Short story:
The Dumb Plague
A sharp pain shoots up my thigh. I sit on my feet to relieve the pressure on my knees. My dress of stiff lace — a hand-me-down from my mother’s Dumbday — crunches with my movement. The waist is so tight that I think it might squeeze out my lunch.
It was a Dumboburger. It’s always a Dumboburger. What else would it be? Except now, on my knees and facing my dumb alter, the thought disgusts me.
I picture myself, licking the droplets of grease from my lips; savoring the salted fat of a browned Dumbo meat patty with Dumbo cheese. Those thoughts used to make my mouth water. Now, they make me sick.
But throwing up at the dumb altar is not a good sign on one’s Dumbday.
The bare soles of my feet are still sensitive from my mother’s ritualistic scrubbing. The air stings them like ice. Now I know why the older children always complain about their Dumbday’s falling in winter. You’d think we could at least wear socks or something.
But the Intelligence Police insist anything can become a weapon for the dumb. That’s why we have to come to our dumb alter clipped, trimmed, scrubbed and starved. Against all our training, they say, the dumb always try kicking, grabbing, biting or smothering their way out of the IP officer’s grip.
It’s funny—I used to imagine entering the Dumbo factory willingly if I’d gone dumb. Everyone does. Serving the greater good for humanity is supposed to make us feel proud. Going dumb, they tell us, is our civic duty.
But here at the alter, my mind can’t help but play out another possibility: that I’d end up fighting it, too.
I want to live. I suppose we all do.
Of course, not everyone gets the dumb. Not until exactly on the hour of my thirteenth birthday, my Dumbday, would the symptoms appear. Most of us pass that moment without symptoms and go on to live a healthy, normal life.
But for one in seven children, their transformation will be clear: their voices go mute and their faces, expressionless. Some of the dumb become violent.
The dumb plague started back around the time of the food crisis that threatened Earth’s last surviving species — us. In response, the world’s major food corporations formed the New Freedom Nutrition Council. They proposed the Dumbo Meat Food Program and instituted the Intelligence Police to protect us from the dumb. Ever since, instead of continuing to feed the masses of infected that go mindless from the plague, the dumb now feed us.
As usual, my parents have gone above-and-beyond traditional dumb alter decor with holographic floral arrangements and glittering family relics. An ornate woven banner with our family name covers the padded kneeling bench. For extra luck, they’ve even hired a camera crew to create a professional video for the Dumbo website.
I try to look as patriotic as possible, but I must look nervous. I can feel the sweat on my forehead. My hands press—palms together—at my chest, so hard that I can feel my pulse pounding through the veins in my wrists.
The thick stun collar around my neck forces my eyes to stare at the dumb altar, a required furnishing in every home. Trimming the edges of our ornately-carved synth-wood alter, our holo-projector has piled up bouquets of lilies and violets, my mother’s favorite flowers. But all I can focus on is the round camera lens at the center: a vengeful black eye waiting for the go-ahead to take my life away.
One minute until we find out if I’m dumb.
My mother and father, aunt Jinny and uncle Steve, as well as their young daughter, Corrina, or Ninna as we call her, all stand around me with their own timepieces synchronized to my Dumbday clock. The TICK-TOCK sounds of coordinated second hands click in unison from the ring of family members assembling around me. The sound in my ears is like grinding teeth.
The second hand counts down the final sixty seconds. Everyone’s mouths move in sync with the rhythm, their eyes hanging on me. Everyone except for Ninna.
From the corner of my eye, I see her staring down at her shoes. My parents told me to do the same when I stood attendance at my older brother’s Dumbday. All children have to witness at least one dumb alter before their own. But we’re told never to look or listen because the dumb can infect younger minds.
Fortunately, my brother left the dumb alter with his wits intact. I never had to test my own childish weakness in the face of an infected dumb. He went on to make the family proud working with mom and dad for Dumbo Meat. No one ever even considered that he might end up dumb.
But for me, I know we’re all worried. I heard it every time I dared to test the limits of acceptable childhood behavior:
“An attitude like that, young lady, will only turn ya’ dumb!”
“No coincidence that it’s the rebellious ones always getting the dumb. You remember that, missy!”
“Children who break with tradition are asking for the dumb. Don’t be surprised when your clock strikes down!”
Thirty seconds.
Ninna’s hands cover her ears. My parents’ faces tighten. I see one last compassionate glance between Jinny and Steve before they turn to me with a stone-cold glare.
