Ten minutes to the new year. Ten minutes of anticipation. Ten minutes of silence. No partying, no fun. All there is to do is wait. Wait like they do every year: alone, sitting uncomfortably, hunched over and listening for the first number to be called of the yearly lottery.

No one worries about food or poverty or wars anymore-those days have passed and now all there is to worry about is whose number gets called. The days of television and newspapers have passed. Everything is digital, everything is tracked-everyone is tracked. The days of seclusion have long been forgotten. Human interaction is at an all time low. Nine minutes remain.

Verbal communication is seldom. Everyone speaks through text. You look into the passerby’s eyes and all you see are your retinas paired along with every thought the two of you have shared in an instant. This is how the New World works. There are no secrets, there are no crimes. Your job is to simply exist. The entirety of human knowledge is ingrained into your brain from the moment you’re born. Eight more minutes.

The countdown continues like this, each second that passes brings yet another second closer to the inevitable. The thoughts on everyone’s minds are turned towards their future as they always have been during this time. For some, they’re spared for another year, for others…for others nothing is spared. It’s all about the future, not their future’s per say, but the future of the New World. John leans against the wall of his small, government-mandated housing apartment as the seventh minute approaches.

The greyed sky adds darkness to the blackened streets. The only light coming from outside is the Watchers and their headlights. They do this every night to ensure the curfew stays in effect. The irony of having to break the curfew to enforce it has either been lost on them or it does not apply to them. No one is sure which it is, but everyone assumes the latter. Six minutes.

Everyone is drugged. The water is polluted with chemicals, the food with narcotics. There are only daily rations now. No farms or gardens, just laboratory made rations with the bare requirements to survive. Because of this obesity is no longer a problem, and if it is, the offenders are taken for health treatment and never seen again. Five more minutes.

The Watchers’ car stops outside John’s building. Some thing is building. John has heard the stories of the lottery and knows how serious the protocol is. The Watchers leave their vehicle and enter the building as John sits back down in his chair while admiring the few possessions he has procured over his twenty one years of living. The badly beaten bowling trophy he once found in the alley now proudly sits on his floor, the chipped clay pot he was given by his great grandmother sits atop the flimsy table he made without permission from the council and the unstrung guitar he traded his rations for once leans against the wall as a reminder of what once was. Four minutes remain.

The New World has always been this way. Ever since the Great War that united the nations and brought unity to the World’s people. Bureaucracy is key. Without weights and balances no life can exist. There must be rules. There must be punishment for breaking the rules, and because of this no one breaks them. The curfew being one of them, obesity another. No meetings or assemblies, only togetherness(if you can call it that). Everyone is connected: mentally, biologically, technologically. They are all a network of people waiting for their numbers to be called so they can repay the New World for sparing and nourishing them. Three hundred and sixty seconds.

John knows it is his number this year being called by the sound of the pounding boots up the seven flights of stairs that turn to tip toes outside his door. John never has agreed with this genetic lottery, but love is forbidden in these times without the consent of the New World government. At least now he will know what coitus is like. Two very long minutes await.

Deep breaths and narrowed eyes are all that keeps John from making a run for it. He could easily break out the window and attempt a free fall, but he doubts that he’ll survive the impact at all, or if he did that he would be able to continue on his escape. The Watchers are everywhere and can track him anywhere in the world. His only hope now is to let go and allow everything to happen as it must. Sixty seconds.

As the internal clock counts down the seconds, John waits for the buzz of the announcement. In each of the many burrows two people are selected: a man and a woman. The burrows are large and the chance that the two would have met is scarce, but on the off chance that they have, it makes things less uncomfortable. Or at least as non uncomfortable as it could be for two people to continue the lineage of the New World while the Watchers and scientists look on through two way mirrors. John has always known that his number would be called, just like his father and his father’s father. Once you’re born your genetic structure is duplicated and digitized. Then it is put into a database where algorithms find the best suitor for you. If your genes are not to the New World’s specifications, you will be sterilized and taken to academy’s where they groom you to become Watchers, scientists or workers. The workers are the ones supplying the rations and any other task that needs to be done to make the New World perfect, the scientists are the ones ensuring that the perfect lineage continues and the Watchers… the Watchers simply watch. Those with worthy genes live a bland life of nothingness: no hobbies, no friends or acquaintances just brief connections with strangers. It’s all just a waiting game for the right partner to be found. One second.