by G. C. Julien
I watch the women before me. With their pupils dilated, they lean in various directions, whispering into each other’s ears. Have they heard of what happened outside of Eden’s walls? Do they already know about Gabriel? About the attack on my women?
How could they? Gretchin has been placed in an isolation unit in the medical center along with the three women who were attacked that morning. I haven’t done this to punish them. Rather, it’s to allow them time to heal their physical and psychological wounds before being reintegrated into Eden’s society. The women of Eden must continue to be surrounded by love and positivity—not by victims of abuse who will frighten them into believing that danger lurks nearby.
I want my women to enjoy their lives unburdened by anxiety. And unfortunately, several bad seeds risk ruining an entire garden. I have ensured that Gretchin and the others receive the utmost care during such a delicate time. Penelope, a former psychiatrist who worked in one of Washington’s leading anxiety and trauma clinics, will be visiting them every day for the next two weeks. This woman is a godsend, having helped hundreds of women deal with their traumatic memories following the war. I cannot imagine Eden without her.
And then I spot her. She’s seated at the far back corner of the Theater Room. She’s always at the back—always in a position where she can observe without interaction. I suppose this has to do with psychology. Today, her dark hair is tied up in a bun at the top of her head—a typical librarian look that suits her well. When she ties it like this, I can see her thick gray stripe of hair that runs from her temple all the way to the bun. It’s the oddest thing I’ve ever seen.
We have a clear understanding, Penelope and me. She is to help the women of Eden move past grief, anxiety, trauma, and abuse, but she is not to attempt to counsel me in any way. I do not want her pity, nor do I want any insight as to why I do the things I do.
I watch as Perula limps her way through the crowd, careful not to trip over anyone’s feet or knees. Penelope sits quietly, her eyes shifting from left to right, scrutinizing every word shared among the women. I notice that Perula does not pick up an empty teacup from Penelope, which is no surprise, as Penelope despises any sort of mind-altering substance.
A knock at the back door captures my attention. It’s Freyda.
She’s leaning sideways, her head poking into the Theater Room. She offers a brief nod, which I know translates to He’s here.
I clear my throat and prepare myself. Everything is about to change.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
They aren’t ready for change.
“A prison?”
“Is this a joke?”
“We’re supposed to live in… there?”
I clear my throat and turn around, Lucy’s little hand still tucked in mine.
“These walls will protect us,” I say, extending an open palm toward the penitentiary behind me. It looks old like an ancient Irish castle, with stone walls that are at least thirty feet high and massive wooden gates that are currently hanging open.
Not a single sound escapes the abandoned prison, which leads me to believe it is perfectly safe. Freyda has already gone inside with her guns drawn to scope the place. Going in there alone seems a bit foolish, but this woman is more stubborn than Mila was when it comes to protecting others. She is always on the front line, refusing to back down against anyone. I’m lucky to have met her.
“Protect us from what?” someone shouts. She holds a tight fist in the air as if prepared to start a riot. “Look around. There’s no one here.”
The others join in on the debate, accusing this woman of being too “picky” regarding our location. And then, there are some who don’t comment at all—they simply stand there, waiting for the argument to blow over. It’s apparent they’re exhausted. All they want is to rest, regardless of where they might be.
I do understand where this woman is coming from. I look around, seeing nothing but open field and a nearby forest with an abundance of trees. Behind the prison lies Alpa, the quaint mountain that looks like nothing more than a small “M” in the distance. Nearby, birds chirp, water flows, and insects hum in the tall grass.
Why hide in a prison in the midst of all of this? It will guarantee our safety. These women fail to understand that the surviving males will venture out of large cities in search of women—they will tear through pretty much anything to get their hands on a woman.
We’re not safe out in the open or in nature. We need a barrier between us and them.
“It isn’t over,” I say, and everyone goes quiet. “This war—this intolerance we face from the male species. They’re not extinct. They’re out there, somewhere, and although they may never come this way, there is always a risk. And I will not put your lives in danger because some of you don’t like the idea of being within prison walls.”
I expect anger, but to my surprise, the women slowly nod, their lips sealed.
“Eve’s right,” someone shouts. “Who cares what it looks like in there? At least we’ll be safe.”
Freyda suddenly appears by my side. She nods, her firm, square jaw barely moving an inch, and slips her pistols back into her holsters.
“All right,” I say, my voice carrying over the women and children. “Let’s hurry inside. You”—I point to the mother whose sick little girl still sits in her arms—“bring her in first.” I crane my neck and scan the crowd. “Who here has a medical background? This girl needs immediate care.”
