The clerk set the gun on the counter.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s a seven-day waiting period.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tommy peeled off an extra hundred and slid it across the counter. The clerk hesitated, then pocketed the bill and loaded the weapon into a brown paper bag.<\/p>\n
\u201cSome weeks are shorter than others.\u201d<\/p>\n
He added a box of bullets to the bag, then rang up the total. \u201cYou need any extra ammo?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d replied Tommy. \u201cOne box will be plenty.\u201d<\/p>\n
* * * * *<\/p>\n
It was pissing rain on the walk back to his apartment, the first time it had rained in the city for months. The water cut greasy rivers down his cheeks, tasting faintly of gasoline and ash. At least the city\u2019s consistent<\/i>, he thought, even the rain\u2019s corrupt<\/i>. He ducked into a familiar coffee shop to douse the chill. He ordered what he always ordered and dug in his pockets for exact change.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you believe those freaks?\u201d<\/p>\n
Tommy followed the kid\u2019s gaze out the front window, across the street. A pack of No-Faters gathered on the corner, their placards bleeding ink as they fought to keep a fire alive in a trash bin. One of them, a chubby white kid with unconvincing dreadlocks, pulled out a white card, the size of the index cards Tommy\u2019s students used to cram notes onto before exams, and tossed it into the fire. He stepped back, arms out, relishing the cheers of approval the protesters poured out at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, you\u2019re home free now, asshole,\u201d said the kid behind the counter. He finished with Tommy\u2019s order and passed the steaming cardboard cup to him. \u201cWhat\u2019s that shit supposed to accomplish?\u201d<\/p>\n
Tommy shrugged. \u201cIt\u2019s a symbol. Rage against the dying of the light, that sort of thing. Just human nature.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMore like rage against getting a job, the stupid hippies.\u201d The kid flipped a rag off his apron string and wiped down the counter where Tommy\u2019s cup had spilled a few drops. \u201cYou wanna know what my card says? Burned to death. Bad news, right? Not exactly the finest hand in the deck, right? But I still smoke. \u2018cause what\u2019s the point? Way I see it, the way we\u2019re gonna die is the way we\u2019re gonna die. That\u2019s the way it\u2019s always been, motherfucking death machine or no motherfucking death machine.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tommy didn\u2019t say anything, just slugged back half the cup of coffee, letting it burn his throat, not caring. Outside, the rain had stopped as the No-Faters tossed another card onto the altar of inevitability.<\/p>\n
* * * * *<\/p>\n
He dropped the envelope into the mailbox. He\u2019d written it all out, the whole thing, the night before in his motel room. As he watched Mel\u2019s address\u2014her new address\u2014swallowed by the box\u2019s maw, he marveled at how much life could change with the simple rearrangement of a few letters and numbers. She should get it by the end of the week, but she\u2019d already know by then. She would have heard about it on the news, or someone would have told her. He\u2019d be the name on a thousand pundits\u2019 lips before rush hour. Lots of people asking why, but she\u2019d be the only one with the answer. It felt right that way.<\/p>\n
As he waited for the crosswalk light to change, he noticed the bar across the street. There was always a bar within walking distance of these places, without fail, or a liquor store. They were like remoras, feeding from the belly of the Death Machine wherever it sprang up. He could see a few of them in there now, heads down, that uniquely blank look on their faces. Some of them had their death cards laid out on the bar, staring as if waiting for the ink to shift, for the universe to hiccup, for destiny to laugh and admit, \u201cJust kidding.\u201d Others laughed and caroused, to all appearances celebrating a promotion at work rather than a glimpse at their own end.<\/p>\n
Tommy waited in line, smiled at the girl behind the glass partition, and forked over $11.50 for his ticket. The Death Machines were everywhere now\u2014doctor\u2019s offices, mall kiosks. They were both wholly remarkable and thoroughly mundane. Not this one, though. This one was the first. The first Death Machine ever, entombed in a glass-and-chrome building that was half museum and half theme park. If<\/i>, thought Tommy, you turned Auschwitz into a theme park<\/i>.<\/p>\n
Tommy ignored the huge plasma screens somberly reciting the history of this holy temple, the narrator\u2019s voice smooth and comforting as the screens displayed the most famous photograph in the world. The first Death Machine, its creators lined up behind it, grinning with the pride of those who know they\u2019ve changed the world. He\u2019d heard the rumors, of course, that the whole thing had been an accident, that they\u2019d been trying to create something else and only stumbled ass-over-teacups backwards into their discovery. Either way, they were all rich as sin now, at least the ones that were still alive. Not so the older man with a smile like Norman Rockwell\u2019s grandpa, who had eaten a shotgun barrel six months after that photo was taken. Tommy wondered if he\u2019d bothered to look at his death card first. Was it the knowing that drove him to that end, or the not knowing? Did it even really matter?<\/p>\n
Tommy joined the queue that snaked its way up to the Machine. It was a weekday, so the crowds were light. It only took a minute or so until he reached the front of the line. The Machine\u2019s words greeted him, the same as they always greeted everyone. \u201cPlease insert your finger.\u201d It was a sentence that had become the punchline to a thousand jokes and monologues and headlines over the past few years, but Tommy didn\u2019t think any of them were funny. The least they could have done was polish up the death sentence a little. Maybe hire some New York Times bestseller to do a pass, come up with something really snappy, something to bring a smile to your face on the bus ride home.<\/p>\n
