It happens twice every year, and this year, Belfast was first.

When I was seventeen, I lived in Belfast, New Hampshire. It was one of those small towns, frozen in time, with perhaps a few thousand people who inhabited it. Most of those people had undulated their way in and out the doors of Horton’s café at some point or another, and it had been for as long as I had been alive the primary hub for all that happened there, where the mouths of women gossiping and their children arguing flapped up and down, gyrating in the air, creating whirlwinds of speech that press into the paint of the ceiling. Whatever you heard, whatever was said about anyone in our town usually found its beginnings in words dropped casually here and there from the lips of women and men who flitted in and out of conversations between one another in hushed tones and whispers.

Horton’s Café sat stoutly on the corner of Tucker Hill Road, which anyone would classify as the main drag. The store was managed overhead by Mrs. Horton, who also worked a shift or two every week to keep “in touch with customers,” as she said. If there was anyone in Belfast who knew everything about everyone, Mrs. Horton was that woman. She had long grey hair which she kept in a near-permanent bun wrapped tightly against the base of her head and tucked against her neck. Her fingernails were painted once a week at the salon down the street. The store needed “a female touch” to keep it running smoothly, and this is the reason she gave for keeping her hand fixed so firmly in the innards of her store. Her true motives became clear whenever the mouths of two women began to move in that excited way that declared a secret was now being loosed on the world. She always had an ear ready when she stood behind the counter. If you think that a word you said inside those doors belonged to you and your companions alone, you were sorely mistaken.

Down the road from Horton’s Café sat Rhoady’s Books, which was perhaps the second-best place to go if you were looking for a slice of Belfast culture. It was the best place to go in forty miles for a good book, and I had spent a lot of time there myself. They tended to be the best employer of high-school students and I once considered a job there two years ago for that reason but I felt the potential risk of growing to hate the place was far too great a risk to take. Nevertheless, there were times I would open the front door and look at the help wanted sign and motion towards it with my eyes in hopes that, by some luck, the manager would look at me and look at the sign and immediately understand what I meant. Needless to say, this never happened.

If you continued past Rhoady’s Books you would soon come to the movie theater, which was run by the Warren family who managed to squeeze just enough revenue from the creaking establishment to keep it from simply falling to pieces where it stood and ceasing to exist. The theater had a total of four screens, and they ran four films for two weeks before they got new ones. I had been told it was also possible to rent a screen for one night at a low fee but I had never seen reason to pursue this theory beyond polite conversation. As a consequence, the theater always reeked of a long-forgotten regal air being replaced with the stink of desperation and a slow death. It had a very poor air conditioning system that was retrofitted to the building in the days before it could be unequivocally declared that it was, indeed, on its last legs. Nevertheless, the new air system quickly fell into a state of disrepair similar to that of its surroundings, and the Warrens had never had the heart to get it fixed. I tended to avoid the theater because its seats creaked and the doors moaned when you opened them, and in this way the Warrens had already guaranteed the demise of that which they had maintained only half-heartedly anyway.

There was a small general store across from the café. It was a dusty old shop that barely warrants mention, and this mention is only due to their gasoline pumps. The proprietors of the general store benefitted from most of the gasoline sales in Belfast, because they were the only store with pumps. If you did not want to buy gas from the general store, you would have had to drive fifteen miles out of your way to Brandon. Most people would have rather paid for the gas here then go out of town, which ensured the slow, almost malignant trickle of vehicles one could find pulsing in and out of the filling station until ten o’clock on most evenings.

These buildings together accounted for the majority of downtown Belfast. Past the movie theater, Tucker Hill Road branches into residential streets that cut into the forest and plop houses between the trees.

But when I was seventeen, there was very little that was truer to me than two things: that my life, if you could call it that, was on its way down from some high point which was not near high enough for distinction, and that the town of Belfast was very soon to be exterminated--wiped out, purged from the greater New Hampshire and the United States in general--and there was just about nothing in my power I could do to stop that.

I wasn’t quite sure why the residents of Belfast were so quick to accept their town being selected for the “small-scale preventative liquidation” that occurred semi-annually and made small features in the local news beside domestic terrorist threats but not taking precedence above foreign terrorist threats or celebrity weddings by any means. I know no one ever really quite knows what’s going on behind the curtain and behind closed doors on a larger scale, but always figured if the big government folk were looking to wipe out a significant part of the population, they’d hit the cities. Perhaps that would cause too much of a fuss internationally, though; it’s tough to say.

The typical morning stupor plaguing most of the student body at Helen Keller High didn’t seem to apply the day after news of the liquidation had been broadcast through antiquated local radio and a poorly written headline in the Belfast Weekly newspaper.

Rabid chatter buzzed through crowded hallways where some already-resigned, teary-eyed girls gasped and stuttered and clutched their friends while solemn residents of the bordering town with whom we shared the school looked on not knowing whether or not to express the inevitable survivor’s guilt that was creeping steadily into their minds.

I just wanted the vending machine to work.

“Come on, baby, just give it to me, I swear I’ll call in the morning!”

Tom, a brawny, crew-cut-donning core member of my group of friends, was standing next to the malfunctioning vending machine, stroking it, his face pressed against the side, whispering in a mocking tone.

“Third time this week this thing won’t give me my fucking Cheetos,” I griped. “It’s a vending machine, it’s supposed to vend. This is not about love.”

Tom smirked.

“Hey, assholes!”

Voices were chiming from down the hall. I looked up to see the remaining members of the group bounding over like a pack of rogue cocker spaniels with energy to spare. Regan, whose hair looked like it had been brushed with an eggbeater on most days, cracked open an energy drink--most likely his second yet that day. Colin had his pale blonde head buried in a vintage comic book that probably cost more than his outfit, and the scrawny, rodent-faced Meese was nervously applying chapstick, looking over his shoulder like he had stolen it and was waiting to be called out.

