I wish I could remember the name of a story I read 25 or 30 years ago. In it, soldiers from all countries get together every year for battlefield combat, a ritual that has replaced war. They fight to the death, and the lone survivor wins immunity from all laws. Now, many whiners and stompers have been complaining that the recent book and movie The Hunger Games is a ripoff of the Japanese book/movie Battle Royale; both feature the government pitting citizens against each other in death battles.

But that’s no different than the book The Long Walk by Stephen King, in which two teens from each state are forced to walk nonstop, at risk of execution, until one survivor remains. It was published in 1979, 20 years before Battle Royale. In fact, in this very column last year, one of my stories featured citizens forced to compete in a deadly game of electrifying dodgeball until only one survivor remained (see http://www.thecud.com.au/live/content/cud-flashes-pan-2). I can assure you I’d never heard of The Hunger Games or Battle Royale when I wrote it.

All the plots have been done before; it’s how they’re done that makes them different. In honor of that, this month’s column is devoted to young people being forced to fight. So sue me.

“Show and Tell”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

It was annual Show and Tell in Miss McLaine’s first-grade class. She was as excited as the children were. They were at their desks with their various things to show and tell about. It was their first year of Show and Tell, but they’d do it through fifth grade. Middle school would feature religion-fair competitions, and high school a wide range of academic contests. But it all began here.

“It’s time, children,” Miss McLaine announced, cheerful and smiling. The children rushed to their seats as she said, “We’ll go in alphabetical order. When it’s your turn, come to the front of the classroom and give your presentations. I’ll be rating you, so be as good as you can be. You know what happens to the lowest-rated student today.”

And so it began. She called one name at a time, and watched as they presented, jotting scores down on her rating sheet. One boy showed an old beehive; another demonstrated a deck of magic cards. A girl brought her pet gerbil in, while another brought her collection of Russian matryoshka dolls. A handheld computer, three frogs in a jar, a jump-rope demonstration, and many other things followed. Tap dancing, a homemade wreath, bubble blowing, a xylophone, and more.

Miss McLaine rated them all in many categories, her heart aflutter as she did. It was such an honor to be a teacher, to put the youth through their first competition. One would rank lowest, but that was how it worked.

It took two hours, and all the demonstrations were interesting. But when the children had all presented, Miss McLaine tallied up the scores. She identified the lowest score, a boy named Timmy. His model rocket was interesting, and he presented it fairly well, but given that he couldn’t actually launch it cost him dearly in the ratings; it was an incomplete Show and Tell.

“Timmy is our lowest score today,” Miss McLaine announced. The class heaved sighs of relief—except for Timmy, whose face grew white. That was to be expected. They always did that.

She lined the class up and led them to the gymnasium. The other first-grade classes were already seated in the bleachers, and five children stood at center court—four other boys and one little girl. Miss McLaine got her class seated and ushered Timmy to the floor with the others.

“I don’t want to do this, Miss McLaine,” Timmy said, his voice shaking, as she walked him out. He was a small boy, weak and timid and not suited for this sort of thing. But she’d seen surprises before.

“Well, of course not, Timmy,” she answered with a big smile. “But that’s the price we pay for coming in last. Now, this is a wonderful thing you’re doing. Boys and girls all over the world are doing the same thing today.”

He didn’t seem to think so, but they never did. But this was what Show and Tell was all about. This was how they learned.

Miss McLaine took her seat as the principal stepped up with his microphone and spoke.

“This is the first year you’ll do this,” he announced. “You’ll do it every year of school, and then every year as grown-ups, in some way. This is how we keep society strong—how we identify the weakest among us. It’s time for them to grow stronger… or not.”

With that, he turned to the six in the gym and hollered, “Go!”

The children lunged at each other. Miss McLaine cheered Timmy on as he tumbled across the floor with another boy. Another tackled the little girl, who bit him in the throat until he screamed and blood flew. The other two boys were punching each other before one grabbed a handful of hair and began smashing the boy’s head into the wooden floor.

The children and teachers cheered wildly, calling out their support. It wasn’t long before two of the boys and the lone girl were dead amidst pools of blood. The other three faced off, each scared to strike first for fear of being attacked by the third. Timmy was one of them.

The principal called out to a teacher, “Throw in the knives.”

The steel blades clattered all about the combatants, and they lunged for them with wild eyes.

Miss McLaine screamed with delight. If they were lucky, one would survive—maybe even Timmy! And he’d have the chance to learn from his mistakes, to be a better person—and not be weeded out of society.

She cheered again, delirious with happiness, as Timmy sliced through the throat of another boy.

