The world has about 7 billion people in it right now. Every second, five people are born. Simultaneously, every second two people die. This means we’re adding three people to the world, on average, every second.
*
The first sign of the morning is a bright light, red against my closed lids. The next are the rustling of sleeping bags as four people sit up around me, preparing for breakfast. Then, the rustling of sleeping bags from the cubicles on our right and left, through the paper-thin walls. Soon, a new wall is built—a wall of sound—as five thousand people wake up around us; five thousand people; five thousand lights; five thousand shades of the same beige. One crowded apartment building.
The next sound is the whir of breakfast being spat out through a hole in the beige walls. A green tray smacks onto my lap, complete with a red apple, glistening like plastic, and a slice of bread that isn’t buttered. There’s a shot glass of water.
A small, square television turns automatically on, and a woman dressed in a bright pink plasters on a smile, and begins to talk. She tells us it’s a sunny day, and that traffic is looking good. She does a dramatic pause, and then shouts—and it hurts my ears more than anything—“Now, what you’ve all been waiting for! The countdown!” She does an annoying giggle. “We’re down to 13, 999, 894, 224!” A picture appears of the large, digital sign that stands in the middle of the town, displaying the very number. I hate to look at that, and I’m glad when the camera’s back on the reporter. “That’s right, people!” she continues, “105, 776 down, and a lot more to go! But we’re getting there! Do your part,” she turns serious, and glares at each and every one of us, “to save humanity.” The morning update is over, and the TV shuts quickly off. We’ll be forced to tune in for the afternoon.
The wall regurgitates for a bit, but I don’t notice. It spits out a few pieces of silverware to go with my drab breakfast. This time, I’m distracted, and the tip of a fork slices my pinky and leaves a red dot of blood. “Are you crazy?” sputters the woman on my right, snapping away from the TV as she promptly sticks me with a disinfectant bandage. “Do you want to be in the countdown, too? You’re going to kill us all. Put your mask on,” she adds. I nod, and slide my white mask closer. I’d put it on after eating.
Looking at the white mask, I remember when I was a doctor. I thought these made me look Official. My heart drops. I’m not a doctor, I remind myself sternly. I’m not a doctor because the seriously ill people have to die. They have to die because we need to get our 14 billion down to 13 billion, at least, by January. It’s terrifying, but everyone around me is trying to stay positive, I know that. And I have to do my part—I have to farm so the 13 billion left can eat. Nearly everyone has to farm; I’m not special.
Reassured at my little mantra, I nod my head and finish breakfast. Once done, I shove it through the hole in the wall, maybe a little sharply. With absolutely no thoughts in my head, I walk out the door and down ten sets of stairs, where I grab a car pass and pack into a truck. Thirteen other people in white masks grimace as I step in and squeeze into the back. I try not to think about them or their families or their life. I try not to think, period. There’s nothing I can do.
*
Three months go by before anything interesting happens. Three months I wake up next to two women and two men in a small beige cubicle to the sound of a screechy morning update with a new number every day and repressing fear. Three months I rake until my hands have grown blistery and tough. Every day I wish I were anywhere but here—the inhabited land up north—but I know this is by the water and this is where you have to be to survive.
