inkdragon
Understandably Confused
@Opheliabee
The results were going to be announced live over the radio, which was ironic, as Boone was fairly certain his family was one of a very few to actually own one that still worked. If the Population Committee had really wanted everyone to be able to find out about the lottery results all at once, they could have called a general assembly in the town square, declared a day off work and made it mandatory for all citizens to attend. But some high-up official must have decided it was a bad move to gather a couple hundred hungry, angry people all together and tell them which of them had been chosen to die. Boone couldn't blame them. The radio it was. The rest of the city would find out the next day when they checked in at their work stations.
Sector B12 had been struggling for years now. The crops, grown under artificial UV lights, weren't producing nearly enough food to sustain a civilization of its magnitude. Rations had grown stricter and stricter, rules about reproduction had been implemented, and all citizens were working to their fullest capacity, but it still wasn't enough. A month ago, the Population Committee had reluctantly announced the lottery. It hadn't been anyone's first choice, they had explained to the cries of outrage the idea had been met with. No one had wanted to have to go this far. At some point, though, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. Population was simply too high, and there was no good solution on how to control it. The only fair answer was a random drawing. A lottery.
A sick, twisted, mockery of a lottery. Where the 'winners' would be banished from the safety of the underground city to meet what everyone knew was certain death on the surface.
B12 was one of the original haven cities set up by the United States government while World War III had still been raging. There had once been hundreds of them across the nation, but as years passed, the civilizations one by one began to drop off the grid. Sometimes it was a slow decline, a population starving to death, or dying due to disease or radiation sickness. Sometimes, the radios just went dead. It wasn't a mystery what had happened to those sectors. The radiation that scorched the planet had caused humans and animals alike to mutate into strange, twisted creatures that roamed the surface lands searching for food, scratching at the hatches that led to the Underground. There had never been a breach near B12. Boone's city was lucky enough to get a slower end.
It was awful, how preventable this all was, Boone reflected as he fiddled with the short-wave radio in his father's study. The cities had been surviving, when they had been working together. They had started as a large network, relying on each other for news and specialized supplies. Fear had led to mistrust, though, and mistrust to anger. Now, the sectors were closed off, each its own tiny tomb waiting to happen. Communication was minimal, and trade nonexistent. It was better than outright warfare, but not by much.
The representative from the Population Committee was going on about the history of the Sector, its values and morals, how grateful the city was to those heroic individuals about to be selected for their noble sacrifice... Boone wasn't really listening. He didn't think he'd heard a less sincere speech in his life, and as the Governor's son, he'd sat in on nearly every government meeting for the past few years. He looked up at footsteps behind him, making room on the couch for his father to sit beside him. Neither of them wanted to be there, but his father had a responsibility to bear witness to the city, through it's successes and its failings alike, and Boone had a responsibility to his father. "Hey, Dad." He tried to ignore the worry in his father's eyes.
Boone knew his father had done all he could to keep his name out of the lottery, but it was impossible to swing that level of special treatment, even for the Governor himself. Still, Boone was young and fit and educated, and because of those factors had his name entered only once, as compared to the elderly and the sick, whose names could be entered up to twenty times. The chances of him being selected were so small they were almost insignificant. Boone had told his dad as much time and time again, but it hadn't done much good before and he highly doubted it would now.
The announcer read the first name. "River Mattheson. Thank you for your sacrifice."
The lottery had begun.
The results were going to be announced live over the radio, which was ironic, as Boone was fairly certain his family was one of a very few to actually own one that still worked. If the Population Committee had really wanted everyone to be able to find out about the lottery results all at once, they could have called a general assembly in the town square, declared a day off work and made it mandatory for all citizens to attend. But some high-up official must have decided it was a bad move to gather a couple hundred hungry, angry people all together and tell them which of them had been chosen to die. Boone couldn't blame them. The radio it was. The rest of the city would find out the next day when they checked in at their work stations.
Sector B12 had been struggling for years now. The crops, grown under artificial UV lights, weren't producing nearly enough food to sustain a civilization of its magnitude. Rations had grown stricter and stricter, rules about reproduction had been implemented, and all citizens were working to their fullest capacity, but it still wasn't enough. A month ago, the Population Committee had reluctantly announced the lottery. It hadn't been anyone's first choice, they had explained to the cries of outrage the idea had been met with. No one had wanted to have to go this far. At some point, though, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. Population was simply too high, and there was no good solution on how to control it. The only fair answer was a random drawing. A lottery.
A sick, twisted, mockery of a lottery. Where the 'winners' would be banished from the safety of the underground city to meet what everyone knew was certain death on the surface.
B12 was one of the original haven cities set up by the United States government while World War III had still been raging. There had once been hundreds of them across the nation, but as years passed, the civilizations one by one began to drop off the grid. Sometimes it was a slow decline, a population starving to death, or dying due to disease or radiation sickness. Sometimes, the radios just went dead. It wasn't a mystery what had happened to those sectors. The radiation that scorched the planet had caused humans and animals alike to mutate into strange, twisted creatures that roamed the surface lands searching for food, scratching at the hatches that led to the Underground. There had never been a breach near B12. Boone's city was lucky enough to get a slower end.
It was awful, how preventable this all was, Boone reflected as he fiddled with the short-wave radio in his father's study. The cities had been surviving, when they had been working together. They had started as a large network, relying on each other for news and specialized supplies. Fear had led to mistrust, though, and mistrust to anger. Now, the sectors were closed off, each its own tiny tomb waiting to happen. Communication was minimal, and trade nonexistent. It was better than outright warfare, but not by much.
The representative from the Population Committee was going on about the history of the Sector, its values and morals, how grateful the city was to those heroic individuals about to be selected for their noble sacrifice... Boone wasn't really listening. He didn't think he'd heard a less sincere speech in his life, and as the Governor's son, he'd sat in on nearly every government meeting for the past few years. He looked up at footsteps behind him, making room on the couch for his father to sit beside him. Neither of them wanted to be there, but his father had a responsibility to bear witness to the city, through it's successes and its failings alike, and Boone had a responsibility to his father. "Hey, Dad." He tried to ignore the worry in his father's eyes.
Boone knew his father had done all he could to keep his name out of the lottery, but it was impossible to swing that level of special treatment, even for the Governor himself. Still, Boone was young and fit and educated, and because of those factors had his name entered only once, as compared to the elderly and the sick, whose names could be entered up to twenty times. The chances of him being selected were so small they were almost insignificant. Boone had told his dad as much time and time again, but it hadn't done much good before and he highly doubted it would now.
The announcer read the first name. "River Mattheson. Thank you for your sacrifice."
The lottery had begun.
