The Prologue
1.
Roy Buckley, looking like the everyday young Joe, rolled off a pull-out sofa into a pizza box on the floor. He looked at the cat purring for hope of affection, oblivious to his plight or uncaring.
“Weird dream.” Roy scratched the cat behind the ears. “Really, really weird.”
He stood up, wondering how the hell he had rolled off, using bare hands to wipe pizza grease from his pants to his T-shirt. He picked up his cell phone to check the time.
8:41 PM
A knock came at the front door. Roy could see Tracy, Jamison’s ex or current girlfriend, peering at him through the dirty glass squares outlining the front door.
“Roy! Roy, open this door! I know he’s in there!” Tracey tapped bony, white knuckles against the glass.
“Do not open that door. I’m sick of her shit,” Jamison called from the kitchen, barreling into the living room like a tornado in a dingy robe, holding a box of Fruit Loops.
Roy rolled back onto the sofa bed, hearing it crackle.
“Get the fuck off my property or I’ll call the police!” Jamison yelled through the glass; his mouth separated from Tracy’s desperate hands by only a few centimeters.
“The space between what we got and what we want,” Roy said.
Jamison turned to him. “Huh? Can you believe this crazy bitch?”
“No, man.”
Roy rocked to his feet and went inside the house’s only bathroom—the one room he could lock. With the sounds of anger muffled by the doors and walls, he let out a deep sigh. After hearing the bullshit come to a halt, he went outside to an unusually hot night. It seemed every year was hotter than the one before.
Seated in his dead grandmother’s red Chevy Lumina, he tried to shake sleep off. Seeing an old can of Red Bull, he turned it up, letting the warm liquid drain his throat.
Thick syrup.
He lit a cigarette, watching Tracy, who was now sitting in her car, temporarily surrendered. She had the window rolled down, blowing smoke into the night air. Her hand rested on a wrinkled forehead. She looked tired; he was tired too but had an hour drive ahead of him—one he felt like a fool for making. Boredom? The hope of something? Something better than sitting in that nasty house. He turned the car on with a smirk that looked a lot like shame.
Since giving up meth a few months ago, life just didn’t have the same zing. But then, again, meth was hard to compete with. While driving, he reminisced on the taste, the smell, and the feel of it. It was okay to do this, to daydream about it, his counselor, Renwick—an older man with twenty years sobriety—had told him.
Just make sure you imagine the shit end of it too. You see the problem with dreams is people just picture the good shit, a new bag of hard, a hot girl, the fast car and forget the overdosing, she’s already married, or a three-car pile-up.
It was something his counselor liked to tell everyone. It’s one of those things people do; they say something once that everyone likes, and then, they keep repeating it.
Polly wants a cracker.
2.
It was nearly ten at night when Roy pulled into the small diner, Sue Bob’s. He was told to look for a younger woman with bright red hair. She had called herself Angela on the phone. Roy ducked inside with shoulders rolled forwards, nervous, dragging on that fantasy—still, trying hard to remember the shit end of it.
A waitress cheerily called from the counter, “sit where you like.”
The place was deserted except for a few loners sitting over coffee. Truckers, maybe. A weigh station was less than a mile up the road. Roy picked a seat furthest from the door, turning to look out the window as the waitress came up with a tray of coffee and water.
“What it’ll be, honey?”
“Coffee for now. I’m waiting on someone,” he said wearily.
“Alright.” She sat a plain white cup on the plastic tabletop. Her nails were bright pink. Pink ribbons were pinned to her apron and a nametag read, “God Bless You.”
He looked at his phone again, starting to feel like an idiot. He placed his head in his hands, ashamed of his own life. The desperation that would lead him to chase a fantasy in a plain box. He pulled the slip of paper he had found in the box from his wallet.
‘You are a very lucky person. Call this number (870-878-9997).’
He stuffed the slip into a pocket on his flannel shirt, looking at his phone again.
9:59
Looking up, he saw her enter: a surprisingly young woman, unattractive, wearing jeans, a flannel shirt like him and leather work boots, caked with mud. She looked rushed, on edge. Her nails bitten to the bone. Somehow seemingly knowing it was him, she sat down with a weary smile, red hair falling over green eyes.
The waitress, quick to the table, smiled, popping a piece of gum. “Coffee, sweetheart?”
“No, nothing for me. Thank you,” Katie said.
As the waitress walked off, Katie took out a canteen from a large quilt purse. She took a sip, offering her hand, “I’m Angela… Angela Kimble,” Katie stuttered.
Roy took her hand reluctantly; afraid she would feel the sweat on his palms. “Roy. I’m Roy.”
“So, tell me about yourself, Roy. Just a little background.” Katie leaned forward, squinting her eyes as if he were a specimen under a microscope.
