That night, my mother said her good-byes. She tried to stay strong and brave for me, but in the end her own tears fell too. I begged with my father to do something, which of course he couldn’t. I cried myself to sleep in my mother’s arms and the next morning my father walked her to the gas chambers while I waited alone in our suite. Less than an hour later, he returned alone looking lost and hopeless. He locked himself in his office for the rest of the day and has hardly spoken of my mother since.
And here I stand, an hour from my first official Gamble. I know the chance of my number being selected is slim, but slim isn’t impossible nor is it comforting. With a solid block of fear in the pit of my stomach, I know I will spend every year for the rest of my life wondering if I’ll be the next number called. By marrying Rey and agreeing to become a Sub, I’m committing myself to higher and higher odds. But what choice do I have? Like Rey said, he is my way out of a marriage to Wyatt Walker and I’ll die before I spend the rest of my life with Wyatt.
Elsa has made breakfast, but I’m so nervous I think I might vomit. The first bite of eggs congeals in my stomach and I eat nothing further.
“Miss Keslin, don’t chew your fingernails,” Elsa says, pouring me a glass of orange juice, the smell setting off my nausea again. I glance down at my hands to see three fingernails bitten almost to the quick and at least one rimmed with a thin line of bright blood. I wipe it on my napkin, sitting on my hands to avoid temptation.
The sound of the suite’s lock clicks and the front door swings open. The heavy, confident pace of my father echoes down the foyer hall, through the living room and a moment later he strides into the kitchen. He smiles at me.
“Munchkin, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say, tense and uncomfortable after our disagreement last night.
“Elsa, the guests should be here soon, do you need any help with the last minute set up?”
“No, Protector Keslin. I’ve been up a few hours now. The dining room is set for the buffet, the living room has been rearranged to accommodate extra guests with the chairs from your office, and the musicians and caterers should arrive any moment.”
As if on cue, the bell for our suite rings and Elsa rushes away to greet the Subs my father hired as entertainment or additional help for Elsa today. My father vanishes into the dining room to attend to final details. Hosting a Gamble party is a big deal and everything must be perfect and even better than the year prior.
The whole thing makes me sick. Most people in Sector A have never had any loved ones selected so the whole Gamble seems like a minor inconvenience in their lives, or a good reason to have a fancy new dress made and their hair styled differently.
But ever since my mother died, and then Maeva, I’ve hated the Gamble parties with a passion. Now that my own number will be in the selection pool this year, I’m even more disgusted. People are going to die, and we’re hosting a festive event, making a mockery of the deaths and sacrifices of other O.Z. citizens.
I push aside my uneaten breakfast as my stomach knots and clenches. I wish Rey could be here, but that’s forbidden and would only get him severely punished.
“You know, they don’t let any filthy Subs go to the Sector A parties. You’re supposed to be cowering in fear with the rest of Sector E.”
I look up to see Wyatt Walker saunter into the kitchen, his black suit and gelled hair making him look even more smarmy than usual. Over his shoulder, I glimpse the back of his mother’s coiffed blond head and hear her high-pitched squeal of laughter as her and Councilmember Walker greet my father in the living room.
Wyatt folds his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame, his sharp, angular face accented by locks of sandy hair, thick eyebrows and beady, scowling eyes. Some of the other girls in Sector A think he’s handsome. In my opinion, I suppose he could be, if he weren’t such an arrogant, entitled asshole. And it would appear he is already aware of my choice to marry Rey over him.
“I don’t have to do anything,” I say with disdain, rising from my chair and clearing my plate. “I’m not a Sub yet and seeing as this is my suite, you’re stuck with me for the day.”
He glares, lips curled in a snarl. “Then I’ll try not to let the stench of fresh Sub ruin my party. Not like you’ll be here long. Next year you’ll be trembling in the subs, listening to all your friends have their numbers called. Hey, maybe you’ll be selected too, right? I mean, by then you’ll have probably had to sell your number hundreds of times.”
Anger boils inside me and I debate punching him in his stupid smug face solely for the sheer satisfaction it will bring, but with the guests arriving, there’s too many witnesses and that would only end badly for me. Besides, the loudspeakers begin to whine and crackle and I know the Gamble will begin any minute.
Shoving past Wyatt, I storm into the living room in search of a friendlier face. A sea of black clad figures meets me; the nineteen Councilmembers and their families, all with smiles plastered on their lips as the women admire each other’s lavish dresses, fancy feathered hats and fine jewelry. The men shake hands, laugh at dumb jokes and some already carry heaping plates of appetizers; a single serving providing more food than Rey probably eats in a week. Children roam the large room, grabbing sweets off their parents’ dishes and hopping around to the beautiful, lively music from the group of four classical musicians set up around our grand piano.
Three women hold babies in their arms; a small percentage of the children born in the last year and whose presence in this very room means another person will be sent to the chambers. At first, I want to hate these newcomers because now another person will be selected to die. But they are only babies and you can’t hate them because they did nothing wrong. They didn’t ask to be born. I should hate their parents instead, for choosing to bring new life into an already overcrowded world.
