I used to write science fiction short stories, still do on occasions and this is a tale of a dystopian world of the future. This story was inspired by a couple who queue jumped my friends an I while waiting to get into the VIP area of the Mad Cool festival in Madrid. At the time I said nothing but now I can get my revenge. This is another story iPhone story, written soley on my mobile.
Enjoy.
‘Queue Jumping.’
by
Morgan Cry
The queue is the same as most every other queue on this green and blue ball – unloved. I mean, who likes a queue? Anyone want to put their hand up? I suppose they have their uses. A mass brawl at an airport check-in isn’t cool. Turning up at the hospital to discover a scrum of patients is far from ideal. Paying your respects to the bereaved relatives after a cremation en masse could be a bit embarrassing
And when there are queues there are often ‘skip-the-queue’ options. Fast-tracks. Express lanes. VIP entrances.
This queue is not one I want to be further up. We all know of such – those queues that you have no desire to reach the front of.
Standing in a line of fellow pupils to receive the belt from the teacher because you’ve mouthed off. Sitting in the waiting room of the dentist for the check-up you have dodged for five years.
This is one of those queues.
From my position I can’t see the end of the line in either direction.
Of course this is by design.
It’s a theme park thing. Never let the punter see the true extent of the queue. Twist and turn, hide and reveal and maybe the next corner will be the last. . . Nope. This one? Nah. The next one? No.
Only this is no theme park.
‘Un ticket, senior. Tienes que tomar un ticket.’
You have to take a ticket.
My number? 326,578,326.
Handed to me in a café near the Matadero in Madrid not two hours ago.
A couple appears at my shoulder. She’s a bottle-made blonde. He’s salt and pepper hair with goatee.
Queue jumpers.
If this was the line at the supermarket or the queue for the bar or people filing for the bog, there would be muttering, snide remarks, low whispers and, from the forthright, outright confrontation and condemnation at any attempt to cut in.
Not here.
You are welcome to queue jump here.
The pair are intent on slipping in between me and the man in front, believing, erroneously, that avoidance of eye contact with everyone somehow swathes their queue-jumping attempt in a cloak of invisibility.
This is not the queue they think it is.
This is the wrong queue.
They haven’t figured this out yet.
I could tell them.
Warn them.
But…
…no talking in line.
It’s a rule.
The queue moves forward. I hesitate and the couple, seeing their chance, slide in, backs turned firmly towards me.
I tap the man on the shoulder.
He ignores me.
I tap her shoulder.
She ignores me.
If they turn to look at me, I will mouth a warning.
They don’t turn because they think they are in a different queue.
One that would be worth queue jumping.
As we round the next corner the walls either side close in. Above us guards now look down.
The couple turn around, the first signs of confusion washing over their faces.
A gate rises from a slot in the floor in front of me, separating me from the couple. One rises behind me.
For the briefest moment I’m alone.
The gate in front slides back down and the couple reappear, now showing signs of rising panic. The gate behind slides forward, thrusting me onto a moving walkway.
There is now no way back.
Only forward.
A sign appears ahead.
‘You are close to the edge’
I’ve seen pictures of this sign many times. Many times.
Red letters on a white background. Times New Roman typeface. No full stop. Which is ironic, oft studied and always commented upon. Who knew that the lack of terminal punctuation would be a source of worldwide interest?
The couple in front enter full terror mode.
‘Un ticket, senior. Tienes que tomar un ticket.’
In the café.
The speaker’s official uniform and ID accompanied by her official expression. Blank.
Take a ticket. No choice.
The date, time and location printed in the slice of paper.
Two hulks with guns had hovered nearby as she’d clipped the necklace around my neck. Rumour goes the necklaces are tamper proof and stuffed with enough explosive to remove your head, if triggered.
An effective way to ensure you turn up for the queue.
The Call queue.
I knew The Call would come one day. It comes for all but the rich, the powerful and those that are off the grid.
In town for a music festival, I was enjoying a late afternoon café con leche when The Call officer and her enforcers had tracked me down.
At sixty-four I’m in the ninety ninth percentile of The Call. Way past the norm. I’d begun to wonder if I’d fallen off the list. Unlikely, but you heard stories. You always heard stories. People who had never had The Call. That some glitch in the computer had erased their name, skipped their name, forgotten their name. That The Call was not in their future.
