by G. C. Julien
“I’m sorry,” I say. “This whole war—”
“Stop talking,” she says.
I look away and give her a brief nod. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think of myself as a pretty confident guy—the kind who’s able to hold up a conversation with either gender without choking up or stuttering. But this woman…
“Hello?” she says.
My eyes meet hers again.
She points at the floor beside my knees. A small loaf of bread, a single serving size, sits on a sky-blue ceramic plate. “You have to eat.”
“You’re making sure I eat?” I ask. “What am I gonna do? Use the bread as a pillow instead?”
She doesn’t seem to find this funny. “Just eat it,” she orders.
I pick up the baguette and the smell of fresh bread fills my nostrils before I even sink my teeth into it.
Oh God.
If this isn’t heaven, I don’t know what is. I haven’t smelled fresh bread in forever. The last time I ate bread, it was in the White House during the war. They’d passed slices around to tide us over, and I remember it tasting like cardboard.
This is different. I squeeze my fingers into the cooked dough and it bounces back like a sponge. I close my eyes and slide my nose along it, inhaling the smell as if that alone will satisfy me.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asks.
I open my eyes and reality sets back in.
“Sorry, I—” But I can’t even finish my sentence. I sink my teeth into it and let out a moan. I don’t mean to, but it tastes so goddamn good. The outside’s a bit crispy, and the inside is as soft as air. It’s like biting into a cloud from heaven.
“Never had bread before?” she asks.
I roll my eyes, but not because of her. It’s too good.
“Not in years,” I say with a full mouth.
“Well, get used to it,” she says. “We make a lot of it around here. A lot of soy, too.”
“For protein?” I ask. I’m probably drooling, but I don’t care.
She nods.
My throat sticks together on the last bite and I swallow hard. She walks toward the back of the room, reaches for something inside a metallic cabinet, and pulls out a big stainless steel jug.
“Here,” she says.
I twist its cap off and pour the cold water straight into my mouth, almost choking on it. If there’s one thing I miss more than food, it’s fresh water. Finding clean well water or leftover grocery store stock hasn’t been easy these last few years. Everything has a shelf life.
“When you’re done,” she says, “put the empty bottle by the door. Someone’ll keep an eye out for you.”
I’m still chugging it back.
“And once that goes through you… There are two buckets behind you.”
She’s right. There’s a white one that looks like it’s spent its life rolling around in the dirt and a red one that looks like it used to be shiny.
“I’ll let you pick which one you want for… you know.” This time, her smile looks genuine.
Is she taunting me?
“What am I?” I ask. “A caged animal?” I pick up the bucket and the plastic base scrapes against the cement floor. “You want me to shit in a bucket?”
She rolls her eyes, but the corners of her lips are still pointing up. “Our pipes aren’t exactly functional right now.”
I let out a sigh. It’s not like I haven’t shat in worse places before. Not like I haven’t taken a dump in front of a dozen guys with my pants down to my ankles.
“There’s toilet paper there”—she points beside the buckets—“if you want to use it.”
“If I want—” I shut my mouth. Now she’s being a smart-ass. “How do you have toilet paper?” I ask, but then I realize it isn’t actually toilet paper. They’re small sheets of thin material piled overtop one another. It’s hard to tell what it’s made out of, but it’s obviously plant-based.
“Well, don’t I feel special,” I say. “Is it organic?” I try to be funny. “’Cause I only use organic—”
“Shut up, Gabriel.” My name sounds so good coming out of her mouth. I can’t help but smile, even though she told me to shut up.
She makes her way toward the main door but turns around when I say, “So you know my name.”
She rests a hand on her gun belt. “I think every woman in Eden will know your name soon enough.”
“My friends… Well, when I had friends, called me Gabe,” I say.
She doesn’t even blink. “We’re not friends.”
I shrug. “Still think it’s only fair I know yours.”
I’m not trying to be smug, but I can’t help myself. There’s something so alluring about her. She might be some crazy feminist extremist who thinks all men deserve to have their dicks cut off, including me, but I still need to know her name.
“It’s Freyda,” she says impatiently. She then turns around, pulls the door all the way open, and casually waves a hand over her shoulder. “God knows why I’m telling you…”
And the door slams shut behind her.
CHAPTER 4 – EVE
I pace back and forth, the sound of my breath aggravating me.
What have I done?
Why on Earth would I accept help from the male species? Or worse, from a military man? This man, Gabriel… He promises my women safety, but how can I trust him? Who’s to say this isn’t all some clever plan to infiltrate the paradise I’ve built for these women?
Perhaps he wants me to trust him—trust him enough to guide my women outside of Eden’s barrier and onto male territory.
I slip off my red heels and fall into bed. Why does everything have to be so difficult? If only I had my little sister with me…
Oh, Mila.
She was always so much fiercer than I. As I gaze at the yellowing ceiling, I wonder if maybe I’m out of my depth.
A knock on the door shakes me from my trance. I swiftly sit upright and run my fingers through my short hair.
I clear my throat. “Come in.”