Regan rubbed his hands together, surveying the hallway packed with distressed students.

“So I guess we’re fucked, huh?”

Colin did not look up from his comic.

“Belfast has more squirrels than people. I dunno what we were expecting.”

Meese, even twitchier than usual, crossed his arms across his body as if giving himself a much-needed hug.

“You guys don’t really seem worried.”

Regan gave a half-smile.

“I dunno, man. Maybe we’ll just leave.”

“Leave?” I raised a quizzical brow. “You think they’ll let us do that?”

“Who’s ‘they?’ Fuck it, I don’t see why not.”

He attempted to run his fingers through the tangled mop of hair on his head and took another swig of his chosen poison. I was ready to give up on the vending machine entirely.

“I’m fucking starving. Gonna grab a bagel before class. You coming?”

We made our way through the hoards of sorrowful students, Tom’s tall stature sending students backing away like a sour-faced Moses parting the Red Sea, and we went about our day as usual.

Border patrol arrived that evening. The following day, the first attempted escapee was killed.

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Excerpt from Belfast Is Gone

As I enter the dark room again, my feet stop momentarily; the torch frozen in my hand midair. Strange, but somehow I figured that there wouldn’t be that many things in the room. I was obviously very wrong… there were plenty… to say the least. The place was packed with all sorts of things. There was the big table that I stumbled in the first place; I saw the other chairs… and many more. I looked around noticing chairs in different shapes, sizes and styles. I looked to the sides and corners of the room and saw a couple of old rugs rolled up against each other… they looked out of place. Well, everything looked out of place. My eyes wondered of to the impressive table again and all the smaller and strange objects that were littering the wide surface.

There were many old books, all sorts of yellowed papers struck by the passing time… dust covering everything. I saw some large cups… from the look of it, very expensive, priceless even… and probably not possible to replace. I even saw a couple of plates, no doubt made of pure gold – no revelation there. I picked one of the cups, curious what they would feel like. They were heavy, with small jewels on the top. I stroked the gems in amazement. The blue sapphires, red rubies… and the prettiest emeralds that I could ever imagine. So breathtaking… I shake my head after a long moment, putting the cup back in its place. Better not to move anything from here… 

I look suspiciously at all the things in the room. And can’t help but to wonder if there were any traps waiting for me… I wouldn’t be exactly surprised, if something fell on my head or attacked me before I could even blink an eyelid… very tricky.

But after a moment of hesitation I just shrug my shoulders. I mean… the door was open, the dust a couple of inches thick… so no one was here for… hell knows how long. Which means no one was even remotely interested in this place. And not to mention that the owner got the whole place probably covered. I was sure that nobody could get down here no matter how much they tried. Unless somebody was invited here… or dragged with no scruples… like me. I doubted that anybody could just sneak down here. Unless they had a death wish of course.                                                     I could easily imagine that this place was guarded better then the famous Fort Knox. My not so charming prosecutor definitely having better resources… and being the master of all things evil couldn’t hurt either.

I bend down over the table, wanting to have a better look at all the strange things. I outstretch my hand to pick a small wooden box, the size of an average Rubik block… but a stop abruptly, noticing a spark from the torch falling on the table. I froze for a half a second, than quickly put out the possible fire that didn’t need plenty of time to spread around. Thankfully nothing happens, only a small burned smudge left behind. I use my sleeve to remove the ashes and cover the spot with an old heavy goblet. For a moment my heart still races with panic, than eventually I calm myself down. 

 Can you imagine what would happen if I actually started a fire down here? I close my eyes trying to block out the possibilities. This would not go without a punishment. I look at my hand and touch my wrist, remembering the bruise that was spreading there just yesterday. And that was just a warning for straying, without permission… and of being accused of wanting to run away… accused correctly, but that was beyond the point. He would do horrific things to me if I burned the whole place down.

I stare at the torch like it’s a death weapon and quickly look for a safe place to put it in. I notice the holds on the wall and pick one. But as the hold is just as high as it was in the other room I have to haul another chair with me my free hand. It takes me a while, much longer then the last time, but eventually I make it. After I get down I proceed with looking around, this time with both of my hands free and without unnecessary panic and hyperventilation on its way. 

I go to the corners of the room and reach for one of the rugs, intrigued by the colorful pattern. Now, I wasn’t an expert on these things but the carpets looked Persian. Antique quality. Well, to the truth everything around deserved the name of an antique. Like stepping in a secret chamber filled with treasures from top to bottom.

I give a little smile. Usually secret chambers are guarded better… and locked. But I guess, if the owner of this place, thinks of himself this highly and as someone who’s indestructible… then locks and bolts, or any kind of precautions for that matter are… completely unnecessary. 

I look around again and notice a small sparkly object on the table. Now, I never had a chance to hold an actual diamond before, but I was pretty much sure, that that was the exact thing that I was holding in my hand right now. The shape wasn’t exactly like the one you usually see in pictures or in the movies, but it was impossible to mistake for anything else. The shape was more rounded, or even oval then what was common and looked like it fitted in some kind of a necklace… maybe that was exactly where it was taken from… and by taken I mean stolen. It was tempting to just take something as beautiful as that, but I doubted that it would even fit in my pocket… not to mention the vengeance from the not so lovely owner.

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I know almost everything about you. I know where you live. I know your significant other's name. I know where it hurts. I know all of this because you tell me. 

My colleagues subject you to more questioning. They poke and probe you with you sharp and sterile objects. In this confined space, everyone can hear you scream.

After it is all said and done you are allowed to get dressed. Before we release you back into the world, I have the nerve to ask you for money for services rendered.

I'm the registration clerk in an Emergency Room.