Choice Cuts

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It drew the interest of the local teenagers, wondering who’d entered the old place. On the first night, three of them: Tom, Michelle, and Vincent, approached the front yard. But they got spooked and left before going any further. The second night, the three returned to find the candle still lit. They made it to the front door before the sound of footsteps inside the cabin sent them running home. Vincent was terrified enough that he refused to go the third night, but the other two were sure of themselves; they were going to knock on that front door.

“And so, on the third night, Tom and Michelle made it to the door and gave three loud knocks. Bang, bang, bang! But no one answered. And so the braver of the two, Tom, opened that front door. All that lit the room was the candle in the window; everything else was pitch black. Understandably freaked out, Michelle pleaded with Tom not to step inside. Call it a gut feeling. But Tom didn’t listen. He stepped inside. Michelle turned away when she heard Vincent rushing from the woods, screaming at them to run.

“The only warning Tom heard were three sudden, loud footsteps rushing towards him. Stomp, stomp, stomp! A disfigured man with a cleaver emerged from the darkness, burying the blade into Tom’s skull. Michelle screamed, backing away from the cabin and falling to her knees on the front lawn. The man followed her, dragging Tom’s corpse with his mighty cleaver before dropping the body next to her with a thud. He noticed Vincent and moved to cut him down, too. ‘Please,’ Michelle begged. ‘I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him.’”

The storyteller paused, and a man named Alex, the only one to pay attention to the story, asked, “Well, what happened next?”

“The man with the cleaver killed her. That was all he wanted from her. Vincent had enough time to run back home, and he never returned to that cabin in the woods. However, he lived in fear after the police found no sign of the man there. Vincent never knew if that man would one day return to finish the job, if the lives the man took were enough to satisfy his bloodlust.”

Alex shook his head. “No wonder your short stories didn’t sell. That’s an awful ending.”

The storyteller laughed, but it was not one of merriment. There was a sadness in that laugh, like he wished what Alex said hadn’t been accurate. There was a reason he was here, after all. And if his writing had sold well, he certainly would not be here.

“So,” said the storyteller, “what’s your story, sir? What made you decide to come here with the rest of us?”

Alex shrugged. “It’s our civic duty to make sacrifices for our fellow man, no? And my daughter getting a free ride to whatever college she wants is just icing on the cake.”

“Your daughter. I see.” The storyteller looked at the floor like he was trying to imagine he was anywhere but here, sitting in a room with twenty other men. “For me, it’s my nephew. My sister can’t afford the medication for his condition. With this, Maxwell MSI will even pay for a cure. It’s not like I’ll ever have my own kids, anyway.”

“Hard finding a date in the horror story scene?”

“No. I’m part of the Lonely Forty.”

“Oh.” Alex’s face reddened. “I’m uh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Even with the medical advances that had come by the year 2055, scientists had never found out why the number of infertile men skyrocketed over the past thirty years, from a little under ten percent to forty. Some blamed it on the sun’s increased radiation, with the atmosphere growing thinner and thinner each year. Others blamed it on the weak men of this generation, pampered by automation and governed by corporations. Alex had never given it much thought. He was one of the sixty percent, and he’d learned long ago that worrying for your fellow man was wasted energy if there was nothing you could do to help the situation. There was a peace in powerlessness, after all.

But Alex did have power in this. He’d gotten sick a year back, caught it from some blockhead that thought their dinner was more important than the safety of those around them. Alex got through it, barely, but the virus had compromised his immune system. It wasn’t content with just attacking foreign invaders like that virus. No, it decided that his spine also deserved some abuse. He could still walk, thanks to painkillers, but with time he wouldn’t need medicine to stop feeling anything in his spine. Doctors gave him a few more months before he’d use a wheelchair for the rest of his life. And work wasn’t going to compensate him for putting him at risk of exposure. Oh no, they didn’t accept any responsibility for one of their servers getting sick. The insurance companies were more than happy to agree.

So this was Alex’s last shot at being worth a damn for his daughter. Sure, a small part of it was wanting to go out on his terms, on his own two feet. But this was the only way he could guarantee that she would have the future she deserved. Anything else was playing with chance, and Alex never liked to gamble.

“Will it hurt?”

The storyteller’s question pulled Alex back from his thoughts, snapping him back into this room. It smelled of rusted metal and fear in here. Whispers and murmurs of discontent only just drowned out the distant whirring and grinding of machinery. But that was going to be natural for something like this. Even if everyone here fully consented to this and put their signatures on all those forms, there would still be some concerns. It was only human.

