Locking In

Shit! Tug sat up with a start. She had overslept.

On Harvest Day, of all days.

She bolted out of bed and quickly got dressed. She pulled on her best running shoes and picked up her belt from where she’d left it after the last Harvest. She flicked on the screen, turned up the volume, and began doing her inventory as the news anchor droned on about the latest storms in the Gulf. When she was sure she had everything else she needed, she pulled her Lock Card out of her pack and placed it securely in the zipper pocket of her pants.

She checked the clock: 8:52. She had a few minutes. She ran to the kitchen and shoved a few snack bars into the pouch on her belt. She zipped it shut, dumped her water bottle and refilled it with fresh, cold water from the tank. Days like this made her glad that she didn’t have a personal garden or yard to worry about. She rarely had to worry about her monthly allotment running low.

She checked the clock: 8:57. She tapped her front pocket, the reassuringly solid Lock Card helping to slow her racing pulse. She’d been eligible for the Harvest every month for nearly 30 years now, but that feeling of panic never failed to rise in the moments before the roll.

She absentmindedly leaned on the counter, keeping her eyes on the screen, and stretched her hamstrings and calves. She cursed herself for having overslept. She cursed the Harvesters who she’d seen take away one of the orange booths down the street from her apartment last night. That’s what had kept her awake so late, her mind racing with anger that usually stayed out of sight bubbling to the surface. She knew that the booths they removed each month were randomized, but it felt personal. It felt like a direct attack on everyone in her building. The next time her number came up on an orange day it would be that much harder to lock herself in.

She looked at the clock: 8:59. She tried to calm her mind. She tried to calm her heart. She tried to calm her breathing. Neither of her numbers had come up in a long time, and she had a bad feeling about today. Even though she knew the odds were exactly the same every single month, the sense of doom felt increasingly heavier as the time between her numbers grew. For the past few months it had been almost unbearable. The dread built and built until 9:00 finally came and the number was rolled, followed by an almost painful sense of relief when both her numbers were missed. Last month the emotional whiplash had been so intense she’d nearly blacked out.

The chime played from her screen and she held her breath. As the man on the screen picked up the 10 sided die, the image of the 37 on her apartment door blazed in her mind. It could be worse, she reminded herself. She could be in a house with a four digit number. She could be up in the higher levels with a three digit unit number. But oh, how she envied that lucky bastard living just four doors down in unit 33.

The man’s hand released the die and Tug tried to breathe normally. The breath she’d been drawing caught in her throat as the die landed on 7. She backed toward her door and waited just in view of the screen to see what color they would draw. The hands on the camera flipped the card: green.

At least it’s not orange, she thought as she let her door slam behind her. Even though she was a Data Translator, which made her Tier 2, she knew from years of experience that if she started down the stairs now she wouldn’t need to rush. She liked to save as much energy as she could. As she walked past the elevator bank, she rolled her eyes at the kid from 47 pressing the down button. Relying on machines to help you cut corners today was just dumb. She’d grown up hearing the story about her mom’s cousin who got stuck in a broken down elevator during the Harvest. She hoped reason would replace the kid’s arrogance before it was too late. Truth be told, she actually liked him. He made her laugh when they ran into each other most of the time. “Good luck,” he said as she walked by. “You too,” Tug replied.

As she emerged from the stairwell into the lobby, her eyes went automatically to the screen. 36 more seconds until Tier 2 was released. She glanced out the window to see the Tier 1s easily making their way into the nearest green booths. She always had to go at least a few blocks.

She waited by the main entrance with the other four Tier 2s called today. The Tier 3s and 4s looked on anxiously, and the Tier 5s looked positively desperate to get outside. She pitied them. She worried, especially, about the old woman from 17. Every time a 7 or 1 was called, Tug worried it would be the last time she’d see the old lady.

The clock on the lobby screen counted down: 3... 2... 1.... As the chime went off and the computerized voice said “Tier 2, you may begin,” the Harvester monitoring her building was nothing but a blur in Tug’s peripheral vision as she bolted down the street past him.

First stop: the park - if only for the sheer volume of booths. As she jogged, she absentmindedly tapped her Lock Card. Losing that would be a tragedy too great to think about. She kept careful watch as she jogged. Even though they didn’t “add” booths to the grid, sometimes the Harvesters moved them around. Maybe she’d get lucky.

