by G. C. Julien
Then it comes back to me. Lucy. She turns sixteen today.
Children between the ages of five and sixteen attend class every day of the week. Each one of my Specials—the women I brought to Eden who specialize in specific trades—teaches a class of her own. The idea behind this approach is to transfer valuable knowledge to our next generation to not only guarantee their survival but also, to encourage growth and prosperity as we move into the future.
When a child reaches the age of sixteen, she decides which trade she wants to pursue. The idea of male and female roles doesn’t exist in Eden. If a girl wants to become a Technician, she’s encouraged to follow that path. Every girl obtains knowledge in each area—food preparation, electricity, plumbing, medicine—but she has to choose to specialize in only one of these.
Today, Lucy makes her choice.
“Of course, I’m going,” I say, thankful for Agatha’s reminder.
“I’d come, but this weather is taking its toll on me.” She rubs her knees again and grimaces.
I place a gentle hand on her hard, hunched back that feels like clay. “It’s okay, Agatha. I’ll let you know what she picks.”
Graduation is always held in Division Four because there is a theater room at the very end of the hall. I make my way down Division Four’s corridor as fast as I can and enter through the double wooden doors. The room itself is generous in size. Most of the ceiling tiles high above me have turned a dull yellow, and massive windows surround the rectangular-shaped room. Today, the room is filled with a dark gray light, and condensation fogs every window. The blinds remain open most of the time, although I assume these were originally set in place to allow for a dark setting when prisoners were granted the privilege of a movie night. There’s an old projection screen at the back of the room, but we have yet to use this. Fiona, my finest electrician, has recently started working on connecting the projector to our solar panels.
Several women are seated on the metallic, gray-cushioned chairs that are evenly positioned across the room.
I’m met with curious glances, and I do my best to smile at every woman as I make my way to the front stage. How long have they been waiting for me? I can only assume Lucy is waiting in the back room for my call. I wonder if she’s changed over the last six months. I haven’t taken the time to visit, and I’m sure she’s upset about this.
Although I’d never admit it, Lucy is growing up to look like her mother—long, silky red hair and bright green eyes. She has a small pointed nose, like Ophelia, and a spirit stronger than a dozen women combined.
I need to distance myself. It’s too hard.
I focus my attention on the audience. Her teachers are sitting in the front row, eyes glued to me like a herd of sheep around Jesus Christ himself. I straighten my posture and readjust my suit.
“Good morning, my beautiful ladies,” I say, and the room lights up. “Thank you all for coming to this memorable ceremony—the Graduation of Lucinda Cain.”
Eve – Flashback
“You think a sign’s gonna get you anywhere?” he says, resting his thumbs on the edge of his leather belt.
I’m holding a red-and-white sign I found on the street near a dumpster that reads “For women’s rights, I’ll fight.” I don’t know where it came from, but I figure if I’m going to find my mom, I’d better fit in.
What the hell was I thinking? Coming out here alone? But what else was I supposed to do? I promised Mila I’d find Mom before she did anything she’d regret, like get herself arrested. I didn’t want Mila coming out here with me. I couldn’t put her in harm’s way.
“You’ll fight, huh?” he says. He puffs out his chest, his bulletproof vest making him look twice his size. “I’ve always liked a fighter.”
His police cruiser is blocking the end of the alley, and my only way out is to run the opposite way, but his hand hovers over his gun every time I step backward. I shouldn’t have cut through here. I thought I’d save some time by avoiding the crowds, but all it did was get me cornered.
“I’m looking for my mom,” I say.
He’s looking at me like he wants to eat me. He’s licking his slobbery, purple lips and breathing hard. He’s a pig—I can see it in his eyes. My heart’s racing and I debate running the other way. What’s he going to do? Shoot me? It might be worth the risk.
