All the Mornings of Life
(2,100 words)
Just another late August morning dawned on the capital as Mr. Thompson gazed out of the living room window, contemplating the quiet and immaculate streets as a military aircraft hummed high above the city. The plane was was trailed by a crimson banner that read in large black letters: Children Are The Future.
His wife was setting the table in the adjoining dining room when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Thompson froze in her morning routine and gave her husband a worried look: he only let out a sorrowful sigh, tinged with relief; no matter how injurious the news one is expecting, the termination of anticipation can offer some bittersweet comfort.
Mr. Thomson went to the door and opened it just enough to see the diminutive figure of the visitor in a suit, his jovial head behind the golden pince-nez donning a bowler hat. In his hand was a leather briefcase.
Good morning, the visitor said with a smile. This is the Thompson residence, I believe, yes? Do I have the pleasure of conversing with the master of the house? I am Mr. Underwood, from the Reproduction Bureau.
Mr. Thompson gave a resigned nod, and opened the door. Returning the solemn gesture with a more vivacious bow, Mr. Underwood let himself in, and as he approached the dining room, he stopped to admire every piece of furniture on his way. Yes, yes, very nice, he spoke softly as he ran his fingers through the counters and the mirror frames.
Ah, and this must be Mrs. Thompson, Mr. Underwood said as he reached the door to the dining room. What a delightful vision on such a delightful morning!
Mrs. Thompson gave a questioning look at her husband over Mr. Underwoods shoulder.
Lydia, this is Mr. Underwood, he said. From the Reproduction Bureau.
And now that we are all acquainted with each other, said Mr. Underwood, placing his briefcase on the table, snapping open the latches. I could not help but noticing that there are no cradles or the blessed wailing of an infant to bring joy to your spacious home.
We dont have any kids.
Indeed, continued Mr. Underwood, now holding a thick folder. According to our files, you have been married for three years, is that correct?
Yes, thats right.
Good, good. And it says here you are both young and, hmph, virile, young people. No medical problems have arisen recently, I hope? Because I can assure you, we have doctors at the Bureau who are more than willing to confirm any, no doubt reliable, diagnosis you may have obtained from elsewhere, such as the hospital where Mrs. Thompson works at.
There are no medical problem.
Oh dear, oh dear, Mr. Underwood mumbled seemingly to himself as he leafed through the folder. Im afraid that based on your youthful, hmph, contributions, you have six months left on your lease. If within that time we do not receive some fertile news, regarding the miracle of life, we have no choice but to give your current lodgings to a more, hmph, suitable tenants, and find you alternative housing in Bakersville.
At this last word the Thompsons were visibly disconcerted, and Mr. Underwood looked pleased for achieving the desired effect.
Now, I understand why people of your, hmph, intelligence, might be reluctant to fulfil your civic duty, as is often the case with the more idealistic members of our society, Mr. Underwood continued, preparing for a grand finale. But unfortunately we have ever stricter quotas to keep up with, and we have been more than lenient with you. The 184th Amendment clearly states that life begins at 18 years of age, and before that all children are the property of the parents, and, by extension, the state. How would our society function if these precious creatures did not run our factories, their nimble hands not retrieve the precious stones from our mines, and their invisible and silent crews, notwithstanding the occasional rattle of chains, not keep our cities spotless at night while all good citizens enjoy their rest, safe in the knowledge that no person will ever be subjected to demeaning menial labour?
The Thompsons looked at each other, knowing they themselves must have experienced Mr. Underwoods evocative description of an average childhood, but they could not remember any of it: at 18 all newly acknowledged human beings were sent to non-invasive reprogramming, which created an idyllic but fictional web of memories of summer mornings by the sea and wintry evenings by the fireside to replace the coal-infested nightmares of the mines and the rumble of conveyor belts of the factories.
Regrettably I must now talk numbers, Mr. Underwood interrupted their shared reverie of things no longer part of their consciousness. I have been authorised by the Bureau to inform you you must produce at least three offsprings within the next five years to retain your current habitation. And to fully make you realize the gravity of the situation, I have arranged for Mrs. Thompson to be assigned as a doctor with the Food Corps to Bakersville. I have already sent word for your hospital not to expect you, Mrs. Thompson, and you will be picked up from your home at 6AM every morning starting from now on. Bakersville is in dire need of medical personnel, although they have done very little to earn such a privilege, if you do not mind me opining on the matter. This experience will certainly be beneficial to hasten your resolution, and if it comes to that, and we all hope it will not, to get you acquainted with your new home.
The married couple both wished to protest these orders, but understood the futility of such an endeavour.
And now I must bid you adieu, Mr. Underwood said. It has been a pleasure. At the door he stopped and turned back to his hosts, and loudly declared Children are the future. He did not depart until the phrase was echoed by the couple, albeit with much less gusto.
