by G. C. Julien
EDEN
This box set contains three books:
EDEN (#1)
EXODUS (#2)
GENESIS (#3)
G. C. Julien and Ash S-J
www.gcjulien.com
© Copyright 2019 G. C. Julien, Ash S-J
Edited by Nikki Busch
www.nikkibuschediting.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
MAN HATING!
Whoa, whoa… let’s not jump to conclusions.
So, you picked up a copy of this book, whether digital or physical, and you may be wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into—you may be thinking: wow, these authors hate men.
That is not at all true.
In fact, we both (the authors) have several wonderful men in our lives who have inspired us to create the male heroes in this story. The purpose of this story is not to divide the genders and / or sexes (though it may seem like it in the first book of the series) or to make men out to be evil monsters. It is an exaggerated work of fiction intended to elicit heightened emotions surrounding a topic that has been relevant for centuries—the battle of the sexes—and to create a world in which women rise to power.
* * *
Now that that’s out of the way, I’d also like to be upfront about the contents of this book because no one likes to spend their hard-earned cash on something they don’t enjoy. So, if you think any of the items below might upset or annoy you in any way, I’d recommend finding something that’s more up your alley.
1) Swearing
2) Violence
3) Sexual violence against women
4) Multiple points of view (three characters)
5) Constant movement between past and present
Lastly, I do want to point out that although I generally tend to write in the young adult genre, this book does not fall into that category and is recommended for readers aged 16+.
Enjoy!
EDEN
PROLOGUE
The pistol’s grip feels hot against my clammy palm. I glare down its rear sight, having a hard time aligning it with its front sight because my hands are shaking. That’s when I realize I’m only two feet away from this bastard—I don’t need to aim my fucking gun.
He looks terrified. Big beads of sweat drip down his face, darkening his blue collar and red tie, but I don’t care. I’ve been waiting too long for this. And now that I’m here, it all seems so surreal, like I’m not even the one holding the gun.
Yet it is real… I am holding the gun, and I am standing in the Oval Office of the White House with a gun pointed at the President of the United States of America. His jet-black hair is combed to one side and although I’m sure it’s gelled over with some expensive hair product, it looks greasy like he hasn’t washed it in weeks.
Maybe he hasn’t.
But then again, I doubt even a war would get in the way of his personal needs.
I regrip my gun, remembering why I’m here, remembering everything he’s done.
“P-p-p-please,” he begs, raising two sweaty hands in the air, and I revel in it.
The sound of a heavy artillery drone suddenly flies overhead, and I know I’m running out of time.
I cock the pistol and press it into his temple.
Everything is about to change.
CHAPTER 1 – EVE
Eve – Present Day
“What happened next?” Scarlet asks, her honey-brown eyes gazing up at me with such fascination.
I smile and gently brush her golden hair away from her porcelainlike face. Behind her, a dozen little girls, no older than eight years old, form a crescent moon in the grass, listening intently to every word I say. Their mothers, too, are drawn to my story, even though I’ve told it countless times.
“It was a dark world,” I say. “A world you wouldn’t want to live in.” I make eye contact with some of the mothers—they know; they remember. “Men ruled the world.”
I see grimaces appear on some of the little faces. Scarlet, the young girl at my feet, sticks out her pink tongue and giggles. “Boys? In charge?”
I smirk down at her. “Strange, isn’t it?”
She nods quickly, and the other girls follow suit.
I stand and pluck a large bright red Fuji apple from the tree behind me, then sit back down, rubbing my thumb against its waxy skin. “See this?”
More rapid nods.
“This used to be available in something called a store,” I say.
“A store?” one child asks.
“What’s a store?” asks another.
They’re too young to know or remember the old world. Two children begin bickering back and forth, but their mothers intervene and tell them to pay attention.
“A store is a place where a person would go to buy food,” I say, “like this apple. I would have had to buy it in the store, with money.”
“What’s money?” one girl asks.
There are subtle smiles on the mothers’ faces. What an unusual question. What’s money?
“Money is something men enjoyed using,” I say. “Something that caused a lot of bad in the world.”
I know they’re too young to understand the concept of greed—of power hunger and pride—but I hope that by describing money as bad, they’re able to comprehend that it doesn’t belong in our new world.
“So, did you destroy the stores?” Scarlet asks, her eyes round, eager to hear more.
“A lot was destroyed,” I say. “A lot of people got hurt.”
Their smiles slowly turn upside down. These girls know nothing about pain.
“Sometimes,” I say, “sacrifices have to be made for good to happen.” A butterfly with purple wings suddenly flickers by my face, and Scarlet reaches to touch it. I grin down at her. “That butterfly used to be a caterpillar, you know.”
Several girls gasp.
