“Step inside. This way.”
The voice was mechanical, muffled by the regulation gas-mask all Sector 16 guards wore. One never saw their faces as they never showed a sliver of humanity. Where they even human at all?
I was too numb to feel the jab of his machine gun, but his monosyllabic command was enough for the neurons in my brain to flicker back to life.
“Move.”
I walked. The hallway was well lit, white, as if in a dream. Doors with windows too small to see through mirrored each other on the sides. The Guard stopped moving and through some unconscious connection I came to a halt as well. Room EP0h-0N. The mechanical door slid open revealing an ever brighter room, a purer dream.
“Aren’t you going to the convention?” Donald was a by-the-book sap for these sorts of things. Anything to prove his loyalty to Sector 16. Not even the mindless guards were that devoted to their precious city. I gave him a month before the Watchers lobotomized him. At least, that's what we all thought they did. They probably called it something nicer, cleaner, more civilized. Neuroscience.
Sorry Donald, I’ll be there, but I’m going with a group from the G Wing.
“You sure? You know, I didn’t see you at the last convention, or at the Wallace Judgement.” This guy was a rent-a-clown fake without the sensibility to know when to shut the hell up. He knew, if not everything, he knew something. Good. Perhaps it was time to come out with it, tell this guy the truth. If I were going to spill my beans, and boy are there a lot of them, who better than to this suck-up, golden-star prick? No, not here, not yet. Too public. I’ll show him. The whole thing.The hidden escape tunnels, the make-shift mail transit lines, the whole New-American Resistance hideout. I’d personally give him a tour of the Boom-Room, and show him the mixtures of Diesel and fertilizer that will soon send his perfect new world straight to hell. Then I’d snap his neck.
“Hey listen, let me go with you.” I deserved this. It’s what I get for ever saying “Hello” to a guy like Donald Freedman.
Donald...
He suddenly leaned forward, glanced around us and whispered.
What?
They were looking at us. I could feel their eyes. The guards. The Watchers. the Donalds. He pulled me aside, grin returning to cover up his faux pas.
“I want in. I know what your doing. There’s talk all over the city, not much, but there’s talk. Listen, I can help.”
This wasn’t Donald Freedman.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
“Come on... Please...”
Time to snap his neck.
The guard knocked me into the room.
“Wait here.”
So much for courtesy. He kept the gun pointed at me until the door closed. The room was bare, and the guard stayed at the door, peering threw that tiny window. A panel at the other end slid open and the machine came out. It was something from a nightmare you’d wake up laughing at in the morning. Neuroscience. That was the cold delirium in me thinking. The rain had soaked through everything, through my very body and soul, washing the filth away. Washing the lies away. Washing the guilt away.
The door opened again, but I didn’t turn.
“Thank you my boy.”
The door closed. A man in white appeared from the right of my vision. He approached the machine, put his face in the view of the retinal scanner. It hummed to life, as did the man. Finally, he turned. His cowl fell to his shoulders, revealing a face with a nose too big and eyes too small. He had thick fingers, hands made for torturing a rebel instead of a piano.
“Step on the platform, please.” Clever trick. One well-spoken word and you could walk to your death without even knowing. I knew, though. I wanted this. Didn’t we all?
The man was humming now, I knew the tune from somewhere. Somewhere in my memory, in the parts of my mind I open as much as a Bible. Somewhere, over the rainbow.
That was the tune.
We walked past a fire team. It has started to rain. Guards with large canisters of napalm on their backs cremating another pack of the mutated feral beings that now roamed sewers and alleyways. Hard to believe those used to be people. Hard to believe those could have been us. Those who didn’t make it to the shelters. Those who didn’t die from the blasts.
They didn’t burn at first. It was because of the rain, or the goo that oozed from their folds and growths. But that layer soon evaporated, exposing their dry, decrepit flesh. They were lepers, and here was Jesus with a flamethrower. One hell of a second coming.
This way, I said.
Something wasn’t right. Maybe I had known all along. The streets were too dark, too empty, too clean. I heard the click of a gun cocking. Believing you can fly doesn’t give you wings. I couldn’t help it now: I started to laugh.
