by G. C. Julien
I wasn’t expecting that. For a second, I see my little sister in there, somewhere far beneath that teenage demon.
“Mom buys all the cheap shit,” she says.
I give her the look—a silent gaze that warns her to be appreciative of the things she does have. We don’t have much, and I know my mom does her best to support us. The only expensive thing we own is our television, and I spent years saving up to get it.
“I know, I know,” she says and raises two open hands on either side of her face. “I liked it when you did groceries, that’s all.”
I know she’s coming from a good place, and I can’t be upset with her for sharing her feelings. Instead, I take it as a compliment and smile at her. “I’m looking into starting work at Marshall’s this summer. Stacy said they’re hiring cashiers, which is pretty awesome considering nowhere else wants human cashiers.”
She gives me a crooked smile and looks down at her homework all over the living room.
“Until that happens, though, be thankful Mom’s even bringing any food home. You know she makes minimum wage,” I say.
“I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, Eve, but Mom hasn’t been to work in two weeks. She thinks I haven’t noticed, but I followed her the other day. She’s been going to those riots—you know, with all the feminists.”
CHAPTER 2 – GABRIEL
Gabriel – Present Day
Adam is running his mouth again, teaching these goddamn dogs that women are the reason the world’s fallen apart. Most days, I picture grabbing his prickly bald head and smashing it until there’s nothing but shards of bone hanging from loose flesh.
But he’s established himself here, among the few remaining men, and to turn against him would be suicide. He’s wearing a torn, sleeveless shirt, and his tattooed biceps bulge as he animatedly talks to the crowd in front of him, like he’s Jesus Christ himself surrounded by a herd of brainless sheep.
He’s sitting on an old foldable picnic table—a plastic piece of garbage he seems to think of as his throne. Even from here, I can see the veins in his forehead popping. It’s like he’s on drugs when he goes off like that. He looks like the type of guy who would take drugs, too. He’s scrawny but has a lot of muscle definition. His crazy blue eyes sit in the middle of two dark circles, and the skin around his eyelashes is all red. He has a cracked tooth at the front, but to be fair, most survivors have dental problems. Right now, he’s sitting there wearing what he’s been wearing for the last two months—a pair of black cargo pants he pulled off a military man, and a white long john shirt that looks like coffee’s been spilled on it at least a hundred times. He always keeps his shirt tucked in, and I assume it’s because it makes it easier for him to swing his rifle from around his back.
I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate Adam.
When I’m not fantasizing about beating the living daylights out of him, I’m usually fantasizing about leaving the Rebels. I don’t belong here, but I know there’s nothing left for me out there.
We’ve traveled hundreds of miles across cities, hoping we might find other survivors, but everything’s become a giant wasteland. So many people died of starvation, disease, and violence. And I’m an ex-marine. I’ve seen it all, but this world… It’s a lot to take in.
What gets to me is these guys. I know what they’re looking for, and the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. For years, they’ve been hunting for women. It’s been said that a certain group of women found their way to some haven. These pricks think that if they find them, they’ll get to have their way with them.
Why couldn’t I have ended up with a bunch of good men? Who in their right mind thinks about sex in a post-apocalyptic world?
They’ve already admitted to raping women during the rebellion. In fact, they’re proud of it. What kind of sick piece of shit owns up to that? Brags about it?
If I speak up, they’ll kill me. All I can do is hold on to the idea that one day, I’ll get my chance to take them out, or I’ll find a way to run.
“Yo, Gabe!” Adam shouts, leaning his bony elbows on his knees.
I cringe at the sound of his voice. It’s an exaggeratedly masculine growl. It’s like he’s forcing too hard to sound tough.
I make eye contact, but I don’t say anything.
“Why aren’t you over here?” he asks, pointing his eyes down at his little followers—a bunch of burly men dressed in blood-and-dirt-stained clothes and beards growing out past their Adam’s apples. Some try to groom with their knives, but most let it grow, because they just don’t care and because they think it makes them look more intimidating, which it probably does.
I look around and realize I’m the only odd man out. I’m sitting against an abandoned schoolyard’s rusted chain-link fence, my back to the sun. It’s warm on the skin of my clammy neck, and I’m content here.
“Think I caught something,” I lie and rub my stomach.
He makes a stupid face at me and keeps preaching.
We’re twelve men in total, including me. We used to be sixteen, but two got sick, and two were shot dead by Rebels from a different crew. That’s the funny thing about us men—we like to say that women are the reason for this war, but we’ll kill each other over territory.
Sometimes, I wonder if it would be easier if I were like Adam’s men. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone. It’s an indescribable torture to feel like you don’t belong to your own gender. Because in reality, there’s a bunch of them and only one of me, so maybe I’m the freak. Maybe I’m too sensitive.
I run my fingers through my long curly black hair and sigh. Any minute now, Adam will get up, hop off the table in his big leather combat boots, and start walking.
Because that’s all we do—walk.
Walk, sleep, eat, scavenge, and kill. I avoid the killing part, but some of the men have started giving me weird looks. It’s like they’re onto me, and they don’t like it. They can’t stand anyone who isn’t exactly like them. Anyone who isn’t ruthless and primitive.
