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 112th 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
