It was never violent.
The famous host, tall and spindly as a stork, perched at a podium where the all-powerful Machine, hidden somewhere deep in the bowels of the Propaganda Ministry, displayed a bundle of numbers on the screen. The host smiled heartily, and the audience clapped as the chosen ones ascended the podium.
To Frederick, the studio technician, the clapping always sounded relieved. The Game took place only once a year, and only one contestant was eliminated. Ministry workers did not participate in the draw, so he was safe, sitting at his sound console, barely listening to the host’s questions.
He would’ve been safe anyway, because the Machine tested only general knowledge, and only the final task was somewhat complicated.
“Longest river?” Yawn.
“Tallest mountain?” Ditto.
“Which period do we live in?”
The stocky man on the stage hesitated, and Frederick listened through his earpiece. Sometimes the contestants’ nerves gave out, and the elimination had to happen earlier than usual. The audience preferred a spectacular culmination, but a mistake was a mistake.
Frederick wondered, for a moment, what would happen if someone whose number appeared on the screen refused to go up on stage. He’d never seen that, but heard about people avoiding the Game draft, fleeing to the woods and mountains and even trying to cross the border.
“Why bother?” he thought.
Knowledge was only needed for the final question; the rest of the participants received good prizes and job promotions. Sometimes even the last contestant wasn’t eliminated, and then the Congress would declare a Blessed Year.
“Or a Cursed one, if the elimination comes early,” Frederick heard. “No, we’re safe.”
The stocky man shouted, “The Period of Struggle for Internal and External Peace and Harmony! Seventh month, fourth day!”
Frederick remembered that today used to be a holiday.
“And still is, in a sense,” he smiled. “The whole country is watching. Poor sod, he got scared.”
Two stage assistants led the man away. The back of his pale slacks darkened, and the host smiled again.
“What a wonderful display of knowledge we’ve witnessed today! And now, for the final question…”
He pointed at a girl with honey-colored hair and azure eyes.
“Come here, my darling,” the host said suavely. “Make the year Blessed. You’re young, and you must remember our Principles by heart. Tell us the Seventh.”
Her face was serene, and Frederick tensed. He’d seen this before, but only twice.
“You’re a bunch of—” the girl began, and Frederick’s earpiece cracked.
“Now,” the host ordered.
They weren’t taking any risks with members of the so-called Resistance.
Frederick pressed the button, and the girl deflated, collapsing onto the stage like a popped balloon. The deadly sound, transmitted only to her earpiece, killed instantly.
“Game over, ladies and gentlemen,” the host said.
The End
Bio:
Nelly Shulman’s prose was published in numerous literary magazines and anthologies and she has authored three collections of short stories. She is a member of The Society of Authors (UK).