Overpopulous
A short story
Will the door be open today? I have been dreaming of this door for years. It has been gnawing away at my subconscious. One day, I saw it right in front of my eyes. My dream has become a stark reality. I have tried to tell my friends about it, but they laugh at me. A closed sign hangs on the door like a funeral wreath.
We are two weeks away from Christmas, and the lake has frozen over with its silvery-blue finish, almost glittering in the sunshine. It’s one of those winter days that chills your bones. The route to the lake is quiet, which suits me fine. Taking a moment’s rest, I notice that there are no chains on the door. A new sign saying ‘open’ now hangs on it! I am just about to reach for the doorknob when I notice a woman standing nearby, her gaze squarely fixed on me.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
She removes the hood concealing her face, revealing a woman I estimate to be in her thirties. Her hair is glossier than I expected.
“How old are you, boy?”
“I just turned eighteen. Why?”
She flashes a toothy grin.
“Oh, they’ll love you in there,” she says, gesturing toward the door.
My eyes widen, and excitement creates a buzz within my body.
“Wait! Have you seen what is behind the door?”
She slips into the forest without saying another word. What did she mean? I guess I will find out. I open the door, and I am hit with the most peculiar scent. There are market stalls everywhere — it feels very medieval but with an air of modernity.
“Here, you’re going to need this,” a man says gruffly, handing me a piece of paper.
The man is wearing a cloak that resembles something a monk would wear. I open the piece of paper to discover that it is a map. There are three red crosses scattered about the page, denoting different locations. I give the man a confused look.
“Follow the crosses.”
I do not know how to navigate this world, and yet he expects me to follow three red crosses? I carry on walking through the market.
“Get your guns here! Only fifty crystals a gun!”
Crystals? It seems they pay in crystals here. I am quickly learning that the only things that these traders sell are devices that will kill you.
“Get your rope and chairs here! Only ten crystals for the pair!”
I need to get myself some crystals if I am going to survive in this world. I look around for a stall that might sell them when I feel something drop into my pocket. I pick out a necklace that has the symbol of a pentacle. There is a note attached.
“You can pay with this.”
Who gave this to me? I have seen far too many films to know that not getting myself a weapon would be a huge mistake. I head over to the gun stall where a man dressed in rags is waving a handkerchief.
“I want to buy a gun.”
He looks at me with suspicion. He knows I am a stranger to this world. I flash the necklace, at which point he raises his hands in defeat and hands me a gun. I do not know what this necklace is, but it’s going to be immensely helpful, that’s for sure. I do not know where I am going but; I figure that staying on a straight path is the wisest course of action. Inspecting the map, I notice a circle near the bottom of the map. I understand it now! Everything is north of me. There is no East or West, only North, and South. The first cross is approximately fifteen minutes away from where I am now.
On my way, I come across an area that children populate. There are no adults around, only small children. One child is in the front yard of his house, whittling away at what appears to be tree bark. Eventually, I reach the first cross. I am surrounded by men in black cloaks and people cheering. Getting closer, I see a man strapped to an effigy. His hands are bound behind his back, and he is writhing and resisting.
“Please! I have a family!” he begs.
The onlookers have now grasped hands, and they keep swaying. They are chanting something which I do not understand.
“Ad Meliora! Ad Meliora! Ad Meliora!”
“Toward better things,” a voice whispers in my ear.
It is the woman from the lake. Did she follow me?
“What is this?” I ask.
“A live execution — it’s what they do here.”
A shrouded figure lights the bonfire, and the man bursts into flames. His screams of pain make me want to vomit. I put my fingers in my ears to block out the noise. His flesh falls off in great sizzling chunks. The aroma pushes me over the edge, and I projectile vomit into the shrubbery nearby.
“You’ll get used to it — we all had to.”
Before I can think of a response, the woman is gone again. I need to take a leak, so I go behind a tree. As the stream leaves my body, the figure who lit the man on fire joins me in relieving himself.
“Why did you kill him?”
The figure grabs my wrist forcefully, which is also gripping my penis.
“Don’t ask questions, boy. Follow the crosses and shut your mouth,” he grunts.
Noticing the necklace, he loosens his grip. He disappears just as fast as the woman from the lake. It is time for me to make my way to the next cross. I hope it is not another execution, but my gut tells me that it will be. I am beginning to get used to this world. I know now that asking questions only brings trouble. I estimate that the next cross is roughly half an hour away. I am halfway there when I happen across another set of market stalls. This time, they are selling poison.
“Get your rat poison! Only three crystals per gram!” “Deadly nightshade, come and get your deadly nightshade!”
On my way past, an old hag grabs me.