“No, they wouldn’t want that,” he said. “We won’t feel a thing.”

The storyteller seemed convinced but no less unsettled than he was before. “This feels wrong. Like we’re doing something wrong.”

Alex put a hand on the little man’s shoulder. “You’re saving your nephew’s life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

The screech of the overhead intercom drowned out any words or thoughts of the men in the room. It fell to a low crackle, and then the automated voice of the facility spoke to them.

“Please proceed to Exit B in an orderly fashion. Form a line.”

Alex was the first to try and stand, but lightning coursing through his spine sent him back down into his seat. It spread to his fingertips but centered at the small of his back. It was unbearable. He hadn’t been allowed to take any medications for the past day, and he felt the effects more and more with each passing minute. But he fought against the agony all the same. The knowledge that he’d be free from the pain in a matter of minutes was enough to get him standing, and knowing that his little girl would be all right was enough to get him walking.

The storyteller made it in line just ahead of him, nervous as the little man was. The number on the back of his shirt was 1820. Alex’s was 1847.

Exit B, marked with the neon glow of a sign above the door, slid open. It was a tall yet narrow doorway, barely wide enough to walk through without turning sideways. Once you passed through the steel door into the equally tight hallway, there was no way to turn around. At least, not without slamming into the men on either side of you. Even though he’d agreed to this, the claws of claustrophobia had buried themselves into Alex’s skull. Sweat began to pour out of him, and he could feel the breath of the man behind him on his neck. They were quick breaths, scared breaths.

But Alex followed the line all the same. There was no turning back now, even if he wanted to. Ever since he was a kid, Alex had been told this was the right thing, that the men and women who sacrificed themselves for their fellows were heroes, that they helped put food on the table for the millions of Americans that would remain. But he didn’t care about being a hero to the people of the grand ol’ USA. All that mattered was his little girl.

She would never forgive him for this, he realized. Every day she’d spend in that college would be a reminder of her father, the man who decided his life wasn’t as important as hers. She’d have wanted him to stay, to be her poor father that she’d take care of the rest of his life. But then, where would her life be? A middle-aged woman who never pursued her dreams for her father’s sake. No, he wouldn’t dare be a burden on her. She was a ship at sea, and he was the anchor. It was time that she set sail before he grounded her for good.

The intercom squealed to life once again. “Please place yourself on the autotrolley.”

Thanks to the storyteller’s stature, Alex could see what the thing was describing up ahead. It was some sort of rail system… lined with trolleys that forced you upright as it slid along the track. A wave of nausea overwhelmed him, forcing him to resist the urge to vomit. His mind was in the right place for this, but his body was still protesting. It was only when the guy behind him gave him a nudge that he realized the line had moved.

Soon, it was the storyteller’s turn to get on his trolley. The others had slid forward, already moving on with the rest of the process. But the storyteller froze. He wasn’t budging.

“No point in second thoughts now,” said Alex.

“I’m scared.” Though he couldn’t turn to face him, Alex could tell the little man was crying.

The artificial voice seemed to surround them, repeating, “Please place yourself on the autotrolley.” It was the same exact tone as before, with no perceivable impatience or frustration to be heard. Yet Alex couldn’t help but feel some sort of malice in that repetition, like this was the storyteller’s only warning.

Alex pushed him, and the little man stumbled forward, nearly collapsing into his trolley. “They’re going to make you do it if you don’t do it yourself,” said Alex. “Go on.”

Only when the storyteller got onto his trolley, his motorized coffin, did Alex get a good look at him. His face was stained with tears, the water welling in the creases of his cheeks like saltwater rivers. That balding head glistened with sweat. His eyes were bloodshot and exuded nothing but fear and hatred directed at the man that he believed just sealed his fate. Alex’s own eyes responded with indifference. The storyteller was the one to seal his fate. It had been decided the moment he walked into the slaughterhouse.

The rails carried the little man forward; now, it was Alex’s turn. He stepped onto it, the effort of lifting his leg so high feeling like a knife driven between his vertebrae. All that kept him from falling backward were his arms, vise grips locked onto the trolley with every ounce of his will holding him aloft.

“Please place yourself on the autotrolley,” the voice demanded.

“I’m going, dammit!” he grunted through gritted teeth.

His arms trembled like plucked guitar strings as he pulled himself onto the device, sighing with exertion and relief as he laid himself against the cold steel. Goosebumps traveled across his body against the sudden chill of metal. Bracers fastened themselves around his wrists, ankles, and neck: a safety precaution. They kept you in place so nothing went wrong with the procedure. He’d read about it beforehand, looking up any info he could gather online. Many sites vilified these places, claiming that a vegetarian diet would be sustainable even with the loss of so many livestock species to the plague. But those were just propaganda pages and fake news. He’d rather that consenting adults lost their lives in these places instead of entire families losing their lives to hunger.

