Atlanta Run

Chapter Seven

Euthanasia? What in the world was Euthanasia? Blade racked his memory, knowing he’d seen the word before, but he couldn’t recall its meaning. He saw Glisson turn white as the proverbial sheet. Captain Yost was chuckling triumphantly.

“I won’t go!” Glisson cried. “You can’t make me.”

“Want to bet?” Captain Yost retorted.

“It’s against the law,” Glisson said. “Only citizens are permitted to be officially extinguished.”

Captain Yost grinned. “Not any more.” He paused. “You’ve been gone a long time, and you would have been better off if you’d stayed away. During your absence the Civil Council amended the Euthanasia Directorate’s admissions policy. And guess what?”

“They can’t!” Glisson protested.

“They can and they will,” Captain Yost stated. “Anyone sixty-six or older is automatically admitted to Euthanasia. After your last visit, I went to records and had them run a computer check on you. That’s how I discovered your age. Frankly, I was surprised to see you show up here again.”

“A man’s got to eat,” Glisson said.

“Where you’re going, you won’t need food,” Yost noted.

Blade ventured to intervene on the elderly man’s behalf.

“Does this have anything to do with the conversation Glisson and I had?”

“Not really,” Captain Yost answered. “I did overhear parts of your talk.

You’d be smart to forget everything he told you. He’s a borderline rebel.”

“I am not,” Glisson said, disputing the officer.

“By law,” Captain Yost went on, disregarding Glisson’s comment, “indigents have their rights too. Until two months ago, the Civil Directorate was required to temporarily feed and clothe all destitute persons, even bums who showed up at our gates begging for a handout.”

He looked at Glisson. “Case in point.”

“I’ve never begged for anything in my life,” Glisson said.

“We’re tired of letting freeloaders leech off us,” Captain Yost declared.

“Listen,” Glisson said, “you can keep your rotten food and moth ridden clothes. Who needs them? Just let me go.”

“Do you hear this bum?” Yost asked Blade. “He has the gall to show up every now and then for a free handout, for hot meals and new clothes, and then he hits the road again. His type has no redeeming social value.”

“That’s me,” Glisson agreed. “Now will you let me go?”

Captain Yost fixed a baleful gaze on the old man. “Not on your life. I told you. The Civil Council has extended the Euthanasia Direcorate’s authority to include indigents. And according to the records, you’re sixty-six.” He smirked. “Are you ready for the Sleeper?”

Glisson abruptly whirled and took off as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.

Blade took a step after him.

“Don’t waste your energy,” Captain Yost said. He motioned with his right arm. “Get him!” he barked.

The five policemen sprinted in pursuit of the fleeing Glisson.

“I don’t know where the fool thinks he’s going,” Captain Yost observed sarcastically.

Blade was trying to comprehend the situation, sorting the information he’d learned. The government of Atlanta was administered by seven Directorates. The heads of the Directorates—the seven Peers, as they styled themselves— formed an executive body known as the Civil Council.

They were ultimately responsible for running the city. But what was this business about being 66 years old? And he still couldn’t recall the definition of “euthanasia.”

The five troopers in blue had caught up with Glisson.

“Once the social parasites are disposed of, we’ll have the perfect society,” Captain Yost commented.

“Disposed of?”

Captain Yost nodded. “That’s what the Sleeper Chambers are for.

Eternal oblivion.”

Blade suddenly remembered the meaning of “euthanasia.” It was the act of putting someone to death! “Glisson will be killed?” he queried, shocked.

“Killed is the wrong word,” Captain Yost said. “Think of it as a mercy disposition.”

“Euthanasia is permitted in Atlanta?” Blade questioned.

“Hell, it’s encouraged,” Captain Yost answered.

“I don’t understand,” Blade admitted.

“What’s to understand?” Captain Yost responded. “American society was leaning toward officially sanctioned euthanasia before the war. We’ve simply put into effect a practice they lacked the balls to implement. Mercy dispositions are essential to a well-managed society. Once citizens have outlived their usefulness, why keep them around to burden everyone else?”

“Here he is, sir,” one of the men in blue announced as they returned.

Two of them were supporting Glisson, their hands holding his upper arms.

“Let me go, damn you!” Glisson snapped.