Truth be, when your fiftieth birthday arrives, The Call will also arrive – one day.
Unless, of course, you’re one of the lucky ones. A Global Lottery winner.
I’ve never met anyone that personally knows someone that has won the Global Lottery, but I’ve met plenty who know a friend of a friend of a work colleague that has.
Bottle Blonde is now screaming at the guards patrolling above the walkway, ‘We are not meant to be here. We are in the wrong queue. We are in the wrong queue.’
The guards have heard it all. Seen it all. The beseeching. The crying. The defecating. The heart attacks. All. They have seen all.
I can relate to the couple’s point of view. I really can. They are, without doubt, in the wrong queue.
Right next to where they joined was the queue for the Global Lottery.
The one they thought they were queue jumping.
Now that is a line to play skip-the-queue. Almost compulsory to try. Stupid not to. When the lottery desk is only open one hour a day, and every lottery office has a queue thirty miles long, or more, there is no way to reach the front bar skipping the line; unless you are up for weeks of camping on the pavement.
It’s recommended to allow at least four weeks for that.
Fifteen days before my fiftieth birthday, I’d pitched a tent to be rewarded with a ticket twenty-nine days later.
I didn’t win and you don’t get a second shot at the lottery – although there are stories.
It’s deliberate, the queues being so close together. Screws with your mind, and in the couple’s case, their senses. The couple are far from the first, and will be far from the last, to queue jump the wrong queue.
She’s now in hysterics, holding up the line. Six more have cleared the gates behind me and, as the walkway rolls ever forward, I’m being shoved by the others into the couple.
Bottle Blonde tries to climb the smooth wall. Leaping onto her partners back to do so.
A guard reaches down with an electric cattle prod – and Bottle Blonde drops like a shot dog. Her partner also tries to climb the wall. He too is electrocuted.
I pass beneath the most famous sign of all.
Thank you for your sacrifice.
Panic is now breaking out in front and behind.
I see a man, ten ahead of me, vanish with a scream.
People push back but the cattle prods work overtime. Zap, down you go.
I stand still.
I want to see my end.
Six bodies lie in front of me, including Bottle Blonde and Salt ‘n’Pepper. All laid out on the moving walkway. All out cold. As are eight behind me.
I’m the last man standing.
I see the edge.
The famous edge.
Nothing stupendous about it.
Just the end of the walkway.
I see the dancing light of the furnace on the far wall.
A young woman goes over the edge.
Into the fire pit.
No scream.
She’s unconscious.
Four to go, then me.
I look up.
The guards are watching.
I’m interesting to them.
Not many go over the edge awake.
Most are zapped.
So, I’ve heard.
One more person drops into the pit.
That leaves Bottle Blonde, Salt’n’Pepper then me.
Bottle Blonde rouses.
Her eyes say it all.
Sheer fear.
Salt’n’Pepper drops.
Silence.
Bottle Blonde drops.
Screaming.
I can feel the inferno.
See the inferno.
I take a last breath.
The moving walkway stops.
My toes are an inch from the edge.
A sheet of metal slides across the pit, shutting out the noise and the heat below. Sealing it off.
A door on the far side opens. A woman appears. Behind her three men in white coats stand. Two are pushing a trolley big enough to carry a person.
‘Por aqui,’ she says to me.
This way.
I cross to her, feeling the heat on my feet through the metal beneath my shoes.
She leads me through the door, leaving the men to attend to the zapped people behind.
To tend to the survivors.
To the lucky ones.
I enter a small, sterile room.
A man is sitting at a plastic table.
‘Senior Galbraith.’
I nod.
‘Aqui.’
He hands me a small ticket.
It reads:
Lotería Global: Eres un superviviente: esto supone una exención vitalicia de la llamada.
Global Lottery: You Are A Survivor. This Is A Lifetime Exemption From The Call.
I know a Global Lottery winner.
Me.
My necklace is removed and another door opens. I’m ushered into the street, into the baking sun. Ticket in my pocket. Out of sight.
No one can know I have it.
People will kill for it.
I turn right and walk past the queue.
Smiling.