Exterminated

We haven’t done anything wrong; we were just born with the wrong blood in our veins. A sickness that attacks O-positives, manifesting no symptoms but spreading to everyone else.

And killing them.

Killing everyone, except O-positives. We live and never notice. Then some scientists noticed. It wasn’t a week before they had a government mandate out for all O-p’s to turn themselves in. I often think, as I stand or crouch in this sweltering mass of human flesh, that they could have been smarter. Maybe mandated a vaccine, saying that O-p’s would be able to save themselves if they came to the medical facilities. Doubtless, in the round-up, many people escaped. Not me, or my Dad. He was an old, tough-as-a-boot farmer. He would have his rights, or he would get shot. He took the bullet.

And now I’m alone. No, I’m not really alone. There’s lots of people here, but it doesn’t matter how many there are, because we’re all waiting to die.

For the good of humanity.

They say that when the O-p’s are exterminated (that’s the word they use: exterminated. As if we’re just bugs) then the people who are sick will die, and the rest of humanity will survive. Thing is-

The doors are opening – those giant iron jaws that shut on us, we don’t know how long ago. Finally they’re opening and the smell of fresh, clean air rushes in. Then the people rush out. It’s a stampede, until someone starts screaming at the front. A lot of other people are screaming. It doesn’t take long for the telephone effect to reach guys at the back, like me.

“They have guns.”

“Don’t go out too fast or they’ll shoot you.”

“Keep your eyes on the ground.”

They separate us into groups of about fifty, and marching us down a long hall, we go through a metal door with the number 28 on it. For a while, I’m just standing there searching the utter darkness around me. A light suddenly turns on – like a spotlight. At the end of the long room there stands an electric chair.

“They call it Crowning,” an old man says.

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” I ask, eyeing the metal throne.

He shrugs, resigned.

We’re all resigned. For the good of human race! I used to think I was part of the human race, but not anymore. I am a parasite that must be exterminated. I am the sickness within their bones.

They’re calling the numbers now.

“Rylie Carter. Rylie Carter. Take the next place.”

Slowly I walk to through the waves of people, all staring with wide, animal-like eyes.

It’s the old man again. He’s first in line.

He’s called forward. He sits down. His body vibrates and I hear a barely muffled scream.

That’s when I realize: I’m second in line to the throne.

I don’t want to. I don’t want to!

“No! I don’t want to!” a voice screams. I throw myself forward. Something cracks sharply.

Darkness.