“We’ve got you now” said Donald. I turned to face the music, my own personal swan song.
“Do you have a family? Someone you want us to tell something before...” the “doctor’s” voice drifted. Considerate for an executioner.
You killed them. You killed all of them.
“Well, that’s too bad,” said almost with a smirk. The humming resumed. The machine started to rattle, to charge. I couldn’t move. I felt like a magnet, trembling to be with my iron companion. The man retired to the door. I clenched my teeth and violently shook. Flashes of scenes I couldn’t remember. White flashes. Blue birds and skies. Lemon drops and chimney tops. A lullaby. Neuroscience. In the background, far beyond the walls of, where was I again? It didn’t matter. I know what I heard.
Explosions.
They had done it. Take that you bastards.
I laughed, for why, oh why can’t I?
There is an air to this piece; an intense atmosphere that Alex manages to create in only a thousand words. The protagonist's disillusion and subtle collapse into insanity is expertly captured in a mimetic writing style that conveys the very same feeling to the reader. There is enough ambiguity to leave room for interpretation, but also enough vivid imagery to leave a lasting impression. The most vivid image is of the "fire team" cremating what seem to be walking corpses; mutated humans who supposedly aren't fit for society any more. "They were lepers, and here was Jesus with a flamethrower," writes Alex, creating a dismal and haunting scene.
The sentence structure of the finale, where the protagonist undergoes what he or she humorously refers to as "Neuroscience," is choppy and quick, throwing flashes of images at the reader like the flashes of pain the protagonist is feeling, with black periods of periods in between. Finally, at the end, a simple song is the only thing the protagonist can remember as his or her memory slowly fades away, with only enough time to acknowledge the fact that the protagonist's terrorist plot to destroy the very foundation of this dystopian world has succeeded. Here is where the ambiguity comes in however, because as far as the reader know it could have all been in the protagonist's head, the explosions a figure of his or her imagination.
"Sector 16" is an intriguing and entertaining piece that does everything right when it has to where it has to.
Sector 16
“Step inside. This way.”
The voice was mechanical, muffled by the regulation gas-mask all Sector 16 guards wore. One never saw their faces as they never showed a sliver of humanity. Where they even human at all?
I was too numb to feel the jab of his machine gun, but his monosyllabic command was enough for the neurons in my brain to flicker back to life.
“Move.”
I walked. The hallway was well lit, white, as if in a dream. Doors with windows too small to see through mirrored each other on the sides. The Guard stopped moving and through some unconscious connection I came to a halt as well. Room EP0h-0N. The mechanical door slid open revealing an ever brighter room, a purer dream.
“Aren’t you going to the convention?” Donald was a by-the-book sap for these sorts of things. Anything to prove his loyalty to Sector 16. Not even the mindless guards were that devoted to their precious city. I gave him a month before the Watchers lobotomized him. At least, that's what we all thought they did. They probably called it something nicer, cleaner, more civilized. Neuroscience.
Sorry Donald, I’ll be there, but I’m going with a group from the G Wing.
“You sure? You know, I didn’t see you at the last convention, or at the Wallace Judgement.” This guy was a rent-a-clown fake without the sensibility to know when to shut the hell up. He knew, if not everything, he knew something. Good. Perhaps it was time to come out with it, tell this guy the truth. If I were going to spill my beans, and boy are there a lot of them, who better than to this suck-up, golden-star prick? No, not here, not yet. Too public. I’ll show him. The whole thing.The hidden escape tunnels, the make-shift mail transit lines, the whole New-American Resistance hideout. I’d personally give him a tour of the Boom-Room, and show him the mixtures of Diesel and fertilizer that will soon send his perfect new world straight to hell. Then I’d snap his neck.
“Hey listen, let me go with you.” I deserved this. It’s what I get for ever saying “Hello” to a guy like Donald Freedman.
Donald...
He suddenly leaned forward, glanced around us and whispered.
What?
They were looking at us. I could feel their eyes. The guards. The Watchers. the Donalds. He pulled me aside, grin returning to cover up his faux pas.