“Your mom? How old are you, kid?” he asks. There’s a sick smile under his long, pointed nose, and I know my youth is turning him on. He looks like he’s forty-something, like he could be my dad. In fact, he could be my dad, being that he reminds me so much of him: a dirty piece of shit who thinks he’s entitled to anything he wants. He’d probably beat my mom the way my dad did, too.
“Fifteen,” I lie. If he thinks I’m a minor, perhaps he’ll back off. But he’s not buying it. He’s got an arrogant smirk on his thin, white-edged lips.
His dark beady eyes examine me up-and-down. “You don’t look fifteen to me. So I’m gonna ask you again, and if you lie to me, I’ll know. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
The corner of his lips points straight up on one side. “You realize rioting is illegal, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t—”
He steps closer, and I stiffen. “You have two options here. Either I take you in, and I’ll make sure to go into detail about how I saw you throwing rocks through the bank’s window on Second Street—”
“But I didn’t—”
“Or,” he cuts me off, “you be a good little girl and do as you’re told.”
He grabs me by the shoulder, and I jerk back, but his grip tightens into my nerves and a sharp pain shoots up my neck. He moves even closer—so close I can see up his nostrils. My head is just below his chin, and he’s staring down at me like a dog on the verge of eating a bowl of wet food.
I feel like I’m going to pass out. Either that or jump out of my own body. The adrenaline is indescribable. Any moment now, I’ll wake up. Any moment. Because a cop wouldn’t do this. Cops are meant to uphold the law, not take advantage of young girls.
But I don’t wake up. I’m still standing here, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t fight him; he’s a cop. And if I try to run, he’ll catch and arrest me.
I stand with trembling legs, praying for the nightmare to end.
“What are you—” I try, but he sticks a cold finger over my lips. It smells like stale cigarettes and alcohol.
He unbuttons my jeans with his right hand and pulls down my panties, his hot booze breath hitting me hard in the face. I’m shaking so bad, I don’t understand how I’m still standing.
Run, Eve, just run.
But I can’t. I can’t move. Why can’t I move?
He flips me around like I weigh five pounds and my face cracks against the brick wall. I can’t think. Make it stop. Make it stop. This can’t be real.
I hear him unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants, and all I want to do is scream. But I can’t talk—I can’t do anything. Why am I so fucking helpless? It’s like the sensation you get when you’re in a nightmare, and all you want to do is run, but you’re melting into the ground.
I want to wake up.
Please.
He bends me over, his hand wrapped around my hair. His fingertips touch my vagina like he’s mapping it out. He kicks my legs apart with his steel-toe boot and lets out an excited grunt.
“Please, sto—” I try, but my voice cracks and tears stream down my face. “Please.”
“This won’t take long, sweetheart.”
And then all I feel is excruciating pain and pressure as he forces himself inside of me.
CHAPTER 8 – GABRIEL
Gabriel – Present Day
Adam’s acting like nothing happened. Like he didn’t see hundreds of dead kids in the cafeteria. How does he do it? How is he so goddamn heartless?
“Check the lockers, boys,” he says. “Might be some lunches left behind.” He throws his shaved head back and laughs, and the blue veins on his neck pop out.
Did I
miss the punchline?
He catches me glaring at him and waves his AK-47 toward the lockers. “You too, Gabby. Let’s go.”
The last person I want to take orders from is Adam, but he’s holding a gun, and he’s got a temper hotter than the Grinch’s fireplace on Christmas Eve. I do what he says, and I start opening and closing lockers down the hall, along with the other guys, who are scavenging through everything they find.
“Looks like no one came back for their kids’ things!” Jefferson shouts out, his annoying, multitoned voice echoing throughout the school.
Jefferson’s exactly like the rest of them: macho, arrogant, and full of delusional entitlement. He’s holding up an empty school bag that looks like it has dinosaur claws sticking out of it, and a pile of chocolate bars and individually-wrapped jujubes start forming a pile at his feet.
“This one probably belongs to a fatty,” he says, laughing, and I have to consciously remind myself that killing him won’t get me anywhere. I slam the empty locker I searched, and I sense a few eyes on me.
