Equal Part 1: The Confrontation

by W.J. Costello

EQUAL

  Part 1

  W.J. COSTELLO

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  EQUAL

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2014 by W.J. Costello.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. For information address: wjcostello.com

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  AUTHOR INFO

  PROLOGUE

  DEATH. IT WAS on his mind. All day, every day. Mors knew the others were thinking about it too. Distant look in their eyes. Muffled sobs.

  He sat watching them now. One after another they shuffled past in their brown tunics. Brown—the color of earth, of soil, where their cremated ashes would soon be sprinkled.

  Today was their last day on earth. December 31. Tomorrow every single one of them would turn fifty. They’d spend their last birthday burning in the crematorium, exiting this world in the form of rising black smoke. Including Mors.

  He looked down at his brown tunic and shook his head. He’d known this day was coming. But so soon? Now? Where’d the time go? It seemed like only yesterday he was celebrating his tenth birthday, skipping stones across the water, running and playing in the warmth of the sun.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the numbers branded there, the date of his birth. It was almost fifty years ago. A lifetime. He sighed. Oh, to do it all over again.

  Mors was sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped around his knees and his back pressed against the flagpole. Just above him flew the national flag of Equal. It was already at half-mast. He listened to it snapping in the wind as he watched the aimless wandering of brown tunics.

  There were maybe six hundred of them here. On this island crematorium. An island located at the mouth of a harbor on the East Coast of Equal. There used to be a fortress here. Mors had heard all about from the guards. They’d told him it was a pentagon-shaped fortress of concrete and brick. You could still see its crumbling ruins on the outer edges of the Crematorium Building.

  There were similar crematoriums located throughout the country of Equal. Crematoriums large enough to serve entire regions. They were used only two months out of the year. Whereas the smaller crematoriums were used all year round. For local purposes. Things like the cremation of lawbreakers. Or murder victims. Or those who died early of natural causes, or from accidental deaths.

  The large regional crematoriums were designed for the single purpose of euthanizing every citizen who reached the age of fifty. It happened every year. Always on January 1. But the process would always begin on December 1. On that day every forty-nine-year-old Teacher in Equal would enter a regional crematorium.

  Mors remembered going through the experience just thirty days ago. He remembered the guard’s instructions. Take off the gold tunic. Put on the brown one. Now you’re no longer a Teacher. You’re a Guest. Walk this way. This is your roommate. These are your temporary quarters. Rules. No leaving the crematorium grounds. No suicide attempts. No fighting. The month of December—your last month—is to be spent reflecting on your life.

  Now Mors shook his head at the memory. Afternoon sun on his face. Flag billowing overhead. Brown tunics trudging past.

  After a while he saw a group of guards taking a break. They reminded him of his youth, his time as a Sheriff, back when he was working guard duty at a crematorium not unlike this one. It was a miserable part of the job, but you had to do it. He figured he must have euthanized and cremated over five thousand citizens. Some at the small local crematorium, some at the large regional one. Five thousand citizens. Up in smoke. Gone.

  Mors hugged his knees tighter now. He sat watching the group of guards for a little longer. He felt sorry for them, the poor things, stuck here. He thought about their schedule. December 1 through December 31: guard the Guests. January 1: euthanize and cremate the Guests. January 2 through January 15: clean up the crematorium. January 16 through January 26: deliver the cremated ashes to Farmers. The schedule was depressing enough to make you want to climb into the ovens yourself.

  Mors remembered the hot working conditions. Standing close to ovens. Pushing dead bodies in. Sweat pouring off your face.

  Looking up now, squinting into the sun glare, he saw the tall crematorium chimneys. Three of them. Vertical structures that appeared monstrous where they rose against the sky. Their long shadows fell over the crematorium grounds like the iron bars of a jail cell. The sight brought back memories for him. Difficult memories. Ugly memories.

  He looked away.

  A few moments later he reached down and picked up a clod of dirt. He held it tight in his fist. Then he let it sift between his fingers as he thought about his time as a Farmer. He remembered having to sprinkle cremated ashes over the fields, having to fertilize the soil with the remains of citizens he’d never even met, their entire existence passing through his fingers. Now Mors felt sorry for the Farmers. Soon every single one of them would have countless ashes to spread.

  Some of the Guests started to chant now. Guests would do that every now and then. It helped to pass the time. Mors sat listening to them as they kept whispering, “Individuals are nothing. Society is everything.” Then a different chant. “Every citizen exists for every other citizen.” Then another chant. “You are us. We are you.”

  Mors wiped his soiled hand on his brown tunic. He wrapped his arms around his knees again. Then he sat looking past the guards, past the Guests, past the edge of the island. Staring out at the sparkling sea, he said to himself, Mors, old boy, not a day in your adult life has passed without your thinking about your last dying day. Well, now that day has finally arrived. And you’re still thinking about it.

  He thought, You know, it wasn’t a bad life. Could have been better. But not too bad. Wouldn’t mind doing it all over again. He thought, To be alive. What an experience. You show up. You do stuff. You leave forever. That was your life. Those who are never born don’t know what they’re missing.