You never dare look at the dumb with any sympathy, not in front of the altar. IP rules regarding Dumbday are strict, and all New Freedomites must follow them to a T or face dire consequences. If I were to result dumb, and my parents showed even a hint of apprehension, the IP would collect them, too. At best, they’d have to sit through a psychological evaluation. At worst, internment for rehabilitation.
Adults are immune to the dumb, but they can still get “the madness.” When her son went dumb, my neighbor Mrs. Kranz caught the madness. My parents kept me from watching at the windows, but I remember the piercing screams, crashes, and bangs.
“I can’t do this! I just can’t!” was all I could make out among Mrs. Kranz’s sobbing cries. No one else spoke. And with the slam of the van door, Mrs. Kranz’s voice disappeared, too. I only know it was a van because I saw it race off down the street when mom’s hands lifted from my eyes. Mr. Kranz has lived alone ever since.
I didn’t know why at the time, but I cried. My parents just shook their heads and closed the blinds, telling me that crying for the mad and dumb was a bad sign for my Dumbday.
“Ten, nine, eight,” everyone begins counting aloud as the seconds wind down to zero. The chorus of numbers vibrates in my head. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two…”
The room goes silent. For half a second, I forget the protocol. My heart seizes at the thought that I have indeed gone dumb.
Just breathe, I tell myself. I focus on my pre-dumb training and the memorized lines of the Justice begin to form in my head. Slowly, my mouth moves to speak them. To my delight, I hear my voice sounding out the words that will prove my humanity:
“I am alive. I am sentient. I feel and express a wide range of emotions. My thoughts are complex and capable of compassion. My family here today, mom, dad, auntie Jin, and uncle Steve, and little Ninna shall hear my voice and—”
I stutter. My heart jumps into my throat. My chest tightens. I close my eyes, frantically searching my brain for the final words.
“And…and bear witness to my humanity.” The last word passes my lips with a sigh of relief. Opening my eyes, I expect to see the proud, smiling faces of my family.
“Go on, sweetie,” my mom says. Her eyebrows narrow into a deep furrow and tears well in her eyes. “Say the Justice, just like you’ve practiced.”
“Mom, I just—”
“Give her a second, Celia,” my father says. His voice is eerily calm. A muscle flashes in his clenched jaw. “Come on, hon. You know the words. ‘I am alive…’ etcetera.”
My mouth hangs open, but I’m afraid to speak again. I look over at Jin and Steve, who move towards their coats draped over the nearby sofa. Their eyes turn away from me. Ninna’s hands press harder onto her ears.
“What are you talking about?” I gasp in a tiny voice. I cough and try again, a little louder but cracking with fear. “Didn’t you just hear me? Mom? Dad? Jinny? Ninna?”
Only Ninna jumps as I say her name, almost moving her hands to listen, but resisting. The others act as though I have made no sound at all. My arms fly over my head and I sweep them back and forth to make as much commotion as I can manage.
“Why don’t you answer me? Answer me I said!” My voice quivers with the trembling of my body.
“George,” my mother mutters out of the side of her mouth, eyes dead upon me. Her elbow nudges him in the ribs.
“Right. That’s right. Right,” he repeats under his breath, turning to move towards the window beside the front door. He draws the curtain and sends the results to the Dumbo website and the IP waiting outside. Tears flood my vision. I can’t believe this is real!
Just like the dumb, I panic.
“What’s happening! I’m speaking! I’m not dumb! Mother? Mom, please, hear me!” I want to leap at her and shake her; throttle her. Despite what I know to be true, my mind convinces me that if I could just get my hands on her, she would hear.
Before I can move, the door flies open. My body freezes. Armed IP operatives burst into our living room. Two appear on either side of me and a third paces past my family to examine their faces for hesitation. He squats down next to Ninna, cheeks wet with tears and hands still cupped over her ears.
“There now, don’t cry, little one. What’s wrong? Haven’t caught the dumb early, now have you? Is this one here trying to infect you?” The officer leers at me with disgust as he says it. “You don’t hear her, do you, child?” His voice is like ice; his eyes like daggers pointing right at me.
“Ninna, don’t be afraid,” I tell her. “If you can hear me, it’s OK. I’m still here, Ninna! I’ve recited the Justice! I’m not dumb! I’m still here!”
Ninna’s hands press harder against her head and she shakes it side to side. No, she tells them wordlessly.
So it’s true: I am dumb.
The two IP officers grab my arms and carry me out of my house towards their dark van waiting in the driveway. With a sinking heart, I watch the front door simply close behind me. No one dares to follow.
