The smell of roast chicken sweeps over the crowd in waves of torturous bliss. People moan and grasp at the air, desperate to materialize it in their hands and mouths. I pinch my nose and close my eyes. I know what comes after.

It passes and the putrid smells of oil, coal and alkacite return. The moans become hateful wails. I’m not immune. The flavorful teases made the emptiness inside me twist hard. Staring at the massive unlit green light atop the gateway, seemingly miles ahead, I pray for relief.

It comes. The light bursts alive and the thousands in front of me cheer as the line begins moving again.

“Thank God,” I think. Turning around, I see Marcel in the Blue queue. He’s 200 yards or so behind me, expressionless, transported to the place where we all forget we’re starving. Then he smiles and waves me on. I wave back. He may still have a chance.

Illandria is on the right in Yellow, as far back as me. Hopeful, she pumps her fist as I move forward, not a glimmer of jealousy in her eyes. Our line halts as Green goes dark. I crane to see our progress but ahead, a fight breaks out. It ripples back, causing people around me to jostle, yell, and threaten. I turn to Illandria. She signals with her hands, I’m halfway there.

My mind wrestles against me, eager to claim victory. Every delectable bite I ate as a fat child is replaying in a sprint in my head. No! This is dangerous. Looking at Marcel, I remind myself what it took to get here, 325,000 credits, and the absolute possibility of failure.

Marcel bought his blue sector ticket with his mother’s death bonus and still had to work the chlorine baths for 4 months. His left arm will never be normal again. He’ll be cleaning those overlapping flaps of skin and scar tissue every day until he dies. Before we left, he half-joked if he didn’t make it he’d give himself a week-long vacation. Leave the salt under the skin that long and the mites would finish the job.

Yellow goes up. Illandria’s line cheers and I shout, “It’s today, baby!” She yells back, smiling, but I can’t hear her. We both pump our fists, anyways.

Please let her make it.

We started: me, Illandria and Collins, workmates from different sectors making a pact. 6 years ago in Pipe Junction #17CA. “20%. Every day.” Through nightmares, vomiting air, cramp spasms that blew blood vessels, we did it. Well, not Collins. He hid his stash in the abandoned zone and bowel scavs found it. He jumped off the reservoir gate the next day. His willed death bonus bought us a year.

Red goes up. “What?!” That wasn’t enough time on Yellow! Illandria and the people behind her scream in protest. They’ve moved 100 feet. The front of her line surges forward. She yells for calm, but too many are starting to riot and the security lights flash on.

“Oh my God.”

The spider drones launch and everyone in the front scrambles back, trampling each other for safety. The arms extend as they descend, followed by a menacing hiss that silences the other lines. A viscous spray showers everyone in the yellow line and panic turns to torment.

The mist is acid. Some people panic, others make a neighbor their human shield. But after it passes, anyone it hit stops dead in their tracks. The reactants multiply when in contact with human sweat. In seconds, Yellow is frozen, screaming in pain.

Illandria wails. The back of her head is singed and half her clothes have disintegrated. The man in front of her vomits blood and falls face first into the mud, then I lose her.

The sirens return and signal a gate is shutting for good. It’s Red. I turn to Marcel in a panic. His eyes concede he saw this coming. The massive metal doors begin closing. People fall to their knees in despair. Years of waiting for deliverance, for a chance, for a life, are over for them. Half will be dead within a month. The others are so broken by the price they’ve paid to queue that many will commit suicide before they get back to the Stacks.

I push my way to the edge. “Marcel!” He looks back with love and waves a slow goodbye.

“Marcel!” The plea is drowned out by hundreds of others calling the names of their loved ones.

My grief is interrupted by a shove to my shoulder.

“We’re almost there!” I turn in disbelief. We’re less than 200 ft from the entrance.

The sirens return, amid cries and shouts for justice, for luck, for it not to be us. The barricades to Yellow are grinding shut. I crane to see Illandria but everyone is shoving and it’s impossible. The pain of the ending so near is unbearable. Every molecule in me blazes with loss and hope.

Less than 100 ft.

People are crossing the line, crying, raising their hands for the bracelets that will allow them into the food halls. I can smell them. Chicken. Corn. Something I don’t recognize. Ughal wine or Hilrathi…potatoes!

30 ft. My breath flutters. I’m going to make it!

The massive sirens above me whirl to life. No! The security drones rise from their stations, a warning, as the doors re-activate. A black despair sweeps through me. Memories of Marcel and Derek crashing down the stairs of Processing in makeshift toboggans. Their laughter at broken arms and sprained ankles. The blackness takes them.

Illandria’s smile and her crooked teeth as she hands me a bird shell necklace from Yago Prime, painted in silicate blue she spent a month grinding. The blackness takes that, too.

My reflection in the mirror the day we got these queue permits. The smile of hope that it might all be worth it. I fall to my knees as I let the blackness take it. There’s nothing left but the bang of the metal doors as they shut and I hear the soul-dying cries of people who’ve suffered as much as I have.

This is our end. I let it come. Blackness.

Void.

“JL7-116?”

I feel a touch on my arm and hope it’s an angel, not a demon, come to deliver me. I open my eyes and an entry guard stares back at me. Confounded, I say to her with empty eyes, “I was so close.” She smiles and turns my head around. I made it across the line. The gate is 20 ft behind me.

From somewhere, a valve to my soul is released and I expel a lifetime of suffering in a single scream. Her smile and her scars tell me she’s known my pain, too. I look at her and see the faces of my friends, grab her hand and with the softness of a child, I utter…“I get to live.”