The Cull Read online

The Cull

  Stephen Vollmer

  Copyright 2015 by Stephen Vollmer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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  www.stevestakeonthings.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  The Cull

  “Ya’ll can hang ya’lls’ necks from all ya’lls’ closets all ya’ll want. Ya’ll got no common sense. Go and read somethin’, and rights away ya’lls wants to end it all! Copycats, all ya’ll! Me, I’ll be hangin’ aroun’ different!” Lawton Smythe gawked at the idiocy descending on Harbor Palm Trace. A few of the people he’d made friends with the last eight years suddenly went mad. He never thought the idea would get this far.

  “Right you are, Lawt!” agreed Pete Bussing. “I’m in no hurry to die.”

  “How many grandchildren you got, Pete?” asked Stacy Baumeister. “With one on the way?”

  “Twelve. Will be thirteen,” Pete Bussing knew where Stacy Baumeister went. “I indulged you. I read the damn thing. It’s got some points.”

  “It’s blasphemy!” said Smythe. “A slap in God’s face! Ya’ll rot in hell!”

  Stacy Baumeister ignored the irascible Smythe and concentrated on the more levelheaded Bussing. “And wouldn’t you want those kids to have a better chance in life? You’ve said yourself that your kids’ families are struggling.”

  “They are,” said Bussing. “We’ve had this conversation.” He cast an ulcerous eye at his close friend and her husband Nick. “Survival of the fittest. They can fend for themselves until I die of natural causes.”

  “We have had this conversation,” said Nick.

  “You sold of your business-“ began Stacy.

  “I built that business from scratch!” snapped Bussing. “And now I’m enjoying the benefits of years of hard work. Nothing is preventing them from doing the same thing I did.”

  Twenty-four seniors sat in the large common room of Sarasota’s Harbor Palm Trace. The twenty-four were the totality of the very select retirement community. Three sofas held twelve, three more sat in lounge chairs, four sat in wheelchairs, and Stacy Baumeister and four others presided at a circular table. On the table were two copies of the elderly targeted viral manifesto, already translated into nine languages. Next to Stacy sat her husband Nick Baumeister who handled the laptop. The Baumeisters had commandeered the high-ceilinged room from the attendants, shooing them out by telling them they had a private, internal civic matter to resolve. Then they smuggled in the booze.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if a number of things are preventing them,” said Stacy with a serene conjecture at the touched nerve. Bussing glared at her. “How many names, Nick?” she asked her husband.

  “Eleven.”

  Stacy looked around the room, challenging them all. Her unflinching gaze spared none, even those openly weeping; if anything they received the most discernment. “Let’s face it,” she said. “This is not an assisted living facility for nothing. For us to afford to live here, we all have something in the bank.” She softened her scrutiny for the delicate thrust. “Nick acquired the Quaaludes. Three hundred. Real ones, not bootlegs. That is twelve-thirteen apiece. Down them and a few drinks and the passing will be quiet and peaceful. To reiterate: make sure your living will states the respirator will be turned off. There is some fine liquor, wine and beer. Of course, some champagne. On ice. Go out with a nice party.”

  “I’m calling the authorities on ya’ll!” said Lawton Smythe. “I’m serious!”

  Pete Bussing, who sat next to Smythe, grabbed him by the wrist and kept him seated. “Lawt, give this a minute.”

  “You’s can’t be thinkin’ ‘bout this?” said Smythe.

  “It’s their lives,” said Bussing.

  ”Ya’ll have eternal damnation! Ya’ll souls’ll be in perdition!”

  Emily Harrigan, who had been silently sobbing in her wheelchair, mustered enough strength to make herself heard. “Stacy, I have no will.” Her words were garbled, the multiple sclerosis in its final reaches and the medical care sapped her nest egg. Michael Lansing, her widower next door neighbor who had taken it upon himself to ferry Emily about, rose out of a lounge chair and with anticipation gripped the handles of her wheelchair. They were new kindred souls, Emily’s husband dead for six years. Fast friends as soon as Michael had moved in three years before, their elderly romance, so fresh in color, was the envy of all. Until now Michael Lansing’s position had been unclear but with Emily’s seeming intent to follow the way his attitude and posture said he was with her to the end. Stacy’s reply was kindly.

  “We are prepared for that, Emily dear,” she said. “Nick has several standardized living wills that he can quickly print out—you did configure this to that printer over there, right Nick? All you have to do is choose one, Emily. And Boris is a notary.” To acknowledge this Boris Ivchenko, one of the table’s other occupants, raised a hand holding his notary seal. Emily looked to Michael who understood at once and he brought her to the table. Nick positioned the laptop so she could see. He said:

  “Knowing what I know about you, I suggest this one.”

  “That’s putting pressure on the lady,” said Bussing. “I don’t like it.”

  “We’re not forcing anyone, Pete.”

  “Of course not,” said Bussing. He’d lost his wife Gretchen a year ago. His condo, once known for its tidiness, was now a place Pete was uncomfortable having others in.

  “Pete, let it go,” said Stacy. “Okay. Who is in? May I have a show of hands?” Her hand led the way.

  Eleven of the twenty-four raised their hands. If one of a couple was in, without fail the spouse joined. The thirteen choosing life at first looked around with mixtures of aghast, respect, reverence, and sorrow. Several hung their heads. But as the resolute bearings of the eleven did not falter, the looks changed to ones of marvel and even envy with some. That these eleven were willing to sacrifice their lives for the benefit of not only their own children but those of the unwilling hit on a gut level. Their courage and conscience existed on higher ground. Yes, even some guilt crept into those surviving minds. Within their thoughts ‘chicken’ and ‘lack of gumption’ were not unheard of. And further ruminations brought out ‘selfish’ and ‘parsimonious.’ Yes, as Stacy implied, they all had significant inheritable assets. Yes, their living expenses at luxurious Harbor Palm Trace were exorbitant. Yes, some of them had equally exorbitant medical outlays. Yes, they could all do their small part to fix the economy. They were millionaires several times over and still collected a pittance from Social Security. ‘Money best distributed elsewhere’ the manifesto argued. ‘The country which dispenses with its unproductive elderly will gain a significant advantage on the world stage.’ Off in a corner the printer hummed into action as Nick Baumeister sent Emily’s Harrigan’s will. Nick got up to retrieve it. With an added glance at Lawton Smythe, Stacy persisted on.

  “Now, those of you choosing not to participate. We ask you to respect our decisions and to keep thi
s private until we pass-“

  “This is assisted murder!” yelled Smythe. “There could be some law be broke if we stayed shut up!”

  “Please, Lawton. Suicide is not murder. There is no such law.”

  “You’s got ol’ notary Boris up there. Type up a document sayin’ that we’s free and clear. Then ya’ll sign it and have it notarized.”

  Stacy sighed. “That’s not really necessary but I suppose.”

  “Have ya’ll written your suicide notes?” Lawton Smythe’s sarcasm was vicious, his eighty-two year old voice strained with the continual oration. A God-fearing oysterman who made his fortune dredging the waters off New Orleans, Smythe had little time for high-minded notions brought about by some wordsmith. He had read only a few pages of the manifesto before dropping it on his kitchen table out of sheer boredom. So he said, but he really just did not have the sophistication to follow such a sustained train of thought. His smarts were the street smarts, the oyster boat business, the business wiles, the greasing of the middle man’s palm. Survive and prosper that way. But he had read far enough to reach one thing he liked, and as if demonstrating his understanding of the document driving his neighbors and the world into craziness he cited it now.

  “Maybe ya’ll should focus on that quote by Galton. ‘Bout