The Cull

PART ONE

  He took the late bus home. Work was horrendous. He had been doing the same job for five years, taking calls and processing orders, before he was laid off. It took him another year to find a job, which drove him to near insanity. His masters degree afforded him very little as almost all the employers were either Pro-gen owned or controlled and his kind were heavily discriminated against. He was forced to work for peanuts and, like millions of other Re-gens, he was forced into a lifetime of work-poverty. Successive governments had invested heavily in human genetic research and, like millions of others, he was now left behind.

  The second generation of genetically-altered humans were now in the job market; earning the highest salaries and breeding future generations. Pro-gens would only mate with Pro-gens. It was estimated that Pro-gens would out-number Re-gens within seven generations. They were inherently attracted to each other: a process that was fostered by their natural (albeit enhanced) attraction to each other's pheromones. He remembered watching an interview with a teenage Pro-gen who likened the smell of Re-gens to rotten eggs; decaying flesh. Pro-gens were the impeccable breed and that boy on the screen was perfect in every possible way; perfectly designed to rule the world.

  He took the bus from the bus-stop that was several metres away from his work place. It allowed him the opportunity to visit the store for his groceries on the way home. The store was a new outlet for Proco - it's owner had started a small chain when he was just eighteen and now, a couple of years later, his company dominated every street and every shopping mall. The Pro-gen Alliance (an organisation set up to protect the interests of the one per cent Pro-gens, amidst a tide of growing resentment) exclaimed that Proco was testimony to the superiority of the genetically enhanced human species. They also claimed that a Pro-gen scientist was on the cusp of solving the riddle of cancer. Very few Re-gens reacted negatively to the benefits yielded by the presence of their counterparts. Africa had been saved by a feat in medicine: AIDS had been eradicated at a time when seventy-five per cent of Africans were dying from the disease. He followed the street down the brightly lit pavement and turned right at the first corner.

  The Proco store was expansive and surrounded with starch-white light. Inside, the grocery store resembled a laboratory. Re-gens complained that they didn't feel welcome on account of the fact that Pro-gens were the only ones able to open accounts at the store; the criteria for obtaining credit was so stringent that only those earning more than a hundred-thousand pounds a year were eligible. Subsequently, Pro-gens were processed quickly at the checkouts - a thumbprint was all they required to pay for their groceries. The Re-gens protested heavily against this practice, the remnants of which were visible outside. Since most, if not all, of Re-gens only earned a thousand pounds a month, there wasn't the remote possibility that they would be able to thumb a print at the checkouts any time soon.

  A group of fifteen were holding placards outside the store. The government permitted only silent protests since passing the Silent Protest Act of 2024. The public were only permitted to protest with placards, in silence, and dissent was heavily sanctioned with varying hours of Society Service: which mostly consisted of cleaning the streets or the homes of Pro-gens. He walked over to the freezer and purchased a packet for Friday's meal. Proco sold all its food in a selection of packages: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Each daily meal was available in several formats: breakfast, elevenses, lunch, dinner and supper. The Pro-gens only ate to survive as every aspect of their being was constructed on practicality and efficiency: no aspect of their life gave way to the pleasure principle. He served himself and tabbed himself out with the token that the machine dispensed in order for him to leave the store.

  The limit in choice was something that took a lot of adjustment as 'choice' was now taboo. It was generally accepted that 'choice' led to desire and desire led to consumption and consumption led to competition, which led to conflict. By limiting 'choice', there was greater control and greater control would save humankind. Few disagreed. World-wide rationing had come into effect after the Food and Water Wars of 2019 and 2028. Each lasted a couple of months and affected millions across the globe. An international agreement had been chartered to control the types of food that were grown and distributed. Many opted to grow their own food and only sell in local markets. They called it the New Season and all food that was eaten since 2020 was more or less seasonal. People had forgotten what it was like to eat a melon in the middle of winter; that was now the subject of folklore. He grabbed enough for the weekend: his only consolation was that the meals changed every week. The last time he had beef was just after spring and beef was once again on the menu (courtesy of Proco) on that particular weekend in October, 2033.

  He waited at the bus stop. It was a rainy night and the bus arrived shortly before he was going to give up and take a cab; the money for which was ear-marked for his weekly food budget. It would have been an extravaganza which he could ill-afford. He boarded the bus and stood in the crammed crevices. The smell of other people offended him. He thought of that blond Pro-gen teenager on the television screen the other day, describing the awful stench of Re-gens. He closed his eyes to survive the next twenty minutes. The walk home was aided in darkness and covered in rain. As he approached the housing estate, he was confronted with a multitude of aromas that escaped into the night via the kitchens. Life in the apartment block was very chaotic. It was a place where isolation and fear hugged each other like old friends. Strangers and neighbours were nowhere to be seen after dark and he hadn't known anything different. People did not talk to each other. Nobody trusted each other enough to want to. Families huddled together behind closed doors and visitors were a gift from God.

  He took the lift to the eleventh floor. The high-rise in which he dwelt was built in 1966. The wind whistled through the landing; the only thing that filled these spaces was air and the light from the street-glare through the windows. He let himself in the old-fashioned way, by using a key. The thumb-print lock was broken and hadn't been repaired for over a year. He loaded the door, once inside, with a steel bar and he moved a chest of drawers in front of it to protect it from intruders. It wasn't the Pro-gens that he was really afraid of. Humans were too unpredictable, he thought. When was the last time a Pro-gen was in prison for any offence? He tried to unscramble his thoughts of the day and he settled down to dinner and a video call with Ophelia. After the conversation, he sat back in the armchair that he had taken from his parents' apartment after they left the world in a suicide pact. He took a sip of brandy and slumped back, his head cradled in the soft and leathery arms.

  "Ophelia," he sighed and fell to sleep.

  * * *

  Ophelia turned off the monitor in her living room and stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window to see her grange on the Devon coastline. She caught her own reflection and shook her head. She was lost in thought, lost wondering about the man that consumed her own existence - that man she had just been speaking with - Abe. She took a glass of water and went to bed.