  A good-looking woman walked past Mors now. His eyes followed her. Nice breasts. Good hips. Maybe he should try to get some of that. Not a bad way to spend your last day.

  Mors had to smile, seeing all those women in his mind now, countless women he’d slept with over the years. So many of them. Wonderful, wonderful women. One of the highlights of life.

  He returned his attention to the good-looking woman. He watched her for maybe ten seconds. He liked the way her wide hips swayed when she walked. He liked the way her large breasts jiggled with each step.

  He thought about wide hips and large breasts. Hundreds of years ago those two features were relevant to childbearing and nurturing. That was back when it was still possible for women to get pregnant. Back then women with wide hips and large breasts were ideally built for having babies.

  But things were different now. Now wide hips and large breasts had no biological significance. None. But men were still attracted to those two features. The biological response was still hardwired into their brains.

  Scientists could only do so much, Mors thought. They couldn’t alter everything about humans. Especially those things that were hardwired into the brain. Genetic engineering did have its limitations.

  The five years Mors had spent working as a Scientist had been among the worst in his lif
e. The work had seemed sinister to him. Designing humans. Creating life. He’d hated doing it. Citizens were always saying, “Only Scientists can make babies.” And it was true. But Scientists could do more than just make babies. They could design babies. They could give them gray flesh, make them infertile, create them to be Equal. All of it had been very disturbing to Mors. Very disturbing. At the time he couldn’t wait to finish his five years as a Scientist so that he could begin his five years as a Teacher.

  Now he stretched his stiff legs out in front of him. After a moment he got up and started to walk among the other Guests. All of them had been Teachers not that long ago. They were his peers, his cohort, his generation. The arc of their lives had run parallel to his. Same arc, same timeline, same everything. As Guests they were the eldest and wisest members of society.

  Mors thought, You spend all those years accumulating knowledge, getting your act together, understanding who you are and how things work. And when you finally have it all together, when you finally know what’s going on, what happens to you? They pull the plug on you. Snuff you out. End it all. They take your body from you just when your mind has hit its stride.

  This is it, Mors said to himself. It’s the end of the road for you, old boy. Tomorrow you’ll be leaving the world forever.

  Leaving.

  Leaving for what? What comes next? You exit this world—and then what?

  Mors had no idea. He tried not to think about it. It was one of those existential questions that could give you a headache if you thought about it too much. He hoped death wasn’t the end of it all. He hoped something else came after. But if it didn’t? Well, he really wouldn’t know it, would he?

  Mors stopped walking now. He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. Then he started to walk again.

  As he circulated among the other Guests he thought about how nice it was to have all these people around. Most of his life had been spent in isolation. Everyone’s life was like that. Living alone. Working alone. Playing alone. That’s how it was. You resided in your own lodging. Jobs were mostly autonomous. And your free time? Well, you were forbidden from having anyone special in your life. No special lovers or friends. No emotional attachments of any kind. You had to treat everyone the same way. Like they were the same person. No one was special. Everyone was Equal. So you could choose to spend your free time with people who mean almost nothing to you, or you could choose to do something else. You might as well spend your free time doing something that makes you happy, gives you some kind of personal satisfaction, something like a goal. That’s what Mors had ultimately concluded.

  For him the goal had always been to become a great writer. Most of his free time had been spent on improving his craft. He often had little to say, but he could always say it very well. Finding just the right combination of words, producing crisp prose, developing his writer’s voice—these things had always given him great satisfaction. Endless hours of satisfaction.

  He’d written for himself, not for other people. Why show your work to others? Who in the world would care? No one. That’s how Mors had always seen it. It was the process of writing he’d enjoyed, not showing the results to the outside world.

  And so most of his free time had been spent in solitary splendor, working on his goal, improving his writing. The remaining portion of his free time had been spent feeling isolated. Which was why he was happy to be surrounded by people today. He didn’t want to die alone.

  Now he saw a Guest juggling rocks. Juggling was something Mors had always wanted to do. Learning how to juggle was on his bucket list. But he’d never gotten around to doing it. There were many things on his bucket list he’d never gotten around to doing. Guess they weren’t really that important.

  Mors walked with his hands clasped behind his back, taking his time, absorbed in thought. The last few years, he thought, they went by so fast. Gone before you even knew it. Where’d they go?

  He wished he could think about something other than the end of his life. Something other than death. But his mind wouldn’t let him.

  Death, he thought. All of it happening en masse on a single day. January 1. The very same day in which all those babies enter the world. Birth and death. Death and birth. Circle of life. All of it crammed into twenty-four hours. Millions of babies coming to life in Science Buildings throughout the country. Millions of adults going to death in Crematorium Buildings throughout the country. And all of it for what? Population control? Equal lifetimes?