“I’m sorry?”
“The fate of all life on this planet is in your hands, son. And, well, I need to know a little bit about who the hell you are.”
Roy went to stand up, done with crazy for the day, holding his hands up and waving her off.
Katie sternly motioned for him to sit down, raising her shirt to reveal a gun belt holding a Smith and Wesson .380.
Roy sat down, mouthing the words: “What the fuck is this?”
Katie flashed her eyes down and sighed. “You found the box, right?”
“Yeah…I called you, didn’t I?”
“Roy, it wasn’t the only box, but one of a hundred scattered across the world, dropped via Cessna planes. The first twelve or so people to find a box and make contact are our jurors. By the way, how’d you come across it anyways—the box that is? How’d you find it?”
“Jurors?”
“How’d you find the box?” Katie asked, seemingly annoyed at having to ask again.
Roy heard his voice come out like a whine. “My buddy Jami does construction, and I was helping him on a job. A few of us were digging around an old dump for abandoned tools and there it was.”
“Who picked the box up first?”
“I did.”
Katie leaned back. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming tonight, right?”
“I did exactly what you told me to do when we talked on the phone. Now, tell me what this is all about? I mean I didn’t come here to get a gun in my face,” he said, scanning the scene, still looking for an escape route. Then he turned to her face, searching for a hint.
“We dropped boxes all over the globe. The first twelve to find them are our jurors.”
“Jurors?” Roy asked, incredulous.
“Exactly. And the defendants are you and me—all of us. Humanity is being put on trial. You and eleven others will decide their—well, our—fate,” Katie said with a resigned sadness in her voice, turning her head to look outside the window.
Roy laughed. It felt like the only thing he could do. There was no way any of this shit was real. “Ok, you got me. What kind of game is this? What’s this? Some sort of reality T.V or somethun’?”
Katie turned back with tears collected in her eyes, sternly. “This most certainly is not a game but--”
The waitress walked up with her red-lipped, between bubble gum pop smile. “Y’all gettin’ anything to eat?”
Katie looked at Roy. “You need to eat. Order something. It’s on me.”
Roy felt his stomach growl and that pissed him off. “You want me to eat?
“Order something. You'll need to eat,” Katie said calmly, though he picked up on something disturbing in her voice. She pulled a stack of papers out of her bag.
“Eggs. I’m fine with eggs,” he said, turning to the waitress who was still holding a smile.
“How you want them eggs, honey?”
“Scrambled.”
“And you, honey?”
Katie smiled faintly. “Nothing, thanks.”
The waitress beamed, looking at Roy. “Your order will be right up.”
“You come here a lot?” Roy asked, searching for clues. He noticed the yellow and white checkered floors, scraped, and cut by the traffic of people, fallen plates, forks and cups.
“No, I’ve never been here. I’m from Memphis. I only came here to meet you. Look, pay attention,” Katie said, putting her palms on the table. Her face hardening again.
Roy nodded, feeling like a damn joke. Like his entire life was a sick joke and this moment was the butt of it.
“Okay, listen. A group of us…call us scientists or activists or whatever came together after discovering a frightening but very real scenario. We built it—well the government built it—but we got access to a computer program which has predicted with 93.7% accuracy that all life on this planet, including human life, will be all but extinct within the next decade due to the inevitable civil war, and unrest from cascading ecological crises that will inevitably result in nuclear fall-out.”
Roy shook his head, barely comprehending what she was saying. “O.K., I get it. I’m done. Whatever this is, it’s not fucking funny. You want to kill me? Then shoot. I don’t have much to live for anyways.” Roy started out of his seat, eyeing the exit. He was too tired to be strung along, and he still couldn’t remember the shit end of a bag of meth. He only knew that sober wasn’t working out.
“Sit down,” Katie said, raising her voice, barely, but sternly enough. One of the loners he saw earlier and had assumed was a trucker stood up, making sure to catch Roy’s eyes. The man opened a brown leather jacket revealing a gun in his belt.
Roy sat down; his mouth turned down into a helpless line as the waitress dropped his food off.
Katie tapped the table. "Are you listening?”
Roy looked up with rage on his face.
“Look, I can empathize. I know this must be scary, jarring, and confusing, but trust me, Roy. Trust me. You’re safe. I promise.” Katie said, pulling a stack of papers from her bag. “Now, I’ll need you to sign this contract,” she continued, an assurance in her voice that seemed genuine at best, manipulative at worst. Roy couldn’t tell.
“No. No… I’m not signing anything until I know what this is all about,” Roy demanded, pushing the papers away.
“You will sign it,” Katie said, so sure, while neatly placing them back in her bag. “You are safe, Roy.”
“Safe?” Roy scoffed.
