Envy the Ignorant - A Short Dystopian Story

The world died on her brother’s birthday.

They were cutting a cake bought from the nearest convenience store; chocolate, his favourite, whilst the news was playing in the background in their small living room. Their parents were at work, as usual.

But that was fine, there was never enough money to cover anything; the house, the car leasing, even their two children. One twelve, the other eighteen. So they always excused the lack of parents throughout their childhood, swept under the rug like dust.

Which was always fine. Of course it was.

Until they came.

Until that day, when they were sat, enraptured by the TV, realising their parents were never coming home.

This was their own apocalypse. Their world came crumbling down as the Enforcers, the sunlight reflecting off their automaton faces, crashed into their home, throwing fragments of their lives everywhere. They took everything.

Their sofas, their TV, their beds. Even their photos.

“They are a product of the State. We own them.”

They were left with nothing, no money, no home.

So they ran.

That was how Nikita ended up here, working at Downside.

It was never how she pictured her life to be, working in one of the sleaziest bars in the Void, but it was the only place that would hire an eighteen-year-old, the only place that would keep a roof over her and her brother’s heads.

Downside specialised in everything. The booze, the company, real men and real women kept behind locked doors, ready for the picking, like freshly ripened fruit. No one judged which door you went in, as long as you paid coming out.

Tourists came frequently from The State, trying to catch a glimpse at what society was like before it all. Husbands and wives with skeletons in their closets, with itches that needed to be scratched.

She was nineteen now. It had been 102 days since society died.

She was wiping down the sticky countertops when the first customer of the day walked in.

She did not bother looking at them, continuing with her work.

“Hey.” The voice muffled, she looked up. He was tall, a mask covering the lower half of his face, the skin around his eyes wrinkled, a sign of the times.

He took down his mask. His lips were all burnt.

“How much is a shot of Bourbon?”

Bourbon was trickling out of stock and it would be awhile before The Scavengers could get more. Her manager had told her; “sell it for a good price, and nothing but.”

“If you have to ask, then you can’t afford it.”

He paused and licked his lips, then he reached into his pocket. Someone did this to her once before and whipped out their penis. She had a lot of fun bashing their head repeatedly against the countertop.

He fumbled through his pockets, emptying one, then another before going inside his Trench Coat and outside again. Nikita tapped her foot fast on the stone floor, her lips pursed and stern, itching to ignore him and do anything else.

Finally, he lifted his hand, his eyebrows raised as he placed a rectangle item onto the countertop. It was thick, dusty; the edges worn and peeling like cuticles.

It was a book, a whole book, entirely intact, the spine slightly broken from use, the pages yellowing ever so slightly. She reached out only for him to lift it high out of her grasp.

He raised his eyebrows, “I am guessing you’re interested.”

Nikita swallowed tightly. She would love to show her brother that, she could probably sneak it out, her shitty excuse for a manager would not even notice, it’s just below his paygrade and therefore, his interest.

She made slow work of pulling out a small glass, and pouring out a shot of the light brown liquid, lukewarm into the glass. She slid it towards him and he slid the book towards her. A business exchange.

She was enamored when her hands finally touched it, hardback; she opened it slowly, page edges sharp against her fingertips. The dust flying into the stale air.

“You would give up a book, an entire book, still intact, for a shot of Bourbon?”

“Shows that you’ve never had Bourbon, kid.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling the page she had landed on with one fingertip, the page felt almost cold and rough.

“It’s about a group of college students who murder someone and how they try to get away with it. It’s an interesting read,” the man hummed, running his finger around the edge of his glass. Nikita looked at him and slammed the book shut.

“I never asked.”

The man chuckled, fixated on his glass, “I’d hide it if I was you, and make some good money for it.”

She put the book under the counter and out of sight. “Sure, if money still worked.”

“Gotta be innovative kid.”

“I don’t have time to be innovative, I have things to clean, people to serve, as you can see.”

She gestured to the empty bar.

The man wasn’t looking at her - he had lifted his glass to his line of sight, watching the liquid swill in the glass. “We’re going to die out you know. You, me, these bottles of liquor, it’s all going to vanish into thin air. Poof,” he looks at her, his eyes dark and intense, unwavering.

Her flesh crawled.

“It will be like we never existed.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said.

The man sighs, running his hand down his face. “We deserve to live.”

“It’s not about deserving, it’s if we can afford to. Right now we’re just collateral damage.”

“We’re going to last, then we can show the fuckers up at The State that we’re made of more than them.”

“You could almost say we’re made of metal.”

The man’s hand clenched around his glass, making Nikita tense even more. She watches the movement wearily, itching to grab a bottle of something heavy, as a precaution.

It was as if he could see her discomfort, his hand slowly relaxed and an off-set grin set on his face.

“I can see that you’re busy.” He downed his drink. “I’ll see you around kid.” He got off his chair and turned to the door, the edge of his Trench Coat lifting gently with the movement.

She let out a sigh of relief when the door shut. She was about to reach for the book again, ‘The Secret History’ when the doors at the end of the room clicked open.