“Problem, Gabby?” Adam asks.
“None here,” I say.
It’s only a matter of time before Adam kicks me out of the gang. The only problem with that is—if I’m not one of them, I’m an enemy. He’d kick me out all right, only, permanently. I’d have a bullet between both eyes… well, after he wastes a few dozen rounds because of his shitty aim.
Part of me wants him to kick me out. I know that if they turn on me, it leaves me an opportunity to fight back, to take as many out as I can. I need a reason to fight, and defending my life is reason enough. All I need is to get my hands on that gun.
He catches me eyeing it, and I quickly look away. He may be a moron in some ways, but he’s not completely stupid. He knows I hate him, which means he also knows I’m a threat.
The only advantage I have over him is that he thinks I used to work as a pizza delivery guy. He thinks I’m a joke, and I’m fine with that. I’d rather he believe I know nothing about combat or guns, that I didn’t spend eight years of my life working covert operations as a Black Marine.
I freeze when I see a Swiss Army knife sticking out of a blue-and-gray backpack in locker #281. A pocketknife? Why the hell would a kid in elementary carry a pocketknife? I look back, and when I see that the boys are busy eating chocolate bars, I tuck the knife in my pocket.
The kid might have used it while camping or fishing with his parents, for all I know. Or, maybe, the kid was smart and knew something bad was coming. A true soldier. I wonder which one he is in the cafeteria. I prefer not to think about it, so I keep searching through the lockers.
I find a container full of mold and brown liquid. I wonder what used to be inside it. A sandwich? A hot meal? Some leftover lasagna?
I toss it back inside the locker and move on to the next. I’m about to unzip the top pocket of a little girl’s pink butterfly bag when a single gunshot blows loud against every locker in the hall. I instinctively drop to a crouched position and pull out my knife.
Adam looks as confused as me, which means he isn’t the one who shot it. Jefferson’s fallen to the floor, his back up against a row of lockers and his hand over his shoulder, which is soaked in blood. His face is contorted, and he’s breathing hard through clenched teeth.
I’m about to start giving orders because no one’s moving. They don’t know what to do. But then I remember that Adam’s in charge. Why not let him screw this up? Why not let him get killed? For all I know, I’ll become friends with our unknown shooter.
Adam makes some sort of hand gesture that I can only assume means, let’s move, and the men follow close behind, their boots squeaking in the corridor.
One gunshot? Most likely a lone shooter. But why shoot at a dozen men? I look at Jefferson, who’s wincing behind that curly brown beard of his. He keeps smashing his head back against the locker with his teeth bared in pain. I think back to when I heard the gunshot. Adam was standing right next to him, I remember.
The shooter was probably aiming at Adam because he’s the only one with a gun. But why? I scan the area, trying to replay the scenario in my head when I realize that he, or she, was trying to protect something. Whoever shot at us didn’t want us scavenging through the lockers. They didn’t want us taking all the food. And whoever fired the shot isn’t too experienced with a gun, either.
I walk a bit faster because there’s a good chance the shooter’s a kid or a teenager. A scared kid who panicked when they thought we were taking all their food.
My mind races. What if there are survivors in this school? What if some kids are still around, living in the only place they feel safe? The only place they know? No one came back for these kids. No police, no ambulances, no parents. The bodies were left behind. The shooting might have happened before the mass bombings started, destroying the entire city and everyone in it.
I hop into a full-blown sprint, picturing a young kid’s terrified face. But Adam suddenly yells something from around the corner of the hall, his voice as harsh as thorns from a rosebush. Then, at least a dozen shots are fired, and metal shells clang against the hallway’s tiles before another sound is heard—the sound of a body collapsing.
Gabriel – Flashback
“So, this is Area 82,” I say, taking it all in.