“Look, you need you to listen. This is not a game. This is far from a game. You have been given the opportunity to save this planet and all life on it. Like I told you on the phone, you’ve won the lottery of a lifetime.”
Roy nodded, asking himself why it seemed every decision he made cumulated in some bizarre disaster. This one, he thought, really took the cake.
The whole damn cake.
“Are you listening?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” he asked.
“You’re one of the twelve chosen jurors from across the world. You’re not leaving this diner as you came but with me. There will be a car for us in a few minutes. We have a flight leaving at 5:00 p.m. tomorrow,” she said, pronouncing every word hard as if he had trouble understanding English.
“What? To where?”
“Roy, listen. You and the other jurors will be sequestered until the trial begins and during the trial itself. I will make all the arrangements to make sure you have everything—everything you need—before we leave here. Clothes, medicine, and whatever else you need, you will have it.”
Roy rubbed the sweat off his hands onto his jeans. “Who’s putting on this trial—the government? And please, why me?” he asked, hearing the whine is his voice, again, ashamed, but hoping it would garner mercy.
“It’s a secret trial. The government doesn’t know anything about this and never will. Can’t trust them bastards...Why? We needed a random sample of people from all over the world. You weren’t chosen. You aren’t special. You’re just random.”
Roy hung his head like the heavy bloom of a flower dying, feeling his pulse pick up speed as reality began to make room for his thoughts. He was being kidnapped.
“Roy, please try to understand what I'm saying."
“Okay,” he uttered, feeling like it was already routine: him rolling over to a captor. He was used to being a slave, once to meth and now to whoever the hell was sitting across from him. His voice trembled, and he stopped scanning the diner. It was all rigged, anyways. Even the waitress was in on whatever shit this way, he thought, bitter.
“Look at me,” Katie said.
Roy looked up.
“In a few weeks, you’ll be presented with a vast amount of evidence concerning everything I’m telling you. This will all be fleshed out. After which, you and others will decide whether or not to use the intervention.”
“Intervention?”
Katie looked up the ceiling, taking a long pause. “We’ve formulated a virus that will kill almost all human life if unleashed. Some will survive but not many. You’re talking somewhere in the range of 3-7%. If the jury chooses the intervention, to unleash the virus, you will survive as will three others that you decide should have access to the vaccine—anyone of your choosing. You will also give Earth a second chance at life. Without intervention, the virus will be destroyed and within twelve years' time, humanity will eradicate themselves along with all other life forms on this planet, and the planet’s ability to sustain life beyond one-celled organisms and perhaps a few insects.”
“A virus?” Roy said, thinking to himself but talking aloud.
“To many, humans are the largest virus on the planet. But don’t concern yourself with all of this now. You’ll be presented with all the evidence at the trial, and it will be presented in a way that you can understand, okay?”
Katie’s face warmed, again, as her large green eyes titled in softness. “This will make more sense in the next few days as you meet the other jurors. And you’re lucky, Roy. This is truly a rare opportunity. Most people walk in the dark. In a few months, you won’t be one of those unfortunate people, and that makes you rather lucky.”
Roy looked down at the coffee cup, still full, smirking. And the plate of eggs, untouched.
“So, before our ride pulls up, Roy, tell me about yourself. I’m curious. Who exactly holds my fate—all of our fate in their hands?”
“What’s your vote?” Roy blurted, barely looking up.
“I’m not a juror. I’m…I’m one of the people who put all this together.”
“But I’m curious. What side of all this are you on?”
“The side of life, of course. Kill the virus,” Katie whispered.
“And you think we’re the virus?” he asked, pegging her.
“I don’t think. I know.” Katie said, noticing the headlights of a large truck coming through the window.
Katie pulled the contract back out from her bag, handing Roy a pen. “Sign it. Sign it now.”
Roy yanked the contract into his hands, reading it over. He was consenting to a mock trial and for participation would receive five hundred thousand dollars, it read. His eyes widened, and a calm wave came over him. This was some sort of reality show. And maybe, he was lucky. Five hundred thousand dollars lucky. Roy looked around the diner for TV cameras, but nothing. Just the two loners eyeing him from their tables. Even the waitress was absent.
“Sign it, Roy.” Katie said, losing patience.
“Five hundred thousand dollars? This is a mock trial?”
“Sign it, Roy.”
Roy signed, hastily.
Katie pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and placed it on the table, motioning that it was time to leave. The two loners stood up with Katie. Roy walked in front of Katie, feeling her hand on his back, thinking he was either lucky or fucked. He didn’t know which.
Tiffany M. M. Lindfield
Tiffany M. M. Lindfield is just there, to your left. One time, she and her friends exchanged clothing with the people in the car next to them on the freeway, while in motion. Her writing can be found on tiny scraps of paper littering the closets of her home.