Then I remember that I’m here because of the choices of my parents… and because of the sacrifice of some unknown stranger who unwillingly died so I could live. It’s a horrible, vicious cycle, and yet we have no alternative if humanity is to survive.
“Citizens of the Republic of the Continuation,” the loudspeaker announces, the recorded voice of my father’s speech floating over the party and bringing everyone to a hush. “Today we begin the forty-sixth annual Gamble.”
“When ROC was first founded and occupied ninety-seven years ago, it was believed this experiment would be the only way for humanity to survive the decimated resource troubles that plagued the old world above. After our ancestors were sealed inside this underground city, World War III erupted over the last remnants of earth’s oil, viable farmlands and clean water. The world’s citizens toppled their governments, the United Nations disbanded and eventually nuclear bombs destroyed all life on the surface of the planet, allowing for a new beginning to emerge with a world that will once again support life the way it was intended. Someday, hopefully soon, the radiation above ground will dissipate and the planet will flourish one again, allowing us to abandon this subterranean refuge that has become our home, and return to live on the surface where we belong. We are the last of humanity. We are the future.”
“Sadly, due to the difficult personal choices we all make to grow our families and carry on mankind, ROC was not going to survive long enough to support the greater good. With the surface still uninhabitable, we have been forced to remain here for decades longer than anticipated by our ancestors. After depletion of our birth control resources and the failure in the One Child per Family Act, ROC was faced with grave choices. This is why the Gamble was instituted, and while it is tragic and heart wrenching every year, it is necessary for our survival as a whole. I hope that those who are selected today, and the loved ones they leave behind, understand the urgent necessity of the Gamble, and find some small comfort in the fact that their loved one perishes because a newer, younger life has been given the opportunity to thrive.”
“This year we had 7,964 births and 4,714 deaths. This leaves a difference
of 3,250. Should you be selected, you will have until seven o’clock tomorrow morning to place your affairs in order, say your good-byes and report to the chambers.”
I know what the recording will say next because it’s a phrase nearly as common as the one about living and dying by the laws.
“When we make choices that negatively impact the survival of mankind, this is the gamble we take.”
And then the Gamble begins.
“Sector A, 342-986-0043,” the electronic voice calls, echoing through the suite and causing my chest to compress uneasily. “Evangeline Luanne Bentham.”
While I don’t know her personally, I’ve heard the name. I think she’s a few halls down and her husband works in the medical ward. I met her oldest daughter once or twice and my heart hurts when I think of the helpless despair the girl must be feeling right now.
I remember when I was ten or eleven, a man’s number was called; a boy really, he had just turned eighteen that year and lived in Sector C. His father, in a fit of rage, began to rampage the halls, running back and forth through the Sectors screaming about rising up and overthrowing the Council. About how we shouldn’t be expected to live like this, and the citizens needed to rebel and take back their freedom. Most of it sounded like insane, rambling nonsense, but the man quickly reached Sector A before anyone could stop him. Curious, everyone at our party hurried into the hall to see all the commotion. Gendarme were already arriving to subdue him, but the man overcame one, stealing his gun and charging for my father. People screamed and ran, but my father didn’t so much as flinch as the man leveled the gun at his chest.
It took four Gendarme to tackle and keep the raving man down, thankfully stopping him before he could hurt anyone.
In the end, they shot the man, right there in front of all the Councilmembers and their families, for threatening the Protector. His son was escorted to the chambers the next day.
For six months I had nightmares of the man’s eyes staring at me as the life fled from them, all while his body lied on the hallway floor, a bullet wound through his skull and blood dripping down the flooring grate and onto the pipes below. Even though I know it’s crazy, sometimes I feel like I can still see the faint outline of the splattering of blood where he died.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the image that seems to crop up every year.
Terrified, I wring my hands as the speaker spits out a different Sector A number every few seconds. My sector will go quickly, not that it makes me feel any better. My heart pounds and I tremble slightly, standing in the room full of people, most of whom look bored and unconcerned, sipping their tea or water, waiting for Sector A numbers to finish so they can continue with the celebration.
What if I’m called next? What do I do when I can’t do anything at all? My fate rests in the hands of some electronic system cycling through fifty thousand number combinations and choosing each one at random. A lottery of death.
While the Gamble runs through Sector A numbers in quick succession, I clutch the back of the nearest chair in fear, waiting anxiously to hear my own or my father’s. My knuckles turn white and every time I hear a barcode number that begins with “7”, I’m convinced it’s mine and I shake even more, fighting the bile that rises in my throat.
“Sector A, 512-038-4479; Roland Everett Jenson.”
I’m going to be next. I’m positive. I don’t get lucky on anything and now I’m pretty sure I might throw up all over the antique rug. I taste blood in my mouth and realize I’ve started biting my nails again, a habit I thought I quit years ago.