“That little caterpillar had to sit in a tight cocoon for a whole two weeks before growing those beautiful wings.”
Their eyes remain glued to me.
“We fought hard—your mothers and your grandmothers—to give you a life full of happiness and peace.” I extend a hand out toward the bountiful trees, the multicolored flower bushes, and the cool grass—as vividly green as a granny smith apple—that surround us.
“You fought the bad men?” Scarlet asks.
I admire her bold and inquisitive personality—although only four or five years old, she’ll make a strong leader one day.
“We did,” I say.
“And you won?” another girl asks. “No more bad men?”
I tilt my head and intently glance at the children’s mothers.
“There are still bad men out there,” I say, “but that’s why I created Eden—a place without any men at all.”
Eve – Flashback
“We can’t… we can’t explain it,” the fat man says, loosening his collar. Sweat drips from his dark hairline, soaking his tight white collar. He tugs at his suit cuffs as if stretching his sleeves might help him better fit into his blue overcoat that looks better suited for a kid. It’s obvious that television interviews aren’t his forte.
I turn up the volume on the touchscreen remote and lean forward.
“Do you think this poses any sort of danger?” the interviewer, a slender, doll-faced woman asks. She looks so out of place, too, with her three pounds of makeup and her light hair so done up it looks like she used an entire bottle of hairspray on it.
The man shakes his head, but not the I don’t know kind of shake. It’s more of a We’re doomed kind of shake. “We have several hu
ndred research facilities trying to determine the cause, but where’s that getting us? They’ve been studying this phenomenon”—he does an air quote on either side of his double-chinned face—“since 2042. That’s twenty years of research since they noticed the change in statistics. And we still can’t figure it out. I mean, for the longest time, nature’s kept things pretty balanced. You know, fifty-fifty. How the hell”—his eyes dart at the camera, and he clears his throat, no doubt realizing the limitations on the words he can use—“how is it that the ratio’s been thrown off by twenty percent in only three years? Here we are, twenty years later, and seventy percent of the world population is now women. Scientists are speculating that the figure will continue to rise and jump to eighty percent in the next few years.”
At the bottom of the screen, there’s a black bar with white font that reads, John Gordon: Former Director of the Federal Statistics Department.
I’ve been hearing about this since I was a kid—how women are going to take over the world. It’s always been a bit of a joke in school, but over the last few years, it’s been getting serious. There’s worldwide panic, and every time I turn on the television, that’s all I see. It would be nice to get a break, just once. I swipe the remote and change the channel.
“Hey!” Mila says.
I wave a loose hand, urging my sister to keep quiet.
I land on a news channel, where a big red bar is floating at the top of the screen. I’m about to change the channel again, when Mila says, “Wait!”
The banner reads: “New bill to illegalize the abortion of male embryos.”
I swing my head around and look at Mila. She’s sitting forward with her elbows on her knees, looking the same as she always does on Saturday mornings—with a messy blond bun at the top of her head that’s much lighter than her roots and a pair of blue jogs and a white tank top with the same coffee stain she’s had for months. Her Caribbean ocean-colored eyes are popping out from behind her thick black-rimmed glasses, so much so that I wonder if they’ll smudge the lenses.
When she’s freaking out this much, I almost don’t notice her birth defect—a triangular-shaped dimple above her right eyebrow. It’s around the size of a penny. Kids in school used to make fun of her for it, but I think it adds character. She always wears her hair down in public to hide it, but when she’s home, she ties it up. Hopefully one day, she’ll stop caring what people think.
Right now, I know exactly how she feels—she’s terrified and enraged. The skin of her forehead creases into rolls, and she’s breathing hard through big nostrils. I feel the same way. Is this truly happening? I heard about the bill only a few months ago, and I thought it was some big joke—I thought President Price was simply being President Price. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mila spews. She throws her pencil at the wide, holographic television and it goes right through. Dissatisfied by the lack of impact, she tosses her homework all over the floor. “I feel like we’re living in the goddamn twilight zone. How is this happening? How does the government have the right to tell a woman she’s not allowed to abort based on the baby’s gender? This is insane.”
I give her the stink-eye. She’s thirteen years old going on thirty. Where did she learn to talk like that?
“What?” she says, her thick lips parted. “Don’t you see what they’re doing? They’re trying to gain control of us! They’re scared because we’re outnumbering them, and they’re trying to regain control!”
I know she’s right. I can’t even argue. I change channels again.
“Is it true?” the news anchor asks, her eyes fixated on the camera. “Is the government considering illegalizing the abortion of male embryos to bring balance to this whole male-to-female ratio?” I can tell she’s upset by the way her pointed nostrils flare out. She continues, “And what about female embryos? Are the rumors also true? Is the government planning on reinforcing female abortions in certain states?”
I can feel the heat radiating from my sister beside me.
