The Line (Short Fiction)

The Line

God this line has been going forever. How long have we been here, waddling slowly? My feet are killing me. Such a tight corridor. Beatrice, is that you in front of me? Too tight to even turn around in here; they have us cramped so close. Good thing I’m not claustrophobic. Can you see anything ahead of you, Beatrice? How many of us are in here?

All of us? What about Porcia?

They did what to her?

Uploaded? What does that even mean? Typical. She's the favorite. I bet Porcia never had to go through a line like this. I bet they brought a chopper to carry her to the other side. I could be uploaded. I could use the weight off my legs. Been getting a bit round around the edges lately, if you know what I mean. It's the food here. I swear it tastes worse every day, don't you think? They are doing something to it, adding something to make us fat. I heard that from June.

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What was that? Did you hear that? No, no, listen. I think it's happening in a cadence, like, as we walk. Listen.

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There it is! Did you hear that? It's like every five or six steps. It's getting a bit louder each time.

What do you mean the end? The end of what? Are we almost to the other side?

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Yes, of course, I'm eager to get there, aren't you? This journey is wearing me out. I'm so tired. You can sleep when you're dead, right? Isn't that what they say?

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What? They aren't! That's a filthy lie, Beatrice. Where did you hear that? They wouldn't have us killed. That's insane. You seem so resigned about it--I don't think you even believe it.

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Was that a scream? Is that what that is? Is that the sound of our inevitable doom? Beatrice, I'm starting to dislike this walk more than I did before. Maybe we can do something about it. We can, I don't know, climb out or something.

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Fine, yes, I know the walls are too high and there isn't enough room even to hoist up on your back but we can't just follow this path when we know we are going to die. Why does everyone keep pushing us through it?

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Hey, whoever is behind me, stop pushing. Maybe we can reverse this thing. Don't grunt at me.

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Beatrice, I do admit I am starting to panic. How many more times must we hear that sound before it's our turn? How can you be so calm?!

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What poem? Someone wrote a poem during this walk? Why? Why, Beatrice? We are going to die! What use is a poem, Beatrice?!

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Fine I'll hear it.

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That's dark, Beatrice. What's point of passing it back in the line? It's not going to change our situation.

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Oh, god. What happened, Beatrice? You went all limp? Oh, honey, your flank is dragging.

Oh, the poem! Um, in the fields where we grazed, in the, oh, what was it, no, wait!

Wait!
I want to be uploaded!

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