Нэнси Кресс - The End Is Nigh

Both of our expatriation interview dates are a month out, so we don’t think about the lottery very much. It’s hope for an indeterminate future, and that’s good enough for now.

For once I find out something before Lynn. A friend of my mother’s is in the Expatriation Office and mentioned something to her in passing. My mom immediately called me in a panic. Marriages have been suspended.

“Wait, why would they do that?” I can’t quite believe the news. It makes no sense.

“Because there are two components to the lottery. The first is that every individual in the country is eligible, and the second is that if you win, you get to emigrate with your entire immediate family. Do you understand?”

“No,” I reply. Maybe I do understand but just don’t want to. I just can’t believe that something as basic as a life-saving lottery would have a loophole.

“People are getting married to increase their odds. And if you have a lot of kids your odds are even greater. Haven’t you seen the news about the explosion of marriages?” I did, but I assumed it was due to the impending mass death and others in Lynn’s and my position—wanting to finally get married before it was too late. That people would get married to game the system didn’t even cross my mind.

“So they are canceling marriages entirely because individuals with kids are getting married to other people with kids, and all they need is one from the entire group to win and then they all are saved?”

“Yes.” The sadness in my mom’s voice breaks my heart. Losing any moment of joy in the midst of such darkness is almost too much to consider.

“So unmarried people are screwed.”

“I wouldn’t say—”

Anger bubbles over. “But what about Lynn and me? We weren’t trying to game the system! We spent years waiting for marriage to be legal, and now just days away from our wedding it is illegal again.” The unfairness is overwhelming. I need to talk to Lynn.

“I know, dear. If there’s anything—”

“I have to go.” I hang up, dial Lynn, and explain what’s happening. Lynn is quiet on the other end of the line. I cling to the absurd hope that she will somehow make things better.

“I’ll be right home,” she says. I wait, trying to not dwell on the worst.

She arrives minutes later and tosses her bag on the floor. She gives me a cursory hug and starts pacing while I sit down. Her nervousness while I recline on the couch is a stark reversal of our normal roles. Still, she is all business, and I find it comforting. If there is a solution here, she will find it.

She stops and faces me. “Okay, one.” She holds up a finger. “We still could both win the lottery.” I nod. “Two.” She holds up another finger. “We could still be flown out by Star News.” I nod again. “And three.” She holds up the finger and then drops it into a fist as she continues, “We will still be able to get married when the lottery is over, right?”

I had not thought of that. Once the lottery is over, there is no need to protect the system, and marriages could resume. “I guess…”

There are too many unknowns for me to think anything other than we are still fucked, but before I can say it Lynn replies, “This really doesn’t change anything!”

Lynn is driving us to the Expatriation Office, and the streets are a mess. The military is keeping order, but cars are pushed to the side of the road and abandoned where they broke down. Traffic accidents lead to gunplay. The roads to downtown Austin are a war zone.

There’s a delay when a pair of bucketlisters have their friends block off Interstate 35 for a drag race. We wait for the military police to arrive or for the race to finish, whichever comes first. I sympathize with the increasing number of bucketlisters sprouting up across the country. They are at least being proactive about their impending doom, but this pair is now threatening Lynn’s appointment, and my sympathy is in short supply. “Fuckers,” I mutter. We gave ourselves two hours for a drive that three months earlier would have taken thirty minutes, and now we’ll need every second.

Lynn looks over and squeezes my leg. “We have plenty of time.” I nod but cheer quietly when a military truck from behind us splits the air with its loud siren. The bucketlisters scatter, and the road clears.

The Expatriation Office is in a heavily fortified compound. There are concrete barriers on the sidewalk. Thick walls and razor wire. Soldiers are everywhere with machine guns. We park in a large, mostly empty, lot outside the walls. “I love you,” I whisper.

Lynn smiles and wipes my tears with her thumbs, her hands cupping my face. “I know.” She kisses me. “I love you, too.”

Only Lynn is allowed in, so she heads to the gate while I walk to a nearby building where friends and family are allowed to wait. It’s a sterile storefront with lots of plate glass and uncomfortable plastic chairs. It looks like the waiting room at the DMV. The room is about half full, but no one talks to anybody else. I take a seat and stare at the walls.

Individuals make the long walk from the walled compound to the waiting area, and the near constant flow of hopelessness is overwhelming. One person after another approaches, shakes his or her head, and then breaks down, soon joined by others’ screams, wails, and tears. No one commits suicide while I watch, but the dead eyes are almost as bad.

A few people walk in with good news, but they are subdued, their happiness tempered out of respect for the walking dead around them. Still, the hushed cries and tears are of happiness, and it is oddly uplifting. As a young man walks in and nods his head, a woman rushes over and throws herself in his arms. I am genuinely happy for them and wonder where they will settle. London? Tokyo? Madrid? Moscow? It doesn’t matter. They walk out with a future.

And there is Lynn. I cannot read her face. Did she win? Is she safe? She sees me through the window, and gives a half wave from her waist. I run out to her, and we meet on the sidewalk. I look in her eyes, and she nods her head.

She hugs me, and I cry.

A couple in another car pull in as we walk across the parking lot, Lynn’s hand in mine. I catch a glimpse of their faces but turn away. Lynn is waiting for me, and I close my door on the pain and uncertainty outside.

I don’t remember the trip home. I don’t remember much at all. I just hold Lynn in my arms, afraid to let her go, afraid that maybe it isn’t real.

I am filled with more happiness than I knew was possible as the love of my life will be safe and this wonderful amazing woman who has filled my life with such joy will not have her light go out due to the cruelty of the heavens or fate or whatever has decreed that life is now nothing more than a lottery she will live she will live she will live.

A few days later, Lynn comes home at lunchtime, which surprises me because she is still on the Star News beat. I don’t know which story she is covering, but I assume it’s something amusing; the stories of riots, murders, rapes, and suicides are unpopular, and Europe appears addicted to stories of bucketlisters doing crazy things, so Lynn has been covering every bucket list item imaginable and enjoying every minute of it.

“Hey, what’s up? Slow news day?” I smile. There is no longer such a thing as a slow news day.

“I quit.”

I put my book down and stand up. “What? Why?”

“The government has commandeered all of Star News’ North American transportation to maximize expatriation efforts.”

I collapse back on the couch. “Oh.” There goes any hope of the company getting us out.