Much to my surprise, I never manage the energy to fight. Instead, I hang limp in their arms, convincing myself to accept my fate as a dumb. ‘For the good of humanity,’ I tell myself, reciting the Dumbo campaign slogan on a loop in my head:
‘Heard and the Justice will be served; Dumb and the Justice will be done. The silence saves so Justice can be made.’
The IP officers fling open the doors and toss me into the back of their van. My body lands on the thin limbs of other dumb children sprawled across the floor. I feel them withdraw at my touch, slinking into the shadowed corners. Small noises whimper, sniffle, and moan through closed mouths, but there are no words.
‘Not here among the dumb,’ I think to myself. ‘No words, ever again.’
With an angry squeak, the van doors slam shut and all I see next is darkness. Only a small circular window at the back end of the cabin lets in any light. I make my way over to look out at the street as we race down it, but my long, Dumbday gown runs tight down my legs and I stumble and trip over grumbling bodies. The last colors of a setting sun glow behind the suburban skyline. A dim red-orange rests on my cheeks.
After about an hour, we approach the entrance of a high-fenced factory. At the top of its ornate gate, “Dumbo Meats” arches in iron cursive overhead. A row of cars queues up to enter, and we slow down to take our place in line.
Inching forward, we pass a crowd of reporters gathered at a small stage near the perimeter gate. A poster featuring two smiling children enjoying oversized Dumbo burgers hangs from the barbed wire edge like a curtained backdrop. The glare of TV lights bouncing off its vinyl sheen blinds me.
Journalists on the ground hold up their recorders towards a podium at center stage, where the New Freedom Nutrition Council mayor stands with the Dumbo Meat presidents. Sitting in a chair beside them with a clipboard taking notes is my older brother.
Once we get close enough, I can hear the mayor’s speech booming through a loudspeaker:
“Our society is now stronger than ever. Despite natural disasters, global crises, and other failures of our natural environment, we have overcome adversity. Thanks to the dumb, humanity survives!” he says to a chorus of pre-recorded applause.
I hear the brakes come to a full stop and the mayor’s eyes shoot up to our van. I duck from the window to avoid their stares.
“Look,” he continues, and my eyes peek up over the rounded ledge, “here comes a shipment of the dumb, now! Remember, although they may look like children, they have no humanity left in them. They cannot speak or feel emotions. They might kill their own parents in cold blood if given the chance. They no longer have human thoughts, nor purpose left on this planet.
“Yet, through the Dumbo Meat Food Program,” the mayor continues, slapping a hand on the back of the man beside him, “we have given them purpose. Instead of straining our limited resources, their otherwise useless bodies now nourish those of us still capable of contributing to a better world. Instead of a famished population on a dying planet, our future is a healthy and sustainable one, maybe for the first time in human history!
“We love and respect the dumb during their years as children, but once they’ve gone dumb, they become more than just children. They are our survival! Even though they may have lost their humanity and the ability to love, we continue to love them by honoring their great sacrifice!”
As the mayor finishes his words, I notice my brother’s eyes shoot towards my window. For a moment, I think that, maybe, he even catches my eye.
Yes, he is. He’s looking at me. He sees me, right now.
The feeling is unbearable and something washes over me; something totally irrational and against all my schooling — I speak. I shout. I bang on the metal walls and tiny glass window until my fists swell and bleed.
“Please! I’m not dumb! I don’t want to die!” My voice echoes like a drill on metal against the van’s close walls. My throat goes hoarse from screaming. “Please, help me!”
“I…I’m not dumb, either!” another frantic voice speaks up beside me.
“No! Me neither! I thought it was just me!” Other voices speak over one another.
“I’m still here, too! Help! We’re not dumb.”
More voices start to shout along with me. I can’t say for certain how many others have joined in, but I can definitely hear them. And they can hear me!
With a lurch, the van moves ahead in line and comes to another stop, one more car length away from the gate: and our final doom. Our screaming appeals grow frantic.
“Help us! We’re still here! We’re not dumb” The metal bed of the van trembles with our banging fists and screeching cries.
Except no one at the press conference flinches. Their eyes stay fixed on our van. They snap photos. They chuckle and look at their watches. My brother’s stare continues fixed on the window and for half a second, I think he hears me. But then he swats at something crossing his vision and passes a clipboard for the man at his side to review.
One by one, our crying voices slowly drop out of the chorus as we realize no one is going to help us. The van returns to silence. The mayor's voice starts up again over the loudspeaker, and all onlookers return their attention to him.
But we can no longer hear. The gate ahead swings open and our van finally turns to enter. I watch until it closes behind us with a click. Then, I slide my back down the wall, resigned to death.