She heard the click-clack of heels and knew instantly that it was Liza, one of their workers.

“Get me a shot, babe,” she leaned against the bar top, her cleavage spilling over the edge and her hair over one shoulder.

“Sure thing, Liza.”

“Lolita.”

“Sorry, Lolita.” Her stage name. She wouldn’t want the people who paid her a visit to get her real details. She poured Lolita a shot of Vodka, something she required during every shift; usually Nikita wouldn’t approve of this, but given Lolita’s line of work, she had no right to judge.

“You’re a doll.” She takes the glass and downs it gracefully, sliding the glass back to her. “It’s nearly three. He should be here soon. Don’t forget to get something good out of him.” She waited for Nikita to nod in understanding, and when she does she walks away back to her room, her head held high.

As soon as it hit three, the door to the bar opened, and he walked in.

Nikita eyed him as he walked in in his suit and tie, his face reflecting the lights from the bar, one of his eyes bright red, unblinking. He nodded towards Nikita, tapping his finger rhythmically against the bar. Nikita said, “Your usual?” She didn’t ask about the wife at home, the kids, the life up State away from humanity’s remains.

His silver face gleaned at her, “She waiting for me?”

Nikita nods, her smile as fake as his body, “Pay up.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Rolex watch, Nikita had never seen one up close.

She wanted to test his boundaries. “Is that all she’s worth, a second-hand Rolex?”

He smirked, which is strange to see on his automaton face. His smile was uneven, fleshy on one side and metallic on the other. Nikita smiled back, waiting. He reached into his pocket again and pulls out a silver fountain pen, Nikita swallowed the envy looking at his wealth just pouring out of his pockets. She took the pen and nodded him in.

“Condoms are in the right-hand drawer.”

“As always.” He walked with her to the door on the right-hand side of the room. The Red Room. She tapped on the door. She heard Lolita’s sultry voice and felt nails dragging up her spine.

“Come in.”

He walked in, “Did you miss me?” The door shuts in Nikita’s face and she walks back to the bar. There was no CCTV or security, no way of making sure Liza was safe. She went back to the empty bar and cleaned the same countertop, wondering about her brother in their motel room. She was lucky, there were only a few select jobs that women could go for now, her manager took one look at her and she thought it would be her in that room, but he needed someone to run the bar - she looked too young he had said.

*

Another hour and she could shut up shop, kick that guy out and go back to the motel. She was cashing up, hiding the book in her bag, putting the Rolex and pen into a plastic bag, a poor excuse for the average float bag.

The door thundered open.

She dropped the bag onto the floor as she looked up.

It was two men, dressed in black, two army tags around their necks with their number, their identity. It was as if they were misbehaved pets, if found please return them to their owner. Nikita swallows, why were the Enforcers here, why bother coming all the way from The State to Downside?

“Nikita Carroway?” The right one said, their voice electronic, monotonous.

Nikita breathed in deeply. She was vaguely aware of the door to the Red Room opening and Liza and the man coming out. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry.

“Yes?”

“We need you to come with us,” the other said. They waited by the door.

When the Enforcers come knocking, you don’t ask questions.

She looked at Liza who was in a skimpy nightgown, her hair mussed, she looked at her with a reassuring smile, “I’ll close up shop.”

Nikita nodded, her voice unresponsive. She went around the bar slowly, walking up to the automatons. They looked through her and waited for her to exit the bar.

*

The drive to the station was quiet. She sat in the back, her leg shaking. She didn’t ask questions, and they didn’t give her any answers. Fresh terror reared up within her. What could have happened in these last hours that hadn’t happened before? She thought of her brother’s small face, waiting for her in their motel room, wondering why she never came home. Like their parents.

They parked outside of the only station in the Void, the only way they could monitor the ones who got away. The Leftovers.

Not that the surveillance worked. They left them to their own devices, hoping they would die out. This was the world they had learnt not to notice.

The room was a poor imitation of a reception; it even had a set of chairs, a waiting room.

There was only an automaton at the desk. The automatons she came in with looked at her, “We need you to identify your brother’s body.”

Nikita didn’t move, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be. He was fine; he was smiling; he was so happy.

Terror stole her words, her flesh broke out in goose bumps and her body felt numb, as if she has been dunked into an ice bath. Her vision blurred, tears she realized. Her throat was burning with silent screams. She nodded to them and they led her down the white, sterile hallway. To the place where they kept the dead.

There was a body bag on the table. She walked up to it and unzipped it, fast. Her sense of control in shreds.

The body was small, brown, a body of a 12-year-old. His hair was black and messy, he needed a haircut. There was no inch of skin that hadn’t been marred. He was beyond recognition; the eyes gouged out; the lips were torn to shreds, blood crusted at the corners.

She stumbles forward, as if wanting to hold on to something, the relief making her legs buckle.

The differences were slight, but they were still there. The way his earlobes were unattached, the minor burn that he had on his leg from playing with a lighter that had singed through his jeans years back.

This wasn’t her brother.

End