He winced as the needle pierced his fingertip, sucked at the tiny pearl of blood that peered out. The Machine buzzed, flashed \u201cThank you,\u201d and spit out the card. He took it and moved aside to let the redheaded woman behind him have her turn. She was young, maybe nineteen, and from the way she was shaking, she\u2019d never done this before. He wasn\u2019t sure whether to envy her that.<\/p>\n
He read the card, just one word. Seven letters, no substitutions. So final, and yet, in a way, so freeing. Tommy had never worried about car accidents or plane crashes or cancer. The same word that doomed him had also rendered him, in a way, untouchable. Was he only here because of the word? Would he have had the courage to do what needed to be done if the word was different? He smeared blood across the card, tossed the card into a nearby trash can along with his doubts. He reached in his pocket, felt the shape of the gun, solid and comforting.<\/p>\n
The red-haired woman stepped over, her eyes glued to the card, welling up. She was pale as her legs gave out and she lowered herself to the floor. He crouched next to her.<\/p>\n
\u201cFirst time?\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked at him, but didn\u2019t seem to see him at first. Then her eyes focused, and she brushed at the tears with the back of her hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah. I guess I wasn\u2019t really ready for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her other hand white-knuckled the card. Tommy could read part of her word, \u201cExplo–\u201d, the rest eclipsed by her fingers.<\/p>\n
\u201cI haven\u2019t met anybody yet who is.\u201d He pulled a tissue out of the pocket without the gun and offered it to her.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt could be wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tommy smiled. \u201cIt could be. They say it\u2019s infallible, but it only has to be wrong once, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
She smiled back at him, weakly, then looked sick to her stomach. She shook her head. \u201cMy mom told me not to get checked. She said it was better not to know. Now there\u2019s no taking it back, you know? It\u2019s like\u2026now nothing else I do matters.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stood up, one hand sliding back to his pocket, wrapping around the gun. He offered her his other hand, and she took it, her knees barely finding the strength to stand. For a moment, the curve of her face reminded him of Mel, and he felt his commitment wavering. \u00a0Did he have the right? \u00a0But then his eyes turned to the screen above, to the photograph, to the smiling faces. Did he have the right? Did they? They\u2019d killed the whole world. She would die to\u2014just maybe\u2014restore it to life.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlice.\u201d<\/p>\n
His thumb caressed the back of her hand. \u201cAlice, I want you to close your eyes.\u201d<\/p>\n
On any other day, she might have been suspicious, but today he was human contact, he was comfort, and that was enough. She closed her eyes.<\/p>\n
Tommy pulled the gun from his pocket, locked the hammer back. He thought of his word, and her word, and billions of tiny little soulless goddamn cards around the world, each with their own word.<\/p>\n
It only had to be wrong once, he told himself. Just once.<\/p>\n
He lifted the gun, aiming at the center of her forehead.<\/p>\n
Except\u2026<\/p>\n
His stomach wrenched as a terrible realization hit him. He envisioned the hammer falling, the spark, the bullet driven forward by the explosion. By the explosion<\/i>. The Machine, the damned Machine, would still win by technicality.<\/p>\n
He staggered back away from her, and she opened her eyes, confused. She gasped as she saw the gun in his hand. He spun, back toward the front of the line, toward the sound of the Machine vomiting up a new proclamation of doom. It wasn\u2019t too late. He could still beat it. He leveled the gun at the man at the front of the line, trenchcoat and wild hair.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou!\u201d<\/p>\n
He heard screams from the crowd, the squawk of walkie-talkies and the clatter of security guards\u2019 booted feet. He only had seconds. He closed the distance, jammed the gun barrel against the man\u2019s head.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does your card say?\u201d<\/p>\n
The man\u2019s card lay in the machine\u2019s tray, face down, future unwritten. The man was calm\u2014why was he so calm?<\/p>\n
Tommy screamed: \u201cPick it up and tell me what it says!\u201d<\/p>\n
The man smiled at him.<\/p>\n
Furious, frantic, Tommy grabbed the card, flipped it over, reeled from d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu. The card read: \u201cSuicide.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man shrugged. His trenchcoat hit the floor. Tommy saw the wires circling the man\u2019s chest, through the gray claylike bricks, leading up to what looked like a TV remote in the man\u2019s hand. Tommy thought it was odd; it looked just like it always did in the movies.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo fate,\u201d said the man, an edge of madness in his eyes.<\/p>\n
Tommy wanted to laugh. The Machine never said it was his<\/i> suicide.<\/p>\n
The Machine only had to be wrong once.<\/p>\n
But not today.<\/p>\n
The man pressed the button.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The clerk set the gun on the counter. \u201cThere\u2019s a seven-day waiting period.\u201d Tommy peeled off an extra hundred and slid it across the counter. The clerk hesitated, then pocketed the bill and loaded the weapon into a brown paper … Continue reading