I know it’s Freyda before she even enters my room. She always slips her fingers around the doorframe, peeks an eye through the crack, and steps foot inside. She’s well-mannered in every way, and as I watch her enter, those broad shoulders drawn back and chin level with the floor displaying confidence, I remember that I’m not alone in all of this.
I have Freyda, and if there’s one person I want by my side, it’s her.
“Freyda,” I breathe, relieved by her very presence.
“Eve.” She nods with her hands fastened behind her back and remains silent. She does this every time she approaches me. It’s her way of showing me that she is prepared to obey any command I give her; she is always ready to do anything I ask even if it means putting her life at risk.
But she hasn’t always been like this.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Jesus Christ. Has this woman always been so obnoxious?
“Do you even know where we’re going?” she asks me.
Everyone else is following me to Eden, yet this woman chooses to question everything I do. I have no idea who she is, or who she thinks she is, but she’s walking in front of the others like she owns them. Her eyes are the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. One is green, and the other, a bright blue full of starlike specks—a galaxy. Her dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail, giving off the appearance of slick wet hair atop her head. She wears a gun belt with numerous pistols attached. I’ve seen her fire them—it doesn’t take a genius to know she’s trained in combat. On her back are two long blades that cross over one another. They’re both covered in rusty blood and their handles are showing obvious signs of wear and tear. I’m happy to have her here by my side, whoever she is, but she needs to understand that these women are following me, not her.
And there are thousands of them—mothers, children, and many elderly women who are finding it difficult to keep up. But they followed me for one reason: I promised them survival. I spent we
eks alongside Vrin’s most highly trained military women, learning all of the necessary steps to take following an EMP attack.
I was prepared for this. I didn’t realize how difficult it would truly be—but I was prepared.
Deep down, I’m scared. I’m not certain where we’re going, but all I know is that we need to keep moving. We must remain as far away from Washington, DC as possible. If we don’t, these women’s lives will be at risk in a matter of hours or days. There are still men out there, and there are still women who believe that their men are worthy of saving.
But the truth is, they’re all going to kill each other.
They’re all going to turn on one another when they run out of food, clean water, or shelter. Their survival instincts are going to kick in, and they’re going to become animals. I, for one, don’t want to stick around to see that happen.
I think back to Vrin after I killed the president of the United States and the way she looked at me before we left the White House. She’d readjusted her military vest, tilted her head, slid a hand over her greasy blond hair, and said, “Whatever you do, get out of the city. Don’t waste time, and don’t stop unless it’s to gather supplies. As soon as people realize that help isn’t coming, they’re going to turn on each other. Find a safe location outside of the city, at least fifty miles away, and start building a civilization. Find doctors, electricians, plumbers, any profession you can think of—make sure you have these specialties in your group of women. You’ll need them. We’ve been in communication with our resistance groups across the states, and they’re going to do the same. The more women you can bring, the better. Leave the men behind. We’re going to rebuild America, but the filth needs to be exterminated first, and the best way to do that is to leave them to kill each other.”
Then, we parted ways.
I turn toward this woman who’s asking me so many questions. How am I supposed to answer her? Tell her I have no idea where I’m going? These women are relying on me. I grab Lucy’s cold little hand and hold her close to me. She latches on like a koala bear and looks up at me with green, bloodshot eyes. She hasn’t stopped crying since I came for her—since I took her out of that basement shelter.
Poor Lucy.
If only she knew what happened in the White House. If only she knew I was responsible for her mother’s death… She’d never forgive me. I haven’t even begun to forgive myself. I swallow hard and instead of wallowing in my guilt, I focus my attention on my aching legs and burning muscles. The pain is the only thing keeping me going. We’ve been walking for hours, collecting stray women as we move forward through Washington, DC’s surrounding cities.
Everything is eerily quiet—not a single car engine is running, traffic lights aren’t humming, and electrical wires aren’t buzzing. Every few miles, we come across a small band of men, but they look at us like wild dogs in hiding. Their heads pop out from behind abandoned cars, eyes wide, and they disappear as we move closer.
This is precisely what they deserve and I grin with satisfaction. They deserve to fear women—to fear for their lives the way we’ve feared for ours for centuries upon centuries; they deserve to feel like they belong at the bottom of the food chain. There are thousands of us and only a few of them.
Sometimes, we find one or two men dressed in military attire. Some have tried to fire at us—some have succeeded. But now, every time we spot a military man, my armed women at the front draw their weapons and fire.
And every time this happens, I flatten my hand over Lucy’s eyes and hold her tight. She doesn’t need to see violence even though all that remains of this reality is precisely that. But not for long. Where we’re going—where I intend to take these women—violence won’t exist.
There won’t be mass shootings or sharp weapons being thrown. Women will live in harmony, free of fear, hatred, and pain. Life will be spent living in prosperity and seeking only happiness. This place that I’m searching for, although I don’t yet know where it is, will become a paradise like no other, its doors open only to women.