I see no point in killing those who aren’t part of our crew. It’s barbaric. Self-defense—fine. But to kill a group of men to take their food? Their clothes?
I look down at my own leather nine-hole boots. I’ve been wearing these for years, and although the stitching is starting to come undone, I’ll wear them for as long as I can before I steal a dead man’s pair. But some of these men wear a bunch of clothes they don’t even need. It’s like they’re proud of themselves for having killed someone. I see no pride in that.
I shift my attention to Masterson. He’s probably the heftiest out of all of us, with his slimy belly hanging over his belt and his flabby arms creating pools of yellow stains under his arms. He’s munching down on a stale granola bar from one of the expired batches. We raid abandoned stores and buildings whenever possible and only if they haven’t already been cleared out by other survivors. Some of the stuff we pick up is expired, which doesn’t matter when you haven’t eaten in three days, but Masterson tends to abuse his eating privileges.
We just finished going through the school across the field. The sign in front of the school, a molded slab of metal, reads Jackson High. It’s amazing what you’ll find in high school lockers. There’s a lot of stale weed, but most of the time, it’s food so rotten it looks like a pile of brown mush and the stench is enough to make me want to run out of the school. Today, we managed to find a few granola bars, chips, chocolate bars, and candy. The rest is pretty much mush. Even sandwiches (I’m assuming they were sandwiches) look like brown soup swirling around in ziplock backs.
I wonder: if we were to run out of food, would the men turn on Masterson? Would they resort to cannibalism, given he’s the fattest of the bunch? I pray we don’t reach that point, but it’s something I have to think about because we’re all just a bunch of civilized animals. If cornered in a life-or-death situation, man will always choose life.
Adam suddenly lunges to his feet and spits out a glob of snot. “Let’s go find us
some pussy.”
God, I wish I still had my 9mm. I’d pop one right at his face. Now that the men are fed, they’re ready to hunt. Because that’s all they can think about—sex. In a postapocalyptic world, they’re still thinking about sex.
What a joke.
Don’t get me wrong: I miss it, too. A lot. But I wouldn’t go hunting innocent women for it. When I think about rape, it puts a nasty knot in my stomach. I couldn’t do it… can’t imagine myself holding someone down and forcing them to feel pain so I can get off. It’s disgusting. Women aren’t toys to be played with by men. They’re human beings.
These guys probably used to pick up prostitutes. I can see it on their faces. They’re entitled pieces of shit who think the world is owed to them. They think because they’re genetically bigger and stronger, they should be in control.
I’m genetically bigger and stronger than Adam—do you see me trying to take his place? I’m not an animal. I have nothing to prove. If I ever do kill him, it won’t be out of a desire to be in control or to lead the group. It’ll be out of a need to cleanse the world from his worthless, acne-scarred skin.
Masterson shoves what looks like a Twinkie into his mouth, and I cringe because I know that the cream inside is probably all clumpy, if not rock hard. He hops on his feet and laughs like he’s crazy or something.
“Yeah!” he says, his mouth grossly full. “Let’s find… s… puss…!”
Was that even a sentence? They’re like cavemen. What are they going to do if they find a woman, anyway? Knock her out and take turns?
Remember, though: “women are the reason the Earth’s gone to shit.”
Gabriel – Flashback
“Madre, let me help you with those,” I say.
My mom likes to think she can handle everything on her own, but she has a bad shoulder, and the least I can do is help. I pluck the grocery bags out of her stiff hands and bring them into the foyer.
“I could’ve done it just fine, my Gabriel,” she says, her accent not having improved in the slightest since we moved to the United States.
“I know, Mama, but I like to help,” I say.
She brushes her fingers against the scruff of my beard and looks at me with her dark chocolate-colored eyes. “How did I get so lucky?”
I smile at her. My mom means everything to me. She’s always put me first—always sacrificed her own dreams to give me a life worth living. Sometimes, I wonder what life would be like if my father hadn’t been killed at war when I was five. Would I have done father-son stuff? Would I be out playing baseball with him right now? Would I have steered clear of the marines?
Could be I’m still searching for him. My mother hates that I’ve joined the Black M, or Black Marines, a new division in the US Military, but ever since he died, I’ve felt a gravitating pull, an indescribable desire to follow in his footsteps, even if it means putting my life on the line.
I feel awful for my mom, though. She lost her husband, and now, her only son is leaving on a mission in a few days.
“I’m gonna miss you, Mah,” I say.
She swallows hard a few times, the skin on her neck stretching with every gulp. I don’t mean to hurt her—I just want her to know I love her.
She looks at me, and I can almost hear her heart shatter. “Why do you have to go? Why do you want to fight when your father died doing the very same thing?”
I cross my arms and bow my head. “Mah, you know this is something I have to do.”
She taps me gently on the cheek, and her fingernails tickle me. “You won’t find your father out there.”
“I know that.”
She smirks, knowing all too well that this is an old song, then walks into the house. I remove my shoes, pick up the bags, and follow her inside.
“Go sit,” I tell her. “I’ll put this stuff away.”