The screen flips over to a different setting: there’s a silver-haired man in a gray red-speckled suit holding a microphone. Other suited men walk behind him and enter what appears to be a hall or a government building. He doesn’t respond for a few seconds, then nods his partly bald head and presses a stubby finger against his earpiece.
“Rest assured that the government is doing everything it can to bring about balance in the safest way possible,” he says, his voice a deep rumble. “We’re currently investigating several approaches to remedy this situation—”
“Remedy?” Mila shouts. I brace myself for a loud bang, but she doesn’t throw anything this time. “What is there to remedy? Men are the reason this world is going to shit! Little pussies can’t handle there being more of us? It’s not enough that they’re already in control? Bet you if it were the other way around, though, they wouldn’t be panicking like this. They’d be having a field day!”
“Mila!” I growl, my eyes glued to the television. “I’m trying to listen.”
She sighs, leans back against the couch’s soft plush cushion, and crosses her arms.
“Mr. Paril,” the female anchor says, her pencil-thin eyebrows coming close together, “could you please answer the question? Is the government considering the option of labeling the abortion of male embryos a federal crime?”
There’s another pause as the screen switches over, and he stares at the camera like an idiot before nodding again. “As I’ve said, Elizabeth, the government is currently investigating—”
“That’s not what I’m asking you,” she cuts in. Her nostrils are flared, and her brown skin is pulled back tight on her face.
The screen is now split in half, offering a visual of both the upset anchor and the arrogant man in the suit.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the nature of the actual investigation,” the man says.
“You’re not at liberty?” says the female anchor. “You’re not at liberty to discuss stripping women of their rights? Abortion has been a controversial topic for decades, and now there are rumors that the government may be stepping in and regulating abortions by illegalizing specific ones only? You do realize that this also means that all women will be obligated to undergo invasive procedures to determine the gender of the baby at an early stage, right? These are human beings, we’re talking about.” She’s glaring into the lens of the camera, a combination of disgust and hatred all over her face. “Who has the right to say it’s okay to take a life over another because of its gender? Do you realize the message this is sending to little girls around the world?”
“I understand your frustration, Elizabeth,” the man says, and all I want to do is smack him across the face. He’s so careless, emotionless. “Rest assured…”
“Rest assured?” she slaps a hand on her desk and points a finger at the screen, but everything suddenly goes bright blue, and there’s a white font caption that reads:
We are currently experiencing technical difficulties and are working to resolve the issue. We thank you for your patience.
“What?” Mila bursts out. “She was about to tell him off!”
“Exactly,” I say. “Come on, Mila. There aren’t any technical difficulties.”
She stares at me, and then at the blue screen, her jaw clenched. She digs her fingers into her veiny temples and lets out a low grunt. “I don’t understand. This can’t be happening.”
I’m too in shock to say anything. Government-regulated abortions? Basically, population control. In layman’s terms: the government plans to kill female babies and allow only males to be born to tip the scale.
How are they getting away with this? How can they possibly sign off on this? I’d understand if this were happening, say, several hundred years ago when we didn’t know any better, but in 2062?
This can’t be real.
My heart is pounding, and my palms are clammy.
The news channel flickers back on, but it’s
an aerial shot of Washington, DC. The sound of helicopter blades echoes out of the speakers, and a caption slides across the screen:
Thousands of women gather around the White House in protest of Bill Z-24.
Flags and signs are popping up everywhere. The camera switches angles, and the television offers a close-up glimpse on the ground, where gathered women are angrily waving their homemade signs in the air and shouting over each other. It looks like something out of a movie.
Another capture slides across the bottom of the screen:
Two dead and three in critical condition as riots continue in Washington, DC.
“Can you—” Mila says, flicking a hand in the air. “Just turn it off.”
I sigh and hit the power button, the holographic screen flickering twice before disappearing entirely, leaving only a thin silver frame over our blue-painted walls.
Mila lets out an exaggerated breath. “Where’s Mom?”
I cock an eyebrow. “How should I know?”
“Weren’t you supposed to work tonight?” she asks, ignoring my question.
I stare at her. God, is she ever hormonal. I don’t recall being so full of attitude four years ago when I was her age.
“No,” I say sharply. “I had my final exam today. And I already told you, I don’t work at Choco-Café anymore.”
She lowers her head and stares at me from above her black-and-gold-rimmed glasses. “So, you don’t have a job?”
Why does she care?
“I haven’t had a job for six months, Mila.”
She snorts and leans back into the sofa. “That explains a lot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smirks up at me, and I want to ask her if she’s stopped taking her Trisnol—a new drug she’s been prescribed to treat her bipolar disorder. But I know if I say anything, she’ll snap on me.
“You buy good food,” she says, almost embarrassed.