As she rounded the corner to the park, Tug nearly collided with two men frantically dragging a barely-keeping-up kid between them. The kid didn’t look like they could have been more than 12 or 13. This might be their first Harvest, she thought.

She saw a gap in the traffic and sprinted across it. The family hesitated just long enough that they would have to wait for the next one. They didn’t have to wait long. As she reached the park and headed right, she glanced back and saw them turn left a few seconds later. It was a toss-up as to which direction would work out better. Honestly, it was a toss-up as to whether any booths would still be available here at all.

By the time she’d hit the halfway point, she had passed three green booths, all three of them occupied. She saw the family ahead coming toward her, only about a quarter of the way around. There was one more green booth up ahead that she might be able to beat them to. And maybe, just maybe, it would be empty. But it would mean setting out at a full sprint for the next 100 yards or so. And if she wasted energy like that and found it full, what good would that do? Especially this early.

She kept going at her steady pace, but the family got there first. It was empty. She watched the dads throw the kid inside and slam the door. The bulkier one eyed her suspiciously as he stood with his back to the door defensively. Through the screen on the side of the booth, the shorter man was saying “Just like we practiced.” She saw the light turn green inside and the dads breathed a sigh of relief before shouting loving good-byes and reassurances to the kid that they’d be back for them in a few hours. Yeah, it was definitely the kid’s first time.

Tug didn’t dwell on it. She looped back out of the park and headed toward the river trail. In a pinch, this is also where she’d end her day, running as far along the trail as she needed to in order to find an unoccupied booth. The furthest she’d ever gone was 11 miles. That’s why she trained almost every day. You could plan all you wanted, but once the Harvest began, there was just no guarantee.

When she got to the river, she turned left. As she jogged along the bank, she was heartened to see that very few people were on the trail. But that feeling faded as she saw waves of people emerge from every building in sight just a few moments later. Tier 3 had begun.

She picked up her pace slightly, hoping to be done sooner rather than later. There was one specific booth she was looking for. She’d come to think of it as “her” booth because she didn’t think very many people realized it was there. She had locked into it more than a few times over the years. Clustered by the fence behind some bushes were four booths: blue, orange, yellow, and green. The green one was on the farthest end and, for years, had been mostly covered by the overgrown hedge row that the city never seemed to care to trim. It nearly disappeared into the leafy branches that hid it.

She saw the top of the multicolored booths sticking out from the foliage and ran in that direction. As she got closer, she nearly stopped in her tracks. Her booth was gone. It had been removed - more maybe just relocated - by the Harvesters.

“Fuck you!” She screamed aloud at nobody in particular. Everyone in earshot ignored her. Outbursts like that would become common as the day moved on.

Well, no time to dwell on it. She saw the gap in the fence up ahead and turned to cross the train tracks back into the heart of the city. She had two more spots to check before resigning herself to a long morning of running and sweating.

As she headed up the slight hill toward the mosque, she said a silent prayer that there would be an empty booth there. It was a place a lot of people in the city naturally avoided. She was fine with that. Besides, if she had to pick someone to be Harvested it would be close-minded bigots like those people. What did they think would happen? It’s not like the booths were inside the mosque. Did their hatred run so deep that they couldn’t even stand near the mosque for a few hours? She supposed, though, that her own hatred for bigots ran about as deeply as theirs did. Maybe she’d think about that more once she was locked in.

The mosque booths came and went, people looking out of every single green one with a mixture of expressions: smug, apologetic, worried, encouraging. “Keep going,” one young woman cheered from her booth as Tug ran past. It was easy to be kind when you had security.

Her last stop wasn’t very far, but it was expansive. It’s why it was her last stop before running the trail. The 40 acre cemetery was just around the corner, and its pathways and pockets were almost dizzying to try to keep track of. But, much like the mosque, this was also a place that tended to repel certain people.

As she ran up the block toward the cemetery gate, she saw another wave of people come out of the buildings around her. She checked her watch. This must be Tier 4. She breathed a small sigh of relief that it wasn’t Tier 5. Not yet.

