Election Day

 I wrote this bit of flash fiction in the summer of 2012 for an open call for science fiction stories about the upcoming American general election. I missed the deadline, though, and never found another suitable market for it. I rediscovered it today and find it oddly analogous to this election cycle. In any case, I hope you enjoy and I would love to hear your comments about it or anything regarding the upcoming general election. 

Election Day

By Aaron Gudmunson

 

The curtain drops behind me and I snap on the latex gloves. Carefully, I wipe the corner where I'd picked the ballot up and place it on the podium. A trickle of sweat inches out of my hair and down my neck like an earthworm. The old-fashioned ballpoint pen clutched in my fist is a weapon, its tip dripping venom. It's a throwback to elections of yore, when the world was a simpler place, meant to tie modern life to traditionalism, but it does nothing to settle my nerves. If I don't vote soon, my resolve could sway.

            It should be no big deal. Pick a candidate who speaks to me and mark an X by the name. Democracy at work. But there is more to it. Isn't there always?

            I feel my eyes scan the ballot as though they are cameras, detached. The names leap out in stark boldface font. Pick one. That's it. A flourish of the pen, two swift slashes of ink and it's done.

            The Association candidate is driven, tall, genial, and claims allegiance to a higher power. The underdog. The Gray. 

            The Union candidate is rotund, tidy, and flaunts his patriotism. The Old Guard. The human.

            My eyes, working independently, flick from one name to the next. My pen hand wavers. I check over my shoulder to ensure no one can spy on me and feel relief in the confirmation that the curtain hangs full-length behind me – no gaps.

I know how I want to vote and I know how I should vote, the two odds with one another. Cat vs. mouse. Dog vs. cat. Man vs. dog. God vs. man.

The eyes skim and scan, over and over. Too much time spent in here will look suspicious, and they observe everything. I must make my move.

Someone coughs in the adjacent booth and I hear the scratch of pen on paper. I listen, setting my ear against the curtain, but all I hear is the murmur of volunteers explaining the process to new voters.

I check my watch, alarmed to see five minutes have elapsed. Too long. They will grow suspicious if I don't exit soon. Suspicion can be a dangerous trait in the New Interstellar Union.

Against my judgment, I twitch aside the curtain and peer out. People and grays mill about, speaking in whispers as if attending a funeral. No visible threat.

Gripping the pen like a knife, I slash at the name of the candidate I think will bring about the change so necessary for our continued survival. Then I just stare at what I've done. Oh God. What I've done.

I ignore a sudden vicious impulse to tear the ballot to shreds and request a new one. Then they would know. One look at my pale, sweaty face and they would know my vote.

With the paper folded along the dotted lines, per the instructions printed on the reverse, I move toward the curtain. Before drawing it, I take a moment to compose myself. I remove the gloves and stuff them in a pocket, gripping the ballot along the edges. I pat my hair in place and arm sweat from my cheeks. I wish I had a mirror to consult, but too much time has elapsed anyway.   

Mustering my courage, I pull the curtain and toss a glance over my shoulder to ensure I'd not forgotten anything. That's when I see the eye, peering through a nearly invisible tear in the fabric of the booth. Its iris is green flecked with spots of red, the pupil black as the darkest nightmare. It looks innocuous, curious even. It is without accusation, but it is there. It stares at me, memorizing my features, marking my guilt. Then it disappears.

I have no choice. I must submit my ballot. Maybe the eye hadn't seen my vote.

Rushing toward the intake machine, I almost trip over a carelessly-placed shred bin and consider tossing the ballot into it. Too late. The Ballot Master, a human, has seen me.

“Your ballot, sir?” he asks, holding out a pale hand. He grins, his smile opening like a surgery scar.

“Can I put it in?” I ask, not wishing to relinquish it even for an instant.

“Be my guest, sir,” he says.

I insert the ballot into the machine, which draws it inward hungrily. Once it's gone, my fate is sealed. Either democracy still rules the day or they will come for me tonight. Either way, I'll be ready for the results.

I offer the ballpoint to the Ballot Master, but he shakes his head. “Keep it.”

Tucking it into my pocket, I thank him and catch the first taxi I see. It whisks me skyward toward 112^th Street, where my apartment awaits. On the way, I pop the window and toss the pen onto the roof of Feed Factory #4. Those pens are equipped with a tracking system. Some of them may even contain explosive devices that can be triggered from a secret control room. I'm not stupid.

At home I tri-lock my door and bunker down. I keep the pan-vision tuned to election results. My candidate is winning by a slim margin. After six hours, no one has broken down my door. I relax. At some point, I doze.

When I wake, the election results are complete. My candidate won by 1221 votes, thereby securing the popular vote (which, as you know, replaced the antiquated Electoral College preceding the general election of 2064). The human opponent, of course, has officially demanded a recall.

I laugh at myself. All my foolish paranoia about democracy's decline. These past few years of living under what I presumed was a neo-Fascist regime, all bunk. I'm extremely pleased and looking forward to years of positive change. Maybe we can turn things around for ourselves. Maybe there's still hope.

I'm just about to turn off the election results when a breaking news bulletin cuts in. Feed Factory #4 has just exploded, cause unknown. Everyone inside has been killed, no survivors. I put a hand to my mouth and watch, tears blurring my vision, and just then something kicks at my door.

The End