I fist my hands together and wait, whatever remains of my fingernails cutting into my palms. Listening to each new number, hardly daring to draw a breath at the idea I might be chosen, as if not breathing has any control over the situation. What if I’m next? I can’t bare it. I can’t say my good-byes and willingly walk to my death come morning. But what if I’m next…?
But my number isn’t called next. It isn’t called at all. Nor is my father’s, and after only forty- seven Sector A citizens are selected, I realize I am safe, as are all of the other people in the suite.
“Sector B, 562-“the speaker continues, but I can’t hear anything else over the cheers, hoots and clapping of the party guests.
“To another year of life!” Councilmember Gidell calls, raising his crystal glass filled with Elsa’s fresh-brewed iced tea and slices of lemon. Throughout the room, the other adults do the same, all lifting their drinks in celebration as they toast one another. Glasses clink and children giggle and join in with the excitement and reassurance that their parents are safe once more. It’s as if we’ve won a game.
“To the survival of humanity!” another Councilmember, Paul Styles calls, a grin pasted on his round, wrinkled face.
I clap my hands softly and exhale the breath I’ve held for the last ten minutes. I’m relieved I’m safe, the tension easing from my shoulders and leaving me exhausted. I’ve survived my first Gamble and so has my father and Elsa because even though she’s technically a Sub, she lives in our suite and therefore would have been called amongst the Sector A numbers.
Wyatt Walker wasn’t selected, which is unfortunate, but we can’t have everything we want. Of course, there’s always next year. It’ll give me some hope while I sit in Sector E with Rey, praying once again we aren’t selected.
“Congratulations, Miss Keslin,” a woman says, stepping up beside me. I recognize her as a Councilmember’s wife. “Your first official Gamble. How do you feel?”
I can only nod and smile weakly, my energy drained by my frayed emotions.
“Oh, don’t worry, dear. Everyone’s a wreck their first time. I actually cried at my first Gamble. Can you believe it? It’ll get easier each year. Why don’t you enjoy some food? The oysters are amazing!”
She laughs and flits away into the crowd and I plop into an armchair in a far corner of the room, partially blocked from view by the grand piano and the pianist whose fingers fly over the keys. I might not feel like partying, but the Gamble will last most of the day and I might as well be comfortable until the guests leave and I can shut myself in my room.
Around me, our dozens of guests parade and glide, dancing and laughing, eating and mingling, all feeling secure in the knowledge their number wasn’t called. No one pays any attention to the rest of the numbers being broadcast. I’m sure if it were possible to turn the speaker off all together, someone would have done so by now because they don’t care. They’re safe. Their families are safe. What do the lesser sector citizens matter?
But despite the ease of my fear and tension, and the jovial atmosphere around me, I can’t help but feel sorrow for the fate of the thousands of people in the lower Sectors yet to be called. Some will wait hours before the Gamble gets to Sector D or E. So many of those people huddle in their suites, hungry and weary and frightened, hugging their children and wondering if the meal they sold their number for last night, will be the reason they die tomorrow.
I can’t think like that though. The Gamble is necessary. We’d all die without it otherwise. ROC is only so large and there’s no way to make it larger or produce more food or more clean water or more anything. This is the only option we have left. Humanity has to survive and that means The Gamble has to control the population.
I shut my eyes, leaning back against the chair. I’m safe. At least for another year. It’s more than some can ask for.
* * *
As the party and the Gamble stretch on for hours, I find myself occasionally nodding off. After the third time, a server with hot coffee passes by. I don’t care for the bitter drink, but it’s better than being caught sleeping and having my father disappointed by my rudeness even though everyone seems completely unaware of my presence in the corner. I grab a steaming mug as well as a plate of salted lobster, grilled potatoes covered in cheese, and mixed vegetables.
I’ve taken only a few bites when the speaker squawks the next number. “Sector E, 873-556-8157.”
I freeze
, unable to move with a fork full of food paused halfway to my mouth. I know that number, I swear I know it even though it’s not mine nor my father’s…
“Rey Austin Zuritsky.”
I lurch to my feet, the plate and mug clattering to the floor with a crash and food splattering every direction. Everyone flips to face me as I stand immobile beside the pianist, who’s stopped playing to stare too.
My mouth opens and closes several times, though nothing comes out. I think I am going to bolt from the suite and find Rey, wherever he might be in the lower Sectors. I think that somehow I can save him. But what can I do? What do I hope to accomplish? Where could we even go?
Everyone continues to stare in surprise and confusion at my disruption, eyes round and mouths slightly parted. My father pushes through the crowd, reaching to grab my wrist and my legs won’t move and my feet feel rooted to the plush carpet.
The room twists and twirls around itself, so fast I can’t breathe and my heart pounds blood past my ears. All the black-clothed figures stuffed so tightly in the space blend together until the darkness is all I can see.
The Gamble (The Gamble Series Book 1) Page 3