“Bottom of the Civilized Ninth”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

The crowd roared. Coach Lamm’s team sat on the dugout bench, white uniforms emblazoned with SILVER KNIGHTS, their teenaged faces white with fear.

“Okay, men,” Lamm said, “it’s the bottom of the ninth, and they broke the tie in the top of the inning.”

“It’s all my fault,” said Billy, the pitcher who’d given up the run. He looked like a scared little boy.

“No—we’re a team,” Lamm said as the umpire called for the batter. “Now, it’s two to one. We have three outs to score a run. You know what happens if we don’t.”

Jimmy headed out with his bat, Max hit the on-deck circle, and Danny waited on the dugout steps. Lamm’s stomach was knotted. The innings had all been quick since the 1-1 tie in the first. The only four-batter inning had been the top of the ninth, when Billy had left a pitch up and the Center City Blue Stars’ batter had launched it over the left-field fence.

“Come on, Jimmy,” Lamm hollered, clapping. The others didn’t. They were too terrified of losing the game to clap.

Jimmy spun his bat, took his stance. The Blue Stars’ pitcher leaned in, watched for the sign. Got it. He paused, set, kicked, and delivered.

It sank fast, but Jimmy swung low and true, smashing a rugged bouncer past the mound. The second baseman dived for it as Jimmy bolted for first, but the ball shot through his glove and into shallow right. Just like that, the Titans had their leadoff man on.

The crowd roared its appreciation, and the dugout came alive with renewed cheers. Max trotted to the batter’s box.

“Nobody out,” Lamm called to Max. “Put it in the outfield, Max!”

The crowd roared. Feet pounded. Half chanted for the Silver Knights, half for the Blue Stars, but only one team could win. Culture, the law, even civilized behavior required it—all within the great American pastime, appropriately enough.

Just let the other team lose, Lamm thought.

The catcher squatted. The umpire hunched. The pitcher looked in. He was sweating and nervous. Of course he was—he’d put on two men with nobody out!

The windup. The pitch.

The ball rocketed in, breaking sharply, heading inside. Max tensed, prepared to swing—but held up. The ball was deep inside—and grazed his uniform.

“Hit batter!” the umpire hollered. “Take your base!”

Lamm’s heart leaped as Max took first and Jimmy second, and as Danny, the team’s RBI leader, headed to bat with nobody out. Lamm breathed heavily as his heart pounded. Danny just needed to get the ball out of the infield.

The crowd’s screaming was at an insane crescendo as the pitcher paused and set.

And then a hush fell over the entire ballpark.

The boy wound up and pitched, and Lamm saw it all in slow motion.

The pitch was dead center in the strike zone, and Danny swung. There was a sharp crack, and the ball exploded towards left as if fired from a cannon. Jimmy and Max took off as the line drive headed for the outfield.

And suddenly, the shortstop leaped up and snatched it out of the air for the out. He threw it to second for the force out on Jimmy, and the second baseman threw it on to first for the force out on Max.

Triple play.

Lamm froze as the crowd exploded—half of them cheering, half of them crying.

They’d lost. It was over.

Almost immediately, the armored guards took the field and swarmed the dugout. The Blue Stars got out of the way as the Silver Knights were hauled to the backstop. The boys cried and begged, but of course it could do no good. Lamm could only watch, stunned, as the team was lined up against the outfield wall.

The crowd quieted. Even the Blue Stars’ fans didn’t want this to happen. But it was the way it was done.

The soldiers lined up, brought their automatic weapons to bear, and let loose. There were cries and screams for a few seconds, but it was over quickly.

Lamm dropped his head. Even though it was the way it was done, it didn’t make it easy. Teams around the world were eliminated every day in various sports to keep the population in check. He got that. He got that the only other option was barbaric: limiting reproduction. You couldn’t bar them from having children. But the price was taking the chance of elimination before reaching adulthood. Half of all children would be eliminated that way. It was how civilization worked.

He heard the thudding boots of the soldiers on the grass as they approached the dugout.

“Step out, coach,” a voice said.

Lamm looked up at the guns awaiting him. The parents would now enjoy the punishment of the coach who had led their children to their deaths.

He rose, climbed the dugout steps. In that moment he questioned the way things were done, even as he knew there was nothing he could ever do about it. But of course he questioned it; who wouldn’t, in his position? But he knew it was the right thing to do.

He took a deep breath and headed onto the field for the final time, as the civilized parents of the fallen Silver Knights began cheering for his death.