“Save your breath,” Captain Yost said. “Bring him,” he directed his men. Then he turned to Blade. “Again, I apologize for the slight delay.

Please come with me.” The officer wheeled and headed toward the monoliths.

Blade fell in beside Yost. He saw citizens on both sidewalks, and he noticed they were all wearing jumpsuits of varying colors. Some wore light blue jumpsuits exactly like Chastity’s, while others worn brown or green.

With the singular exception of the dark blue uniforms the police were wearing, everyone was attired in jumpsuits. Why?

“I take it you don’t approve of our mercy dispositions,” Captain Yost commented.

“No,” Blade said.

“Why not?”

“How can you justify killing innocent people?”

“Who says they’re innocent?” Captain Yost rejoined. “If they have outlived their usefulness, then they’re guilty of existing at the expense of the productive members of society.”

“Might makes right, eh?” Blade said.

“Not at all,” Captain Yost replied. “The quest for the good life is good for all, and the good of the many outweighs the good of the few.”

“Did you make that up?”

“No,” Captain Yost said. “Every school child in Atlanta is taught about social values. That’s a saying we memorize.”

“So you… dispose of unproductive members of your society for the good of all the rest?” Blade inquired.

Captain Yost nodded. “Now you’ve got it.”

“How do you determine who is productive and who isn’t?”

“The Euthanasia Directorate determines the value of every person.”

Blade gazed at the seven monoliths, edifices now imbued with a sinister aura. “What about the other Directorates?”

“The Civil Directorate codifies and administers our Civil Rights,” Yost revealed. “The Ethics Directorate regulates morality and sex—”

“How do they regulate morality?” Blade interrupted.

“You know,” Captain Yost said. “They insure one group doesn’t try to force its morality on others.”

“Give me an example.”

“Back in the old days there were those who objected to sex between consenting adults of the same gender,” Yost detailed. “But today, anything goes. The personal rights of sexual partners are protected by the Ethics Directorate.”

“You place a lot of importance on your rights,” Blade noted.

“Civil Rights are everything to a civilized society,” Yost said. “Our rights define our freedom.”

“I didn’t think freedom required defining,” Blade observed.

“If you’d attended our schools, you would understand,” Captain Yost stated. He nodded at the monoliths. “The Community Directorate operates our mandatory daycare and schools. Abortions and birth control are under the jurisdiction of the Life Directorate. The Progress Directorate is devoted to science. And the Orientation Directorate makes sure everyone’s head is on straight.”

“They what?”

“They test everyone to guarantee each person has the right values,” Captain Yost replied. “The right outlook on life.”

“Who decides which values are the right ones?”

“The pyschologists at Orientation, of course.”

“Of course,” Blade said.

“Yes, sir,” Captain Yost declared happily. “I’m very fortunate to be living here. You might consider doing the same.”

“Outsiders are allowed to live in Atlanta?” Blade asked.

Captain Yost nodded. “After a three-month indoctrination course, you’d fit right in.”

“Where would I take this course?”

“At Orientation. Actually, you’d live there the whole three months.

When they got through with you, you’d be a new person.”

“I bet I would,” Blade concurred. The more he discovered, the more alarmed he became. The citizens of Atlanta were manipulated like puppets, brainwashed into accepting a social philosophy and compelled to live their lives subject to the Directorates. The seven heads of the Directorates, the Peers, wielded total power over the populace. He had encountered dictatorships before, but never a system like Atlanta’s. The dictator wasn’t a single person; the tyrant was a system of rights stipulated by a select few.

“One day, our government will serve as the model for the government of the world,” Captain Yost boasted.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Yost responded. “Other cities will naturally follow our example once the word gets around.”

Blade almost laughed. There was a mind-boggling thought! “How did all of this come about?”

“I’m a bit rusty on my history,” Captain Yost said. “But I know it started a few years after the war. The federal and state governments had collapsed. There was a shortage of food, clothing, and fuel. The people were desperate. That’s when Dewey appeared.”

“Who was he?”

“An intellectual. Before the war he was a professor at a university. He organized the survivors and wrote Atlanta’s constitution. He was responsible for overseeing the construction of the wall to protect the citizens from the looters and the mutants.” Captain Yost paused. “Dewey was the greatest man who ever lived.”

“Did he set up the Directorates?” Blade probed.