“I want in. I know what your doing. There’s talk all over the city, not much, but there’s talk. Listen, I can help.”
This wasn’t Donald Freedman.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
“Come on... Please...”
Time to snap his neck.
The guard knocked me into the room.
“Wait here.”
So much for courtesy. He kept the gun pointed at me until the door closed. The room was bare, and the guard stayed at the door, peering threw that tiny window. A panel at the other end slid open and the machine came out. It was something from a nightmare you’d wake up laughing at in the morning. Neuroscience. That was the cold delirium in me thinking. The rain had soaked through everything, through my very body and soul, washing the filth away. Washing the lies away. Washing the guilt away.
The door opened again, but I didn’t turn.
“Thank you my boy.”
The door closed. A man in white appeared from the right of my vision. He approached the machine, put his face in the view of the retinal scanner. It hummed to life, as did the man. Finally, he turned. His cowl fell to his shoulders, revealing a face with a nose too big and eyes too small. He had thick fingers, hands made for torturing a rebel instead of a piano.
“Step on the platform, please.” Clever trick. One well-spoken word and you could walk to your death without even knowing. I knew, though. I wanted this. Didn’t we all?
The man was humming now, I knew the tune from somewhere. Somewhere in my memory, in the parts of my mind I open as much as a Bible. Somewhere, over the rainbow.
That was the tune.
We walked past a fire team. It has started to rain. Guards with large canisters of napalm on their backs cremating another pack of the mutated feral beings that now roamed sewers and alleyways. Hard to believe those used to be people. Hard to believe those could have been us. Those who didn’t make it to the shelters. Those who didn’t die from the blasts.
They didn’t burn at first. It was because of the rain, or the goo that oozed from their folds and growths. But that layer soon evaporated, exposing their dry, decrepit flesh. They were lepers, and here was Jesus with a flamethrower. One hell of a second coming.
This way, I said.
Something wasn’t right. Maybe I had known all along. The streets were too dark, too empty, too clean. I heard the click of a gun cocking. Believing you can fly doesn’t give you wings. I couldn’t help it now: I started to laugh.
“We’ve got you now” said Donald. I turned to face the music, my own personal swan song.
“Do you have a family? Someone you want us to tell something before...” the “doctor’s” voice drifted. Considerate for an executioner.
You killed them. You killed all of them.
“Well, that’s too bad,” said almost with a smirk. The humming resumed. The machine started to rattle, to charge. I couldn’t move. I felt like a magnet, trembling to be with my iron companion. The man retired to the door. I clenched my teeth and violently shook. Flashes of scenes I couldn’t remember. White flashes. Blue birds and skies. Lemon drops and chimney tops. A lullaby. Neuroscience. In the background, far beyond the walls of, where was I again? It didn’t matter. I know what I heard.
Explosions.
They had done it. Take that you bastards.
I laughed, for why, oh why can’t I?
There is an air to this piece; an intense atmosphere that Alex manages to create in only a thousand words. The protagonist's disillusion and subtle collapse into insanity is expertly captured in a mimetic writing style that conveys the very same feeling to the reader. There is enough ambiguity to leave room for interpretation, but also enough vivid imagery to leave a lasting impression. The most vivid image is of the "fire team" cremating what seem to be walking corpses; mutated humans who supposedly aren't fit for society any more. "They were lepers, and here was Jesus with a flamethrower," writes Alex, creating a dismal and haunting scene.
The sentence structure of the finale, where the protagonist undergoes what he or she humorously refers to as "Neuroscience," is choppy and quick, throwing flashes of images at the reader like the flashes of pain the protagonist is feeling, with black periods of periods in between. Finally, at the end, a simple song is the only thing the protagonist can remember as his or her memory slowly fades away, with only enough time to acknowledge the fact that the protagonist's terrorist plot to destroy the very foundation of this dystopian world has succeeded. Here is where the ambiguity comes in however, because as far as the reader know it could have all been in the protagonist's head, the explosions a figure of his or her imagination.
"Sector 16" is an intriguing and entertaining piece that does everything right when it has to where it has to.