The trolley rolled onward, down a long stretch of dark concrete walls before sunlight hit his eyes. It stung. How long had he been in there? Minutes? Hours?

A new voice rang through the intercoms, one of a man that sounded very important. It had been pre-recorded, of course, but the change had been a welcome one; Alex didn’t want the last voice he’d hear to be that of an A.I.

“We here at Maxwell Meat Solutions Incorporated want to thank you for your sacrifice. Through your selfless actions, approximately thirty-eight different families will have a hearty, healthy dinner on their plates in the coming weeks, thanks to each and every one of you. That means with today’s intake of….”

The A.I. interjected, “… eighty-five…”

“… volunteers, that means that…”

“… three-thousand two-hundred and thirty…”

“… families are going to be fed! Isn’t that absolutely phenomenal? So many lives will continue to prosper because of you. There is no greater way to support your fellow man. Remember, the grand ol’ USA will prosper thanks to your sacrifice.”

A wooden sign hung above their line of trolleys, and painted upon it was a single word. “Choice,” Alex murmured. A half-wall of steel separated them from the lines on either side, the left labeled as “Select” and the right as “Prime.” Those other lines were likely just as filled as theirs, though he couldn’t see the volunteers on either side.

The rail carried him along until his cart finally caught up with the others, sliding in just behind the storyteller’s. Up ahead were three mechanical arms, zooming around each trolley before the line scooted forward. He had heard about this part. The arms would administer three shocks in quick succession, each at specific points of the nervous system. The shocks were meant to numb you entirely, inhibiting your pain receptors and then putting you to sleep. Alex gave a small smile at the thought. Just a few jolts, and then this pain would be over. He’d be free.

A scream from ahead drowned out any such notions.

A woman was free of her bonds, running down the line in the opposite direction. A drone, dispatched by the systems that ran this place, was in pursuit.

“They’re kids!” she screamed, getting closer. “The Prime line is full of kids!”

Wide eyes watched as the drone blasted her in the back. She dropped to the ground, three smoking holes between her shoulders. Alex gagged, dry heaving as his trolley moved past her corpse. The others in the line began to fight against their bracers, shouting and crying in terror. Alex couldn’t believe it. It just wasn’t possible. Children weren’t ever part of the process! She must have been delusional, maybe even mad.

But he couldn’t help it. His gut was swirling with sickening curiosity. Trying to stretch, he leered over the steel wall, over to the right. The trolleys were shorter over there, and he could barely see the tops of heads too small to belong to adults. Panic assaulted him as he looked to the other line, the Select line, as he saw more grown folk. But these weren’t men and women that volunteered themselves to a cause. They were dirty, tired, and frantically trying to free themselves from impending doom. His chest heaved with horror. Only now, in the end, did he really know the truth.

The intercom crackled to life once again. “Do not be alarmed. Please remain where you are. Do not be alarmed. Please remain where you are.”

And though alarmed he was, Alex did not dare to fight against his fate. He would not risk angering his corporate shepherd. He would not risk his daughter’s future and the end of his own agony. Tears filled his weary eyes. There was nothing he could do to save those children, or even those poor vagrants to his left. All he could do was fulfill his end of the deal that he made with the devil.

The storyteller’s trolley shook violently just ahead, and Alex could see that one of the little man’s arms had gotten free. Perhaps he’d been small enough to slip through. Within seconds, the storyteller had hopped off his trolley, rushing over to Alex’s.

“Come on!” he shouted, fiddling with Alex’s binds. “We can’t let those kids die!”

The only warning the storyteller heard was the sudden whirring of a drone flying behind him. Three more blasts of superheated plasma ripped through yet another dissenter, this time hitting the little man square in the back of his head. Blood spattered across Alex’s face. It was on his lips, in his nose. It was warm. The storyteller’s body fell away, the autotrolley pushing forward without care that it was running over a corpse. His bones crunched beneath the unforgiving steel. Alex vomited. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d reached the end.

The mechanized claws of their overlords moved without hesitation or mercy, first zapping him on the side of the neck. It struck with the force of a truck, his entire body flailing without control. Electricity coursed down to his spine, and he screamed. The second shock came at the top of his head. He barely felt it now. The siren’s song of sleep began to slip inside his skull. The third, centered at his temples, had not even been registered. The song was silenced, and the rest of the world dissolved into darkness.