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The Line to Nowhere
Mary Chesterson clutched her trembling hands together, trying to keep warm despite the blistering July sun beating down on the asphalt. The line stretched endlessly ahead of her, a human river flowing toward the foreboding structure at the horizon. The smell of sweat and fear was unbearable. Around her, whispers of disbelief buzzed—murmurs of prayers, sobbing, and the occasional defeated silence.
She had no country to go to, no papers to prove her worth, and no status to make her life valuable under the new regime. The government that had overtaken the United States—the Sovereign Order of Humanity—had rewritten the rules of existence. "Consolidation of Resources" was what they called it. The truth was far simpler: those deemed unworthy of life had no place in the world.
For Mary, who had fled the collapse of the USSR with her parents decades ago, it had felt like history repeating itself. The chaos following the Sovereign Order’s rise spread like wildfire. Borders were erased, economies crumbled, and governments worldwide fell like dominos, unable to withstand the pressure of collapsing alliances.
But this—this was worse.
When her documentation was reviewed, Mary’s birth certificate from an old Soviet state marked her as a stateless refugee. With no country to claim her and no system to integrate her into society, she was deemed "burdensome." Deportation was no longer an option. If you had nowhere to go, you were sent to the “Processing Centers.”
The official line was that these centers were humane. Necessary.
They were death camps.
The First Night
Mary had been picked up during a routine sweep in Chicago. The authorities moved like ghosts in the night, dragging people from their homes, separating families, and filling up buses with screaming, terrified civilians. Her small one-bedroom apartment, filled with her mother’s old samovar and her few personal trinkets, was left in eerie silence when they came for her.
The first night in the detainment facility, Mary met a young boy named Amir. He was no older than seven, his dark eyes wide and terrified as he clung to a worn teddy bear missing an ear. His parents had been taken separately, and he hadn’t stopped crying since they’d arrived.
“Don’t let go of that bear,” Mary had told him, her voice cracking. She couldn’t save him, but she could offer him some comfort. “Hold it tight, okay?”
He’d nodded silently, tears streaking down his face.
By morning, Amir was gone.
The Church's Lament
As Mary shuffled forward in the line, she overheard snippets of the protesters gathered outside the gates. Church groups waved signs and shouted through megaphones, their words barely audible over the hum of the waiting crowd and the buzzing drones overhead.
“This is murder! A sin against God!” a woman cried, clutching a crucifix.
“It's mercy,” another voice countered, cold and sharp. “They’re draining resources we don’t have. We’re saving the rest of humanity by letting them go.”
The crowd around Mary shifted uneasily at the words. It didn’t matter what the protesters said. None of them were stepping in front of the line. None of them were opening their homes to the condemned.
Mary thought of her parents, who had sacrificed everything to bring her to America. They had fled Siberian winters and the iron grip of a collapsing regime for the promise of freedom. Would they have been proud of her now? Standing here, awaiting extermination like an unwanted pet?
She clenched her fists tighter. No. Her parents had believed in dignity, even when stripped of everything. She would carry their memory with her, even as the world erased her existence.
Inside the Facility
When Mary finally reached the gates, she was processed like cattle. Stripped of her belongings, her clothes were replaced with a plain gray jumpsuit. A tattooed number was inked onto her forearm. It stung, but not as much as the humiliation.
“You’ll be fine,” an officer sneered, his voice devoid of empathy. “Quick and painless, like going to sleep.”
Mary said nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her despair.
The facility was clinical, white walls stained with the faint residue of humanity's darkest decisions. People sat in holding cells, crying, praying, or staring blankly ahead. The air was thick with despair, almost suffocating.
In her cell, Mary met an older man named Karl, who spoke softly about his wife, who had died a year earlier.
“She’s waiting for me,” he said with a weary smile. “I’ll see her soon.”
Mary envied his peace.
The Line to the Chamber
The final line was the worst. The walls closed in tighter, the screams and cries of those ahead muffled but ever-present. Mary tried to focus on anything else—the scuff marks on the floor, the way her shoes pinched her feet, the memory of her mother humming a Russian lullaby.
When she reached the front of the line, a faceless officer scanned her number.
“Chesterson, Mary. No dependents. No employment. No origin of claim. Processing approved.”
The door in front of her hissed open.
A Final Defiance
Mary stepped inside, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. The chamber was sterile and cold, a mockery of the humanity it destroyed.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
In her final moments, Mary thought not of the cruelty of the world, but of Amir clutching his teddy bear. Of Karl smiling softly as he spoke of his wife. Of her mother’s lullabies and her father’s strong arms lifting her high above the chaos of their old life.
Mary smiled through her tears.
“They can’t take this from me,” she whispered.
And as the light faded, she carried their love with her into the void.
Epilogue
Outside the gates, the protesters had dwindled. The world moved on, numbed to the daily slaughter. News anchors spun narratives of necessity and order. Church groups lit candles in mourning.
But somewhere, in the quiet corners of a crumbling world, whispers of Mary Chesterson’s name lingered. She was one of millions—nameless to history but unforgettable to those who had stood beside her in that terrible line.
And though the world had turned its back on compassion, Mary’s spirit remained, a quiet defiance against the darkness. A reminder of the humanity that had been lost.