The Purge

The theme of this piece is "utopia" - a prompt from Figment.com. I don't believe that a perfect utopia is possible as long as humans are around, given our propensity to be narrow-minded.

The Purge

Word Count: 750

Summary: For those who dwell in heaven, all are perfect. All must be perfect. When they’re not, it’s time to fix things.

-Year 101-

It was a couple of days after the first centennial anniversary of Purgatorio and a rare shower, definitely not scheduled, occurred in the lush southern plains of New Petra. Hammurati was mending a torn skirt when she noticed the first splash of water hitting the windowsill and immediately abandoned the hapless project to watch serotonin-infused droplets evaporate as soon as they made contact with soil. Her mother called out, telling her to go outside and prepare the drums—just in case the light shower grew heavier. No sense in wasting free water, she said.

The girl obeyed and fetched the drums from the garden shed. She was putting the last empty barrel at the corner of their backyard when a sudden, loud, thunderous crack tore through the wide plains and for a moment the world turned as black as bruise. She didn’t remember if she’d screamed or if the noise had silenced her dumb, but rooted to the spot, Hammurati felt for the first time in her young life a paralyzing fear that took over her body. Then she saw him.

          

The djinn.

Her parents had told The Story most nights ever since she had been able to understand words and she fell asleep dreaming the same things over and over again. There was no mistaking it. He looked exactly like the creature in her dreams, a bleak monster with large glassy eyes and skin as slippery and wrinkled as that of a seal. Great thorns protruded out of his humanoid torso, ready to impale her with their repulsive shapes. Standing few steps away from her, the creature turned its head towards the sky.

              

The rain was now pouring down in walls of water. Thin mist had begun to rise from the ground. Hammurati’s hammering heart was loud in her ears and the blood that sped through her veins finally reached the brain and a split second decision was made.  All of the muscles in her body reacted to the instinct to flee. She turned her back.

            

Before her right foot could get off the grass, the djinn lunged at her.

            

She fell and splashed red mud all over. Something sharp on her back made her scream, but the noise was muffled. The creature was right on top of her, its claw pushed hard against her head and she could feel jagged pebbles cutting her cheek.

            

“You’re the first,” it whispered to her ear in English, the language only the Disciples of Purgatorio were allowed to speak. “Then New Pretoria. After that, New Paris, New Panama, New Pattaya, New Petersburg, New Porbandar, New Prague, New Pensacola, and finally, New Pontianak. All ten of you abominations this month. I’m killing you all.”

            

Hammurati understood enough to make a last attempt at struggle, but the djinn was true to its words. Her cry to her mother was caught in the throat when a curved blade struck first. She gasped, blood gushing forth from the deep wound, and the creature went for the second strike. Once it was over, the djinn stood up holding the child’s severed head.

            

From the pockets of its uniform, it took out a dark pouch and shook it hard. Within seconds the pouch was inflated, large enough to accommodate the head of an eight year old. Inside the pouch were cubes of engineered rock ice that wouldn’t melt for three days and perfect for storing perishables.

             

Done with clean-up, the creature made his way to the house and knocked on the backdoor. Hammurati’s mother came out and regarded the stranger. “Is it over?” she asked.

            

He responded in her language. “You want to see her dead mug?”

            

The woman flinched. “No, thank you.”

            

“What was her flaw?”

            

Hammurati’s mother made a face. “This one, she couldn’t speak. We paid good money, but the child couldn’t even say baba.”

            

“Shame. Everything else was perfect. Good genes, but who knows why these things happen. You’ll receive her replacement in about a week.”

            

“A week?”

             

“We have the body all cloned and ready. But I’m taking this head back so we can retrieve the memories and integrate it with the next.”

              

“Will she remember… today?”

            

“Nope. Otherwise there will be no world peace as we know it.”

           

“You’ll guarantee the next one can speak?”

            

“Yeah, we’re in business of creating perfect human after all,” the stranger said, turning his back. “Happy Purgatorio, ma’am.”

            

She watched him go.

            

The rain kept on falling.

              

It didn’t stop for a week.