“You want some poison, hmmm?” she leers.
Her breath reeks of onions and death. I wave the necklace at her, and she lets go. She skulks away back to the thatched roof of her stall. I do not know how this necklace works, but it is easy to see how dangerous it could be in the wrong hands. I soon reach my next destination. It appears to be a theatre. I join the queue of figures filing into this building. Inside are many tree stumps where we are supposed to sit. On a stage are two women in stocks. They are biting down on rags which leaves me with a feeling of unease. Everyone is now seated, and they have started stamping on the floor like mad football fans. A man dressed as a court jester emerges from behind a post.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! I am happy to have you all seated before me today, as it is a special day. These two women here will soon be in a far better place.”
The two women are trying to scream through their rags. The court jester takes off his belt and whips them with all his might. Their shrill shrieks make my blood curdle. The crowd seems to be enjoying this, which makes me want to throw up again. Why are they enjoying this? What kind of warped society enjoys public executions? This is precisely why they were abolished in my world.
“Today’s weapon of choice is cyan — ,” he falters.
The court jester glances at me momentarily and leaves his sentence unfinished.
“That is enough chitter-chatter, I think. Let us get on with the show!”
He brings out two gas masks and quickly places them on the women’s faces. They struggle and kick, but they cannot move their arms. They choke and spit into the masks, the spittle flooding them. It pains me to watch. I keep being knocked by a woman next to me who is enthusiastically clapping. The jester releases the women from the stocks, and, to my horror, he punches their dead bodies repeatedly. His face is filled with a nonsensical rage; however, his ability to become so calm afterwards strikes me as the oddest thing.
The execution is over, and it is time to reach the end of the map to find my last red cross. I feel numb and dazed. I am turning into a misanthropist. The beastliness and depravity of this world take my core and removes all life from it. When I leave, a young girl takes my hand and looks up at me with marble eyes.
“Why are you sad? It’s a good thing.”
The girl’s mother pulls her away from my grasp, leaving me stunned. They have brainwashed everyone here. Suddenly, I do not have the energy to care for anyone at all. The last cross is an hour away. Shortly into my journey, I stumble upon a cottage buried beneath autumn leaves. I spot someone watching me.
“Didn’t I tell you that you would get used to it?”
It is the woman from the lake again.
“You’re on your way to the last cross, aren’t you, boy?” I nod.
“You’re going to learn a lot from this one.”
She returns to the bushes, and I set off once again on my journey. I can see a giant building on the horizon. It seems to disappear and then reappear. Cast iron gates surround the property, which is void of all signs of life. A light goes off above me, and the gates open. Inside, it is teeming with shrouded figures like the ones at the first execution. They are all heading in one direction, so I think it best to follow them. We reach a door that is marked with a red cross. This is it — this is the third and final execution. One of the figures passes me and raps a skeletal knuckle on the door.
“Sir, the boy is here to see you.”
The door opens, and I am shoved inside. A man stares at the wall, refusing to face me. He also wears a shroud, but it is cyan blue and velvet. He points to a wooden chair in the corner of the room. He glides over to me and stands in front of me, unmoving. In one swift movement, he restrains me and cuffs me. I strain against the cuffs, but it is no use.
“I thought this was an execution!” I yell.
“It is, my boy, it is. It is yours.”
“You can’t kill me!”
“I won’t have to because, by the end of our meeting, you will have blown your brains out or slit your own throat, depending on which you prefer,” he says casually.
The man turns a laptop toward me. I am shown videos of humans being slaughtered and tortured. I try to look away, but I am drawn to how limp their bodies become.
“You see, our worlds have become far too populated. You stumbled upon that door because you were destined to die. You will help solve the problem of overpopulation. I have numbed you and corrupted you through all the executions you have witnessed.”
My stomach rumbles, and I know I am about to puke again.
“You would have been killed by now had it not been for that necklace you carry. It tells people that you are to be seen by me, and they must not touch a hair on your head.”
My head is spinning, and I want to die. Please let me die. The man removes his shroud and reveals his empty eye sockets. He shuffles over to a brail sheet on the wall and feels around it. I can see a blade on the desk through my blurred vision, and I lurch forward to pick it up.
“Yes, boy, yes!” he shrieks, spinning around to face me.
I do not want to live in this world. Humans are evil! We will only kill each other if we do not kill ourselves. I take the blade and drag it across my jugular as though I am cutting wrapping paper. I feel every pint of blood spit out of my wound like oil out of a pan.
“Thank you,” I struggle.
“My dear boy, I should be the one thanking you. One down, millions more to go.”
He pulls up his hood and leaves the room, whistling as he goes.