Although I’m not entirely sure where we’re heading, I can already picture it. Beautiful trees will fill most of the space and the grass will be as vividly green as freshly plucked grapes. We will have an abundance of fruits and vegetables that will feed us all, and livestock for animal products such as eggs, milk, fur, and meat.
Over time, these women won’t understand the concept of violence.
Every child will be raised to believe in a world of everlasting peace.
It’s the least I can do… for Mila. So much violence and devastation have filled the hearts of these women. I glance back over my shoulder, seeing sweaty faces scrunched in pain and desperation. Many of the women have skin as gray as a stormy sky due to the ashes and cinder that followed the war.
I know our journey will be long, but at some point, we will find this sanctuary that is so clear and vivid in my mind. It’s out there, waiting for us.
I turn toward this woman—the one with all the weapons attached to her—and offer a smile.
“We’re going to Eden,” I breathe.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“What is it?” I ask Freyda.
She never enters my room for no reason.
“The man is fed, hydrated, and medicated,” she says.
She’s drawn her shoulders back and barely makes eye contact.
“Relax,” I tell her.
I often need to remind her that she isn’t a police officer anymore. Conversations don’t always have to be about business or combat.
This time, she makes eye contact, and I smile at her.
“What happened to you, Freyda?”
She seems taken by surprise—her shoulders slump slightly and she lets out a soft breath. “I’m sorry?”
I laugh, which seems to amuse her. “You used to be such a bigmouth,” I say. “Remember when we first met?”
She shakes her head and offers a crooked grin—a beautiful smile that has me staring longer than intended.
“I remember,” she admits. “I thought you were—” But she stops herself as if she’s only now realized who she’s talking to.
I flick a wrist in the air. “You can say it, Freyda.”
But she doesn’t. I’m not sure if she’s fearful of me or if she’s placed me on a pedestal over the last few years.
“A stubborn bitch who wasn’t fit to lead thousands of women after the revolution?” I ask.
She smirks, but her lips remain sealed as if to say, You said it, not me.
I stand up, and without my stilettos, my forehead reaches the height of her chin. “I’m starting to miss the old you. The bold you.”
“You miss having someone to argue with?” she asks.
I brush my chin with my thumb and index finger, my eyes playfully narrowing on her. “Sometimes.”
“Well,” she says, “things have changed. And besides, I learned pretty fast that arguing with you was pointless.”
I nod slowly. “It’s hard to argue with someone who’s always right.”
She lets out a laugh and I feel at home.
“I consider you a friend, Freyda,” I say. “Please don’t forget that.”
She smiles, her perfectly aligned teeth resembling chalk, and I can tell this means a lot to her. Freyda has a big heart, though she hides it from everyone. She’s been through a lot, and I only found out about it several years after we migrated to Eden. She has a habit of bottling everything inside and swallowing it down as if hiding it from the world will somehow make it all better.
But it never does.
Her eyes reflect pain even when she’s smiling.
All she has is Eden, and all she wants is a purpose, so that for a few hours out of her day, she can focus on something other than the family she lost violently to the war—her two little girls who were slaughtered at the hands of the military and her husband who died trying to save them. When the truth came out—when I first learned of her tragic past—she explain
ed to me that her husband was unlike any man she’d ever met, that he was sweet, nurturing, and protective of his family.
I didn’t believe her then, and I still don’t. I think poor Freyda is heartbroken over her little girls and she’s created a delusion in her mind. With time, she will come to realize she is better off without him. Deep down, men are all the same. There is no difference between them, and the truth is, we are all better off without the male species.
I think of Gabriel, and my stomach sinks.
I don’t trust him, but what he promises is exactly what we need.
“Freyda,” I say, and she stiffens like a police dog on the verge of being given a command. “Gather the women for me.”
“Would you like Mavis and Perula?” she asks.
I give her a brief nod and wave a finger in the air. “Yes, please. And ask them to bring extra tea. I have a feeling this isn’t going to go well.”
CHAPTER 5 – LUCY
I’m surprised to see Freyda standing at Mavis and Perula’s doorstep.
She has both hands on her gun belt and looks pretty serious. I can’t help but stare at her guns. Do they even work? I mean, she hasn’t used them in years. I remember seeing her shoot them when we were leaving Washington. It was the sound that scared me more than anything. It sounded like an explosion right beside me, but thankfully, Eve kept covering my eyes and ears.
I wonder what they’re talking about.
Mavis and Perula are nodding and making hand gestures. I was told to wait at the back of the Herb Shack, so I don’t know what’s going on. Then, Perula looks back at me over her shoulder, guides Mavis out the front door, and closes it behind her.
Why do they always do this? Everything is some big secret around here. I already know about the tea. What else could this be about? What’s the point of graduating and starting a profession if they’re still treating me like a kid in school? And when will this stop?
Come on. I’m sixteen now. In two years, I’ll be eighteen, which is basically adulthood. Especially with the new drinking age that took effect in the states a few years ago. Well, before the war. I remember watching it on TV and how my mom was pretty upset about the age restriction dropping from twenty-one to eighteen. I guess she didn’t like the idea of me ever touching alcohol.