But, wait.
“Y-you all can hear me?” I say to the others in the van. No one responds, so I ask again. “I thought we were dumb. I thought we couldn’t be heard.” Bodies in the darkness surround me, but I can only see small patches of their faces as Dumbo facility street lamps flash through the small round window and into the dark cargo bed.
“Yes,” a small voice speaks after a long pause. “I can hear you! Can anyone hear me?”
“Yes, of course!” Two others reply. “And me?”
“Yes! We can hear you! All of you!” The whole van rumbles with affirming ‘yeses’ and sobbing embraces. Over and over, we ask one another “Really? You can hear me?”
The van stops and a loud squeak cuts our voices short. Light floods the van’s cabin, blinding us.
“Yes, yes. We can all hear you.”
A harsh voice barks back at us through the open back doors. “Now, shut up because no one wants to!”
When my eyes adjust, I see a body covered from head to toe in a shapeless plastic jumpsuit and masked hood. All I can see are eyes through a transparent window. They look tired and sad. A feminine crinkle makes me think they might belong to a woman. A blood-soaked apron cinches her waist.
“You first, the troublemaker,” she says, eyes narrowing on me. Her grip is merciless around my arm. My feet stumble in my tight lace dress as she drags me behind her. “Always best to handle the difficult ones first.” Her words are harsh, but not insulting like the adults who always warned me about going dumb. Resentful, maybe.
My dress starts to burst at the seams as my legs struggle to keep up with her pace. When they can’t, my bare feet scrape against the concrete. At first, I think my toes are bleeding, but then I realize the blood is coming from a thick layer coating the floor.
“Please, miss, you can hear us? You can hear me? I read the Justice for my family, so why couldn’t they?”
The woman laughs. “They don’t want to. No one wants to. They want to eat. They want to live. You must’ve been a real handful to end up here. Unless, of course, your parents were just in it for the money.”
“Money?”
“Sure. You think people’d have gone along with the idea if Dumbo hadn’ta offered a hefty bonus per kid. Don’t matter I guess. Still, the good little boys and girls never get the dumb. Convenient I guess.”
“Ma’am,” my throat goes dry as I try to speak. “A-are you saying that our family members heard us, too? Are you saying there is no dumb plague?”
“There’s a dumb alright,” she laughs, “but it ain’t in here. And it’s not you. It ain’t me, either."
Her arm pushes past a plastic curtain and the ceiling lifts to triple its height as we enter a large processing warehouse. Grabbing a pair of shears from a table, she jerks me around to face away from her.
My eyes close. ‘Keep her talking, I think, hoping I can at least delay my doom.
“Why do you say that?” I hear the slicing of metal on metal and a cold chill runs up my spine. A cool breeze prickles my skin as the tight dress loosens from around my body and falls to the floor.
“Outside, they get to play dumb, but we’re not so lucky in here,” she says. Her eyes seem to hate me. “‘For the sake of New Freedom,’ they tell us after our 13th birthday. So, we play along, carry out their dumb plague to save humanity. But I can’t have kids, so no comfy Dumbo bonus for me. Gotta pay the bills some way or another. Still, can’t say it ain’t a burden.”
The room spins. The woman’s plastic-hooded head goes double. Nausea again threatens to spew Dumboburger from my stomach.
The woman shrugs. “At least we don’t have to eat you.”
“What? What else is there?”
“Dumbo’s got a food nursery out by the employee housing,” the woman goes on, grabbing me by the ankles and flipping my thin, naked body upside down. “They managed to produce some dry shrub from a petri dish and mash it into gruel. We call it strawmeal. Ain’t much for taste, but we don’t have to eat much.” She lifts me over her head with ease and clamps my legs to a conveyor belt with two metallic shackles.”
“So, why doesn’t Dumbo make strawmeal for everyone?”
“Ain’t enough. But that’s not the real problem.”
“What’s that?”
“No one who gets to play dumb would ever give up their greasy Dumboburgers for some dry, flavorless twigs. Not even if it meant we didn’t have to kill anymore. But we’re not really allowed to talk about that.”
“So, why are you telling me?” I say, struggling to form the words. Blood rushes to my head and I feel I might soon faint. Stars sparkle across my vision.
The woman sighs. Behind the plastic barrier covering her face, I see her cruel eyes sag for an instant into something like sadness. “Because in less than an hour, you’ll be someone’s sandwich meat. May God forgive me, for I am just the messenger.”
The gleam of a knife flashes near my face and everything fades to black.