*
The next morning Lydia Thompson found herself in the back of a truck with an assortment of officers. The vehicle was a part of a convoy heading for the outskirts of the city, and now reached a gate of a large walled-off section, the top of the barrier garnished with barbed wire. Above the gate in letters twisted from iron read Bakersville, colloquially knows as The Barrren Ghetto.
Soon inside the gates of the ghetto the asphalt began to crack, and steadily gave way for a path of gravel and pebbles, over which the trucks now rattled. Through a small slit in the tarp a sunbeam streamed in behind Lydia as a single blade of dust and light. She placed her eye to the opening. Had she not known any better, she would have thought she had fallen asleep, and transported to another country, so incompressible near the beautiful capital was the sight of the derelict shanties and the emaciated faces that peeked at the trucks from the folds of their rags. The sad figures she saw had the defeated air of the outcasts of society who could feel the reverberations of the march of progress all around them, but not within them.
Dont worry about that, doc, she heard the voice of the sergeant assigned to be her guide. Youll learn to ignore them soon enough.
Some of the trucks parted from the convoy, and came to a halt in a small square where a host of those ragged figures had gathered. As crates were unloaded from the trucks, the sergeant took a megaphone:
Attention, childless of Sector Four, the days rations are here! Form a line, and for heavens sake, try to be civilised for once in your life!
While the silent line formed for their daily bread, a pickup truck drove up to the sergeant and Lydia, the cargo area of it consisting of an empty iron cage. From the bars hung a sign with a picture of a boys face with plumb cheeks in a beaming smile, over which arched the words No Child Left Behind.
I see the wagons still empty, the sergeant said to the enormous child catcher with a face of a boxer who had lost one too many fights who now alighted from the truck.
Aye, answered the child catcher, giving a look at Lydia as he spoke. None of us has got any of em buggers in months. Methinks Bakersville is sorted out for good.
At this moment some commotion arose in the bread line, and the sergeant again took his instrument:
No more bread for today! Those left without get a slip to get past the line tomorrow! Now back to your holes!
That breads baked by the property of good citizens, muttered the child catcher. Me myself have given em two of me own, I have, I have...
A man then ran from an alley that led to a maze of worn-down cottages, and rushed to the trucks.
Please, I need help!
Whats wrong?
Its my... neighbour. Shes sick! She cant move!
All sick people are to report here at our arrival, said the sergeant offciously. Tell her to come here tomorrow.
But she cant move!
The sergeant turned away, making it clear the conversation was over.
Ill go, said Lydia.
Were leaving in fifteen minutes, said the sergeant. Im not going to waste more time here. When have you heard of an adult who does a full days work?
I was told to come here to help the sick, and thats what Im going to do.
Oh, doctors, sighed the sergeant. Rottingham, he said to the child catcher. Can you drive her for a while, seeing as your quarry has become rather scarce? Youll catch us at the gate.
Rottingham scanned Lydia from head to toes, and smacking his lips agreed to play showfur. The distressed man had to settle for a seat in the cage as Lydia sat in the front with Rottingham, who only twice mistook her thigh as the gear stick.
After a short drive they reached a small hut, and the young man went in. Lydia told Rottingham to wait for her, and then followed the man, who, she now saw, was quite young. She saw him go to a cadaverous body of a woman in rags lying on some blankets, the only sign of life the gentle heaving with every weak breath. In that shanty with broken windows and chilly air even in August sunshine, Lydia knew right away she would not live past winter there.
A faint cough from behind a broken door at the back of the room diverted Lydia for a moment, and while the young man was busy hovering over the sick woman, she opened it. Behind she saw two thin children, dressed like everyone in Bakersville. For a moment she was in awe: she had never seen children older than toddlers before. They were all taken before they could learn how to speak.
Please dont tell anyone, the young man said. Just help her.
She quickly closed the door as she heard Rottinghams footsteps at the door.
I cant neer get used to how 'em rats live, he said, noticing Lydia flat against the door. Whats behind there?
Nothing, I was just looking for something for her to eat.
You know these here folks aint got no food. Move over, missy.
Rottingham pushed Lydia aside, and went deeper in the house. At the door the young man tried to stop him, but was knocked down with a single punch. Rottingham then exclaimed his surprise as he grabbed tiny wrists with each colossal fist.
Thought it was all empty ere, but two at once!
Please, just leave them alone, Lydia begged.
Huh, why? To leave em ere to starve with the mommy?
Lydia looked at the sick woman, and then the children in Rottinghams vice-grips. The children looked in horror at their mother.
But... Lydia began, but Rottingham interposed: If we take the youngins, she might get out of ere.
The children desperately demanded to be taken to save their mother. Lydia could not say anything, and Rottingham led his spoils past her. She stared in silence from the door at the giant who loaded the children into the cage.
Dont worry, missy, said Rottingham. They wont be hungry no more.