She squeezes my forearm and goes to her favorite recliner chair, where she sits down and picks up a blue-and-black novel sitting on her coffee table.
My mom’s not frail in any sense of the word. She’s a petite forty-two-year-old woman with olive skin and wavy black hair she keeps tied in a small bun at the back of her head. She has a heart of gold but the temper of a wildcat when provoked.
I pull the bag of milk out of the grocery bag and place it into the fridge’s bottom drawer, where my mother always likes to keep it. I personally don’t like reaching down to grab milk, but at her height (a short five feet), she doesn’t seem to mind.
I put the remaining groceries away and join her in the living room. She still has the same sofa I used to sleep on as a child. It’s an orange-and-brown-colored fabric couch that’s rough to the touch. It’s hideous if I’m being honest, but it’s incredibly comfy.
As I look around, I realize that everything is exactly as it has been for the last seventeen years. Nothing’s changed. At least, nothing that I can see. She still has her old, yellowwood bookshelf with glass doors cornered by the window, and the walls are still a candy-apple red. Bronze and golden plates hang above the brick fireplace, something my mom’s always loved to collect, especially when she goes to Argentina to visit her family. I’ve tried to introduce her to all the new technology the world has to offer—from holographic televisions to small interior drones that help with household chores—but she wants nothing to do with it.
I glance at her, and she slides off her reading glasses, places her book down, and smiles up at me.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
“About what?”
“About your mission,” she says. “Where are you going?”
She’s always been so inquisitive. “You know I can’t tell you that, Mah.”
Her lips curve up and her eyes narrow on me. “So secretive. I’m your madre, for heaven’s sake! Who am I going to tell?”
I rub my forehead, my smile turning into a grin. I’ve always had such a hard time keeping anything from my mom. She’s taught me the importance of honesty, integrity, and respect since I was very young.
But I can’t tell her. It’s part of my clearance. It’s part of the mission. She can’t know where I’m going.
“Is it San Diego again?” she presses.
“No, Mah, that was my training.”
“You’re too young, Gabriel. You’re too young to go to battle.”
I lean forward, my eyes fixated on hers. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”
She shakes her head and pouts. “That’s what your father said before he left.”
There’s a moment of silence, and guilt starts to set in. I’ve been away for two years on a mission in North Korea, and now that I’m back, I’m leaving again. My poor mom didn’t know where I was for two years, and I’d rather keep it that way. Not only for her safety but for mine. I don’t want to talk about what happened. I don’t want to relive any of it.
“Master Sergeant Diego seems to think I have a lot of potential,” I say, hoping to make her proud.
“Potential for what?”
I shrug. “To move up. To make something of myself. Mah, if I move ranks, I can take care of us for the rest of our lives. You know that, right?”
“Money doesn’t matter to me,” she says. “I want mi hijo to be safe.”
I lean back into the sofa and rest my arms up on the headrest. “I’ll do everything in my power to stay safe, I promise you.”
She doesn’t say anything. That’s one thing I hate—when I upset her. But every time we talk about the Black M, the mood turns sour. I don’t blame her. I understand where she’s coming from and wish I could make things right.
“Can you talk about him, Mah?”
The skin on her face tightens, and her eyes light up. “About Camille? Your father?”
I nod. I’ve heard the stories time and time again, but when she speaks of him, it’s like he’s here with us. I want to hear it again before I leave.
“He was as handsome as you,” she starts. “Curly black hair. Beautiful big blue eyes with long eyelashes. You look so much like
him. You’re as big and strong as he was, too. And that deep voice of yours… You got that from him.” She stares at me as if she’s seeing me for the first time. “He was funny. So funny…” She raises both hands in the air. “But also such a gentleman. You get that from him. Did you know that? Your father had so much respect for women. He was kind and fair. Sometimes I wished he’d never joined the armed forces.”
I’m about to stop her and tell her that we don’t have to talk about him because I can tell the story’s turning dark, but she continues. “It changed him. Made him hard. But the Camille I knew before he went to war…” Her features light up again. “He was one in a million.”
She stares off into space, and I sit quietly, letting her enjoy the memory.
“He was so…so…” She quickly glances up at me. “What’s that word? Chivalous?”
“Chivalrous?”
She laughs, a full set of white teeth now visible. “Chilavarous,” she tries to repeat. “Men aren’t like that anymore. But you”—she points a stiff finger at my face—“you were raised to be chilavarous. To be kind. To be gentle with women. You know better than to ever lay hands on a woman. If I ever catch you—”
“Mah!” I cut her off. “I’d never hit a woman. Come on. You taught me better than that.”
“I also taught you to open doors for women, and men, too. You show respect to everyone, and you get respect back.”
She’s still pointing at me. A prominent crease forms between her brows.
“I open doors for people all the time, Mah. I help people when they drop their belongings. I smile at strangers. Going away for thirteen weeks hasn’t changed that.”
She slowly lowers her hand and raises her chin. “Good.”
“You taught me something else, too,” I say, inching forward.
She tilts her head and doesn’t let go of my stare. “What else?”
“How to cook. Now, what can I make you for lunch?”
CHAPTER 3 – LUCY