digitaldiscipline ◾ ◾ [Fiction] The Bold and the Dead

This was my submission to Apex Books' "Election Horror" contest, judged by the august

jaylake. It wasn't victorious, so you poor suckers get the freebie release.

Joey had been mocking us for months. Ever since packing up for some southeastern European 'stan on the Med "where at least the corruption and socialism are right there in front of you," he'd been daring people to vote, calling it everything from choosing the slowest decline into systemic failure to a willful participation in the hoodwinking of the state. Last I checked, nobody I knew had voted for the guy currently and vigorously filling the handbasket (who still votes "Pirate" in this day and age, I ask you?), but it was picking up speed anyways.

"I'm still worried," Marcy confided in me, wiping up some milk the cats had liberated from her bowl of Qorn Flakes. "What if it's too close? What if it's fixed? Do you want some more coffee?"

"It's zombie against ninja! Who'd believe a fix?" It wasn't the first time we'd had this conversation. We were both pro-vampire to the core, even though our views on polygamy didn't jibe with theirs, and we had been on the fence since the Harker probe had let the proverbial bat out of the bag, putting an end to Our Man Vlad's candidacy. As ever, it became a choice between the greater of two evils, and we'd cautiously tipped towards "Sneaky Is As Sneaky Does" with a strong, if silent, track record of assassination as the better alternative to another four years of shambling, mindless consumption and decay.

I have mold allergies. I just can't vote a decay ticket.

#

We watched the returns over a bottle of sake as chilled as we were. The disembodied talking heads were bobbing in disbelieving indignation (and electrolytic formaldehyde) as the figures poured in. O'Viley's oversized vat sloshed in a paroxym of gelatinous glee until I couldn't bear to to watch, and shut the tube down altogether, staring disconsolately over the remnants of a tempura eel roll even the cats wouldn't touch.

"How?" Marcie looked unusually ashen.

"I don't.... Oh, those _bastards._" I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, overcome with slick, sickening admiration. "Who counts the votes, hon?"

"The machines, don't they? Cybots are appointed, right?"

"Uh huh. And who made all the old voting machines?" I could see the awful realization rise in her face like bone dust in a freshly-disturbed crypt. The gambit was so brazen, so obvious, that none of us would ever have taken it at face value.

"Diebo-- Oh, my God."

"The dead _were_ bold this year. We're never going to hear the end of it from your parents. I'll go dig them up to give them the news."