, almost haunted. Now and again, a faint wail would echo through the halls, reverberating until it was impossible to guess which direction the cry had originated. John kept walking, careful to make sure he made a mental note of every turn he took so he could find his way back.

  The farther John wandered from the resident wing, the fainter the light became until he could barely see anything anymore. But even in the dark, John could tell this was a wing of the asylum he had never visited before. It made all the other wings feel shiny and new by comparison. The walls were greasy and slimy and so much dirt caked the floor that John began to wonder if he had indeed accidentally wandered outside.

  John jumped as another loud wail echoed through the halls. This nice, relaxing walk wasn’t going the way he had hoped. He had just made up his mind to turn around and head straight back to his room when he noticed a faint light coming from around the corner just up ahead.

  Curiosity got the better of him, so John pressed on, following the light. At the end of the hallway, John walked into a massive library. A few lamps on the walls had been lit, revealing rows and rows of books lining the entire room. John scanned the shelves. The books looked ancient, their covers cracked and faded. Most of the titles were unreadable, but it didn’t matter since John didn’t recognize any of the ones he could read anyway. Pulling one book off the shelf, he began to flip through the yellowed pages.

  This was undoubtedly the library Amos had told John about, the one nobody ever visited because it only contained Old World books. But if no one ever visited it, then why were the lamps lit? The thought crossed John’s mind just as quickly as the answer did.

  He wasn’t the only person here.

  John turned the next corner to find a figure dressed in red sitting on the floor, books scattered all around him as he read by the light of a small tin candlestick he held in his hand. The man’s back was turned to John. Moving slowly so as to not make a sound, John began to back away.

  “You don’t need to be scared of me,” the man said without turning around.

  John contemplated running for a second. The man still hadn’t seen him. Perhaps he could just slip away.

  “You don’t need to be scared of me,” the man repeated, turning around to face John. His hair was white, and he glanced at John over glasses resting on the end of his nose. It was the same man John had caught watching him on more than one occasion, the most recent of which was earlier that day. The man called Buck.

  “What makes you think I’m scared?” John asked.

  “Aren’t you?” Buck replied. “Not everyone here is a dangerous criminal. Some of us were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  A common story among the terminal ward, apparently. “So I’ve heard,” said John. “Which are you?”

  “Let’s just say I promise not to try and stab you with any of the books.”

  John chuckled. “Thank you.”

  “See, now you don’t have to be afraid of me, because you know where we stand. You can call me Buck, by the way,” he said, removing his glasses and placing them in his jumpsuit’s breast pocket. “The trick to conquering your fear is to pinpoint the source. Once you do that, the fear starts to go away. The only reason you’re scared of anyone here is because you don’t know how sane they are, whether or not they are bound by the same moral codes as you. You don’t know what to expe
ct, and that is what truly scares you. But I can tell you exactly what to expect. People here are either going to ignore you, or they’re going to try to kill you.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” John asked.

  Buck raised an eyebrow. “Not particularly. Do you think it’s funny? Because that could be an early sign of insanity.”

  John laughed. This old man sure had a bizarre sense of humor. “I’m John Hunter.”

  “I know who you are,” Buck said, taking on a darker tone. “I overheard you and Tim talking earlier.” It was just then John noticed Tim, curled up in a ball, sleeping in the corner.

  “You’re a friend of Tim’s?” John asked.

  “I consider myself more a guardian of Tim’s. I look after the boy, make sure he’s safe from anyone who may want to bring him harm.”

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm a sweet boy like him,” said John.

  “You’d be surprised,” Buck replied. “People like Tim are brought to the asylum all the time, but few make it through their first year. Tim’s been here since he was six, and I’ve been looking out for him since his first day. I never let him out of my sight.”

  “That’s very admirable of you.”

  “I’m not looking for praise,” Buck said, waving off John’s comment. “Tim’s become like a son to me. Did you know that when he first arrived, it took almost two weeks to get him to even talk to me? He’s quiet, likes to keep to himself. But he seems to have taken a liking to you for some reason.”

  “The feeling’s mutual. He’s a good kid,” John said. “And you don’t need to worry about me trying to hurt him if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Buck considered John for a moment. “No, I suppose I don’t.” Nodding to the book still in John’s hands, Buck asked, “Have you read it?”