Although she hadn’t been to the cemetery very often for past Harvests (she usually got luckier than she had today) Tug did make a point of training in the cemetery every so often. For one thing, it was peaceful. For another, she wanted to be able to map out a route as best she possibly could. As she ran through the gate, she had an idea where she would start. There was an easily recognized mausoleum nearby that she’d just seen a green booth next to a few days ago. She headed down the pathway toward that section. When she arrived, though, it was already taken.

Anxiety was starting to creep in. No - she couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t afford to panic. She kept running. One foot in front of another. Step. Step. Step. Breathe in, breathe out.

She approached another green booth. Filled.

And another. Filled.

As she was starting to give up hope, something ahead of her caught her attention. It was yelling. But it wasn’t just a single outburst of frustration. It was fighting. At least two people. She cautiously headed in that direction. She felt her Lock Card and started to make a plan. If she was right about what was happening up ahead, she might just be in luck.

As she got closer, she saw it. Two men near the entrance of an open green booth. They were on the ground wrestling, the door of the booth hanging ajar. She quickly took in the huge monument to some family that would definitely have been rich enough to buy their way out of the Harvest. It was right near the booth with the wrestling men on the opposite side. If she stayed on the path, she would have to run right past the men and her plan would never work out. She leapt off the trail and ran as quietly as she could down out of the sight of the men and around to the other side of the monument. They were still on the ground, locked in a stalemate when she was finally in place. She had to be quick, or it would get really ugly really fast. She paused for the briefest second at the corner of the monument to pull her Lock Card out, and she went for it.

As quickly as she could she sprinted toward the booth. She heard one of the men yell and she knew she’d been spotted. She ignored the men jumping to their feet. She ignored the one who lunged toward her and the booth - quickly closing the small distance between them - as the other man ran off.

Tug managed to get into the booth and slam the door just in time for a massive man to come crashing into the other side of it. He grabbed for the door handle and she held it closed with all the might her right arm could muster as her left hand shoved the Lock Card toward the slot in the side of the booth.

She heard the chime as she was bathed in a pale green light. “Welcome, Tughrek Balvin,” said the computerized voice.

“SCREW YOU!” screamed the man now desperately looking around trying to decide where to go next. His nose was bleeding and Tug felt slightly bad about what she’d done. But this was the Harvest, and she did what she had to do.

Some would say the hard part was over now, but she wasn’t so sure about that. Of course, it’s the kind of perspective that changes drastically once you’re locked in. But she honestly thought that seeing the others still searching was the hardest part. Especially if you found a booth relatively early like she had. Eventually it became a morbid process of watching people take what you knew might be their last weary steps before the Harvesters arrived.

She checked her watch: 9:37. She had a long morning ahead of her. Grateful that she’d grabbed snacks and refreshed her water, Tug took a seat on the bench in the booth and bit into the chewy snack bar. She drank a few gulps of water before she made herself slow down. After all, she had almost two and a half more hours before she’d be able to leave, and it was going to be a muggy morning.

As she finished her first snack bar, she saw a figure running toward her. She saw the familiar glimmer of hope as they spotted the green booth, and the familiar fall of despair as they realized it was already taken. She thought of her friend Femi who once told her he always keeps his eyes closed once he’s locked in. It was tempting. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It felt too heartless. Yes, she had done what she had to do to survive, but she also felt obligated to bear witness to what was happening around her. To the people who wouldn’t make it home; the ones whose families would wait at the appointed meeting spots, or wait for a screen call at home, or wait to hear anything at all from anyone. She couldn’t explain why she felt obligated to witness all of this, but she did.

So, she sat there in her booth and she bore witness. She witnessed the couple running hand in hand. She witnessed the bloody-nosed man whom she’d robbed of his chance to be in this very booth run by - making another lap or perhaps lost in the cemetery with its many twisting paths. She did look away before his accusing eyes could meet hers, but she couldn’t miss the snarl he growled out as he went past her. She witnessed the teenager whizzing by alone. She thought the girl would probably make it out okay. She seemed to be completely unfazed and was going at a pretty solid pace. Tug hoped she’d be okay. She prayed she would. The girl was so young.

The time in between the people running by was getting longer and longer. Eventually people would stop wasting their time in the cemetery at all. At some point everyone just knew that the booths in the city would be full and it was time to head beyond the city limits.