“Maternity Prison”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

"We have to go to the Maternity Hospital," Father told us. "Mother and the baby are being released."

I had my best skirt on, and was helping my five younger siblings into their shoes and coats. They were excited about seeing Mother, finally—and about their new baby sister, who they hoped would come home with us.

"Why is Mother in prison?" asked four-year-old Jeremy.

"All mothers go there when they’re having babies, silly!" said nine-year-old Sally.

"It's not a prison," Father said, his voice sharp. "Stop calling it that. We’ll be in trouble if they hear you say that.”

"Why do we have to go?" said Peter, age seven.

"The family is required to be there," I said. "Now get your coat."

"Miranda said our family is really lucky to have six kids," twelve-year-old Jenna said. "She’s an only child. They lost two others."

We finally herded everyone out the door. Father’s face had that look I’d seen before. At seventeen, I remembered most of my siblings’ births well. Each trip to the Maternity Hospital began when the State Forces came to take Mother into custody when they learned she was pregnant, and ended with us heading to the Complex, hoping and praying.

We rode together in the van to the Maternity Hospital. Tall towers, interconnected at various levels, rose high into the sky. They gleamed white in the sun, without a bit of glass on the upper floors to reflect the sky. It looked antiseptic, like any hospital, but I knew better.

Father parked the van and took a deep breath. I could see the stress in his face.

"Why does anyone bother having babies?" Darren said. He was fourteen and thought he knew everything.

I saw the anger in Father's face, and quickly answered, "Because it just happens, Darren. It's the will of God if parents are blessed with children.”

He snorted. “And the will of the cube afterward.”

* * *

Inside, we went through three security checkpoints before arriving at Mother's ward, and the guards escorted us into the common area. There was one other mother there with her, holding a baby boy swaddled in a blue blanket. We saw our baby sister for the first time in Mother's arms, wrapped in pink. We knew to mind our place and stay back, behind the blue line on the floor. A young man, husband of the other mother, was there with us. Mother smiled when she saw us, but I could see the stress in her face. How many times could she do this before losing her mind?

"It’s time," a guard announced. He stepped up to the first mother.

She clutched the blue-wrapped baby closer, terror on her face. "He's my first child," she said. "Please, he's my first."

"It's all right, sweetheart," said the young man with us.

The guard pulled off his armored glove, produced a large plastic cube, and held it up for all to see. Five faces were black; one was red. And the guard tossed it high into the air.

The room was silent as the cube fell to the hard floor and clattered madly, its one red face flashing angrily as it danced. It finally settled with a black face up. The young mother cried out in happiness, hugging her baby close, and the guards escorted her out of the room. Her husband hugged her as they hurried off to freedom.

Then the guard picked up the cube and moved to Mother. She clutched my sister tightly as the guard again tossed the cube into the air. I held my breath as it flew. I don't even think I heard it clattering as it bounced crazily. It kicked up and spun on one corner, like a crazy top. It whirled, wobbled, and finally toppled over.

Red side up.

My mind reeled as I heard Father suck in his breath. It had never happened before, but fate had finally gotten us on the seventh.

Mother didn't make a sound, although the tears flowed as they took the baby from her. She knew the penalty for fighting them, with her other children in the room. We might all end up sent to the Corps.

* * *

We got out to the van before she broke down. We all hugged her, Father last, telling her it would be all right.

"It's not fair," she said.

"It is fair," Father argued. "We've been blessed with six who didn't go to the Corps. But society needs the Corps—you know that."

"I know," she said, sniffling. "I just never want my baby raised there."

As Father drove away from the Maternity Hospital, Jenna asked, "Why do we need the Corps?"

"So society can function,” Father explained. “The chance cube is a fair way to determine which one-sixth of the children go to the Corps, where they learn to serve the rest of us—training for menial jobs, working as slaves, serving as pleasure women, and such. We need them.”

"Can we get lunch?" Mother asked. "I'm dying for a real meal."

"We certainly can," Father said, smiling and patting her thigh. "And after that… guess what's happening today at the Arena?"

Darren knew, his face lighting up. "Gladiators?"

"You got it, son," Father said. "One hundred of the best slaves from the Corps, some as young as you, fighting to the death."

My siblings cheered with excitement of this rare treat. “Think about it—without the Corps, we'd never enjoy gladiatorial games," Father said. "So it's good that children are sent there."

We drove off to lunch. I wasn't hungry. I couldn't have an appetite, knowing that my baby sister could one day be in that Arena. But I knew to keep my mouth shut. You can't speak against the State, and I didn't want to be sent to the Corps for doing so.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short-stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.