  Those lucky babies, Mors thought. Those lucky, lucky babies. They get to spend tomorrow in a Science Building instead of a Crematorium Building. Then he thought, But your luck only lasts so long. Fifty years from now? Those babies will be Guests in some crematorium, having these same feelings, these same thoughts of death. Welcome to my world.

  Mors was conscious of the vitality of his body. At forty-nine he still felt like a man half his age. He’d never been sick a day in his life. His body was healthy. A specimen of perfection.

  His body was nothing more than a shell encapsulating his mind. But his thoughts couldn’t go on in its absence. His outer shell was necessary. Mors believed it was healthy enough to last a few more decades if given the chance.

  If.

  But it was society and not nature that held the power to take away his body. Society trumped nature. Always.

  Now Mors made his way up a grassy slope. When he got to the top he stood staring out at the sea again. He wondered what euthanasia would be like. He imagined it to be like falling asleep—but with no dreams, no nightmares, and no waking up.

  He knew what his last thought would be. Breathing in the gas, he’d be thinking, Oh, shit.

  All of a sudden a dolphin broke the surface of the water. Mors came out of his reverie. He stood and watched the dolphin for a long time. Blue fin gliding through water, rising and falling, appearing and disappearing. The animal seemed to be enjoying life. Enjoying freedom.

  Mors sighed. He said to himself, Well, old boy, you should probably go take a nap and rest up. You’re going to need a lot of energy tonight. That woman with the nice breasts and good hips, she’s going to be in for a marathon session.

  As he made his way back down the grassy slope, heading toward his temporary quarters, Mors thought about his cremated ashes. Where will they be sprinkled? And who’s going to show up at the cremation ceremony? A Farmer, of course. Someone has to do the sprinkling. But who else? Mors’s younger coworkers? Sure, some of them will attend. But no one else. No one he could think of. Just a Farmer and some Teachers. Those people will be the last ones on earth to ever think about him. And no one will ever think about him again after that day. Why would they? He never did anything special in his life. He was just like everyone else. Common. Ordinary. Equal.

  Mors could imagine how things would go at the cremation ceremony. The Farmer and the Teachers standing out in some field. None of them wanting to be there. All of them feeling some obligation to attend. They’d say things like, “Mors was such a good citizen,” sounding insincere. No sense of sorrow in their tone. They’d say, “Mors never thought he was better than anyone else,” sounding bored with the whole thing. These were the same tired phrases you always heard at these kinds of gatherings. You never heard anything like, “Good riddance. I never did like him.” No, you kept things like that to yourself.

  Mors took another moment to picture the Farmer and the Teachers. He could see them standing over his cremated ashes. Heads bent, hands crossed before them, eyes fixed on the ground. They’d be thinking about their own date with death, feeling joyful the scattered ashes were his and not theirs. Mors could see the attendees dispersing from the field, moving on with their lives, forgetting all about him. As if he’d never even existed.

  Never born. Never lived. Never died.

  Oblivion.

  CHAPTER 1

  ONE MONTH EARLIER. Sheriff Janus stood watching the cremated ashes of his secret lover being sprinkled over the muddy field. Dark rain coming down. Cold. He watched
with no expression on his face. Just like the other Sheriffs in attendance. But his hand, hidden from view in his tunic pocket, was caressing a small object. A memento from her.

  When he glanced sidelong at the others he saw Sheriff Orcus glaring back at him. Suspicious eyes in the misty drizzle.

  Janus knew Orcus was looking for a sign of emotion. But there was none. Janus’s face revealed nothing. It was without expression. A blank slate.

  Janus focused on the boy now. Watching him sprinkle the ashes. Little fingers moving back and forth. Soiled fingers. The fingers of a Farmer. Neck of a Farmer too. Dark from the sun. Which made it hard to read the numbers branded on the back of the neck—the boy’s serial number and date of birth. Janus squinted, trying to see the boy’s age. But the neck was too dark, the green tunic kept getting in the way, and the rain wasn’t helping.

  Janus tried to stay focused on the boy. Tried to block the woman from his mind. But he couldn’t. Thoughts of her consumed him like fire.

  Staring at her remains now, he thought, That’s all that’s left of her. Just a handful of powdery gray ashes. Ashes blowing in the wet wind. Fertilizing a field. Providing a socially beneficial function even in death. Even in death.

  He shook his head.

  When the boy sprinkled the last of the ashes the Sheriffs gave a final nod to the deceased. Then they mounted their horses and dispersed into the surrounding woods.

  At the edge of the woods Janus stopped his horse and looked over his shoulder to survey the muddy field one last time. The rain mizzling. A gray world. Through the mist he could see Orcus staring back at him from a distance. He could see the man’s breath pluming white in the cold air.

  Janus wiped his nose on the back of his wrist and turned to face the woods again. Then he shook the reins and headed home.

  * * *

  SHERIFF JANUS CREAKED back in the chair and stared at the small object before him on the round table. The object was a memento from his deceased lover. It was something she used to wear every day, placing it in her ear each morning, wearing it to her job as a Sheriff, keeping it in her ear even when she got home from work, taking it out only when she went to bed at night.