One nice thing about locking into a booth in the cemetery was the scenery. In the quiet moments between people passing by, she watched as birds and squirrels flitted here and there. She listened to the wind rustle the leaves of the trees. She wondered what stories were buried with the lives that had been capped off with headstones. In a way, it was almost peaceful. Almost. But no matter where her mind and heart went in between, the next passerby would always bring her back to reality - back to resigned resentment.

It was nearly 11:00 when she heard footsteps running down the path. That couldn’t be good. It was way too late in the morning for someone to still be looking in the cemetery. Her heart broke for the man who came around the corner. As he got closer she recognized him. He was one of the dads she’d seen earlier. The broken pieces of her heart shattered even smaller. But there was still over an hour, she told herself. And who was she to say it was futile to look in the cemetery? This place was massive and there were booths in all sorts of odd corners, tucked away behind trees or statues. She refused to give up hope on his behalf.

But then something went wrong. She felt it before it happened. She saw him pause and look further down the path and a look of glee filled his face. It took her a moment to process what was happening. He bolted past her toward the booth 40 or so yards past hers. She screamed at him as loud as she could. “It’s red! It’s red! Stop!” The panic rose in her chest and she kept waving frantically and banging on the windows of her booth, even as he opened the door to the other one. “IT’S NOT GREEN! IT’S RED! IT’S RED!” She heard the siren and saw him inside the booth realizing his mistake and frantically trying to open the door to leave. But it was too late. He had already locked in.

Moments later a van pulled up and two Harvesters got out and approached the red booth. They pulled it open and grabbed the screaming man. In the blink of an eye he was in the van and they were driving away. “You fucking BASTARDS!” Tug yelled at the passing van. Not that they cared. Not that it did any good. Not that it would change a damn thing.

She put her head in her hands and she wept. She had heard of this happening, but she had never witnessed it. Most colorblind people managed to find a friend or relative to go with them. Where had his husband been? Had he found a booth of his own? Why hadn’t they made sure the colorblind man was safely locked in first? Or maybe they had both struggled. After all, finding one was sometimes hard enough. And they had a kid. The cruel injustice of it all came crashing down on Tug’s shoulders as she continued to cry.

She cried for the man. She cried for his kid. She cried for his husband. She cried for her own father, who had long since been Harvested. She cried for herself and every single person trapped in this disgraceful system. She cried for the generations before hers who had tried their best to stop things from getting to this point, but who had been thrust into a nearly unwinnable battle by the generations before them.

She had no idea how much time had passed, but when she finally pulled herself back together, she looked at her watch again: 11:39. Less than 30 minutes left in this godforsaken booth. Her mind wandered back to the man, and to her father, and to all the others who had been and would be Harvested. She wondered what exactly their fate had been.

The rumors were as numerous and varied as the human imagination would allow. None of them were good, though. The kindest ones involved lifelong imprisonment. The most prevailing one was that you were simply killed and tossed into a human composting farm, that you were “harvested” to be put back into the soil of the earth humans had spent millennia upon millennia destroying. Some people thought that the “harvest” referred to your organs being harvested for transplanting before you were killed. Tug had dismissed that as ridiculous until she read in one of her historic data classes that there used to be waiting lists for transplants. Their society was fucked up, but when she read about the past she had to admit she preferred her own time. Having to wait for something as simple as a kidney transplant was absolutely barbaric.

A chime interrupted her thoughts. She looked at her watch: 12:00. Just a few more minutes now. She glared at the Harvesters as they swept through the cemetery, searching for any stragglers or people desperately trying to hide (a futile effort). As they passed by she turned her glare as icy as she could, not caring if they saw her. It was no secret that everyone hated the Harvesters.

A few minutes after they disappeared from sight another chime sounded and she heard the click of the door. She stood and took a few moments to stretch as she began slowly walking toward home. At least it wouldn’t be too bad of a walk. Half an hour maybe. But there was a stop she had to make first. The thought of it made her sick, but she knew it was necessary. As she headed toward the park, trying to figure out what exactly she would say to the kid and hopefully - God how she hoped - their dad about the third member of their group, she took a deep breath and thought to herself: Well, Tug, another one down. She breathed a sigh of relief and stretched her arms out wide as an uninvited smile crept onto her face.