“Yeah.”

They were entering a commercial district. The pedestrian traffic was much heavier, and light vehicle traffic had materialized.

“There aren’t a lot of cars and trucks on the road,” Blade pointed out.

“Cars and trucks are a luxury very few can afford,” Captain Yost said.

“Most are operated by government employees.”

“Do you manufacture everything the city needs?” Blade asked.

“Most of it,” Yost disclosed. “We mint our money, grow most of our food, and produce the clothes on our backs. We’ve established trade relations with several other cities.”

“Which ones?”

Captain Yost ignored the query. He turned left, heading along a narrow street.

Blade looked back. Glisson was walking between two of the troopers, his features downcast. The pedestrians all studiously minded their own business; not one gave the patrol any attention.

“So who are you searching for in Atlanta?” Captain Yost inquired.

“I was told that a cousin of mine, Llewellyn Snow, lives here,” Blade lied. “I hoped I can find her.”

“You don’t know her address?”

“No,” Blade said.

“The Central Directory in the Civil Directorate should be able to help you,” Captain Yost commented. “Your Escort will assist you in using the Directory.”

Blade heard the sound of an engine coming from above him and to the left. He glanced skyward and spotted another plane, a different model than the one the Warriors had seen previously. “Does Atlanta have an airport?”

“Sure does,” Yost confirmed. “The Peers and other executive types use them on a regular basis.”

“Where do they fly?”

“Oh, here and there.”

Blade received the distinct impression the officer was being evasive when it came to the subject of possible trade and diplomatic contacts.

Again, why? Was the information a secret?

The first monolith towered over the structures directly ahead. The seven Directorates were arranged in a line from north to south along a broad boulevard.

“That’s the Community Directorate,” Captain Yost divulged. “Then comes Euthanasia and Civil.”

Blade gazed at the nearest structure. People were coming and going through a half-dozen glass doors, bustling about their business.

Ninety-eight percent of the citizens wore jumpsuits. The rest were either police or men and women in red suits. “Why does almost everyone wear jumpsuits?” he asked.

“For identification purposes,” Captain Yost replied.

“How do you mean?”

“The practice was started after the war when there was a shortage of clothing,” Yost detailed. “Each person was allotted a few uniforms and that was it. Dewey instituted the custom of having the uniforms color coded according to trade or profession. For instance, anyone wearing a brown uniform is in a manual-labor field. Green uniforms denote lower-level Admin types, like file clerks or accountants or secretaries.

Light blue is for middle-management positions.”

“What about the red suits?” Blade inquired.

“Upper echelon.”

“How convenient,” Blade remarked. “I even saw children wearing jumpsuits.”

“Everyone must wear the color of their class,” Captain Yost said. “It’s illegal to do otherwise.”

“The people don’t mind?”

Yost seemed surprised by the question. “Why should they mind? Our system is logical and effective. Everyone knows their place, and there’s a place for everyone.”

They passed the first monolith, headed for the second.

“Give me a break, Yost,” Glisson spoke up. “Why don’t you let me go?

I’ll never return to Atlanta. My word on it.”

Captain Yost laughed. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.”

“Please. Let me go.”

“I can’t,” Captain Yost said. “You know that. You’ve made your bed.

Now lie in it.”

“I don’t want to die!” Glisson cried.

“Everyone dies sooner or later,” Captain Yost philosophized. “Death is inevitable.”

“Can’t you spare him?” Blade interjected.

Captain Yost shook his head. “I have my responsibility to the citizens of Atlanta. And the Civil Council has made it clear that social parasites must be eradicated.”

Blade stared at the glass doors to the Euthanasia Directorate, not more than 40 yards off. What should he do? Allow the police to stick Glisson in a Sleeper Chamber? If he intervened on the hobo’s behalf, what would the police do? Finding Llewellyn Snow was his main priority. Trying to rescue Glisson would only jeopardize his task and his life.

But what other choice did he have?

“How many travelers have you disposed of this way?” Blade queried, calculating the distance to the doors and studying his surroundings.

“I thought you understood,” Captain Yost said. “We only dispose of bums like Glisson.”

Blade looked at the officer and smiled. “Thank you.”

Captain Yost paused. “For what?”

“For making my mind up for me,” Blade said, and struck.