It looks like a prison when you first see it. Several concrete buildings are positioned behind massive barbed-wire fences. Military trucks and combat vehicles are parked inside the compound, and hundreds of uniformed men are moving around like a bunch of ants. Most of them are wearing the typical Army Combat Uniform or ACU while others are wearing dress suits, dark sunglasses, and shoes so shiny they look like they’re made of metal.
Four big black SUVs with tinted windows are parked in a straight row, and behind these are three brand-new crossover combat drones that look like something you’d see in a science fiction movie—onyx black, sharp edges, and windows tinted darker than the body paint. There are small silver studs around every sharp angle, and if I were to guess, I’d say the blades are hiding underneath their bellies.
“Never thought you’d end up here, did you?” James asks, beaming.
He looks like a rich kid who’s giving his poor friend a tour of his mansion. Like he’s been here many times before.
“Why are we here? I thought this place was for personnel with security clearances even higher than top secret,” I say.
I’ve only ever heard about Area 82 through some of the guys during our training program. It’s something everyone talks about, but only the best of the best ever get to step foot inside.
“This is where we’re being trained for GENESIS,” he says. He’s gazing out through the fogged window, and his freckled face is inches from mine.
It must be nice to know everything in advance—to have friends inside of Area 82. We turn toward the front entrance, and two massive iron gates slowly draw open. The shuttle stops before we enter and its brakes make a high-pitched noise.
The driver opens his side window, and it looks like he’s talking to a soldier or a guard. Then, the shuttle’s side door opens and a uniformed man holding a blue laser-powered assault rifle steps in. He’s wearing goggle-like sunglasses that don’t suit his square, butt-chinned jaw at all.
Although I can’t see the soldier’s eyes, he seems to be inspecting the shuttle. He takes a few steps forward, looking down at the first newbie sitting at the front of the bus.
“Identification,” he says, and his voice resonates throughout the metallic cylinder.
The guy at the front pulls out a leather wallet from his pants pocket and extracts his military ID card. I follow suit, even though the soldier hasn’t reached me yet. The uniformed soldier does this for each man in the shuttle. When he gets to me, I try to smile at him, but it almost looks like he’s disgusted with me.
What’s his problem?
He snatches the ID out of my hand, bows his head further, then looks back up at me. He hands me back my card without a word.
Are they all this cold? I’d hoped that military staff aggression was only part of the training program—you know, for intimidation purposes. What if all soldiers are like this?
Will I lose sight of myself and become like this, too?
When the soldier finally steps off the shuttle, his heavy walk moving the whole vehicle from side to side, the driver brings us farther into the compound.
“Hey, check it out!” someone says.
A few guys jump out of their seats and move to my side of the bus. I follow their gaze, and my jaw drops.
There’s a huge dome-like building at the back of the compound. It’s made entirely of dark glass and metal support beams. The sun reflects off it at every angle, almost blinding me. Out of this dome comes an F-94 Eagle—one of the newest fighter jets to be designed—slowly taxiing out on the runway.
It’s black and red, and its nose is twice the length of any fighter jet I’ve ever seen before. If rumors are true, this thing flies at a speed of Mach 8.5 and contains a self-charging laser-gun system. Again, I’ve only heard about this, so I have no idea if it’s true.
Then I see the other planes. Three more Eagles sit at the base of the runway, and beside them is a massive Z-149 Hercules that makes the jets look small. It looks like an ancient artifact next to the new jets.
“Holy shit,” James mutters.
At the opposite end of the runway, which seems to be over several miles long, is a landing pad—or at least, it looks like it. Around this are a bunch of camo-colored 2048 Iroquois helicopters.
I feel at home.
The bus comes to a sudden stop, and everyone jumps back into their seats. The driver, who’s also wearing a military uniform, stands up and says, “Head to door A-2 and wait there with the new recruits.”
When we step off the bus, the air is hot and dry. I feel like I’m stepping foot into a desert. I drop my bag and stretch my back and legs, feeling a pop, and I wonder how long we’ve been driving. Three or four hours most likely.