A curvy, middle-aged woman with poufy sandy-brown hair and a pair of crooked glasses takes quick, deliberate steps toward the front of the crowd. “I’m a nurse,” she says, shoving her way through. “Well, used to be.”
She looks like the kind of woman who, at whatever hospital she used to work at, would have gone above and beyond to make sick children laugh. There’s a certain goofiness to her even though it’s deeply hidden right now.
She leans in over the little girl and her lips stretch into a huge smile. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m Nola.” Swallowing hard, she turns away. She’s obviously quite sensitive, too. I wonder who she’s lost. Who does this little girl remind her of? A daughter? A granddaughter? She clears her throat and wipes a tear from her eye. “We’re gonna make you all better, okay? Here.” She angles her shoulder to one side, and a massive backpack falls to the ground with a thump. She digs into it, her back round and her hat-like hair moving from side to side.
“Aha!” She pulls out an apple juice box and pierces the straw. “Here, drink this.” She then stands up by pushing down on her knees and turns toward Freyda and me, the smile on her face vanishing as if it were a mask. “Was there a medical facility in there? Did you notice if they had any supplies?”
Freyda gazes toward the sky as if analyzing the image she’s saved in her mind. “Yeah, there was.”
“They might have something,” Nola says, but she hesitates, and her eyes shift between the young girl and me. She’s probably thinking the same thing I am—what exactly is she looking for? We don’t even know what’s wrong with the girl. But she’s doing everything she can to reassure the little girl. She looks down at her and offers an exaggerated grin. “All right, sweetie, let’s go make you all better.”
Everyone starts moving forward, their footsteps heavy and pained. A few women, however, cross their arms and stare at me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask. I’m getting upset now. After everything I’ve done…
“Is this a long-term thing?” one of them asks. “Are we going to spend the rest of our lives in a prison? Because—”
I point my finger straight at the ground. “You have two choices here.” They take a step back and keep their mouths shut. My words must have come out as more of a hiss. “You can either come inside and be a part of our society—a part of someplace safe where we will all be happy together. Or, you can turn around and leave. The choice is up to you.”
“Let’s just go in, Vee,” one of them says. I’m assuming they’re sisters. They look alike, with long bl
ond hair that reaches their hips.
The other one, assumedly the more dominant sister, doesn’t break eye contact with me. It’s like she wants to challenge me, and right now, I’m not in the mood.
“No one said this life would be easy,” I say, trying my best to remain soft-spoken even though I’m about ready to tell her to go fuck herself. If it weren’t for me, she’d still be in Washington, DC, probably hanging onto her sister’s dead body. “But I’m trying, here. So again, you can follow me, or you can turn around. If you follow me, I promise I will do everything in my power to give you the life you deserve.”
She lets out a long breath, picks up her bag, and throws it over her shoulder. “All right, let’s go.” And she brushes past me.
I take a deep breath and stare into the open field, focusing on the crisp air entering my nostrils.
“You okay?” Freyda asks.
I turn toward her, my scowl quickly transforming into a pretentious smile. “What? Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s go in and get some rest.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Thank you all for coming, my beautiful women of Eden,” I say.
I smile as sweetly as possible and my lips twitch. The women return the smile and watch me as if awaiting my blessing. They all sit on their gray-padded chairs, their knees close together beneath their hemp dresses and their hands over their laps.
“As you already know, a few women were granted the freedom to venture beyond Eden’s walls.”
A mixture of curiosity and anxiety fill the room. One chair scrapes against the floor, and a gasp comes from the back.
“What you do not know, however, is that male rebels attacked these women.”
And voices erupt like an active volcano. Scowls appear throughout the room and women begin yelling over one another—some out of fear and others out of anger.
“Where are they?”
“Oh, dear God, what happened?”
“Are they all right?”
“What happened?”
I raise a hand, level with my face, and silence returns.
“The women have survived,” I say, and a unanimous sigh escapes everyone’s lungs. I walk across the stage, my head bowed and my gaze fixated on the floor in front of me. “But they wouldn’t have.” Without raising my head, I look up at the women—at their wide eyes and parted lips. “They wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for one person.”
I need to portray Gabriel as some angelic savior, even though it makes me sick to my stomach. Although I’m grateful that he saved my women, I can’t help but feel as though he has ulterior motives. Saving four women does not make him a hero—it makes him likable, which is perhaps precisely what he wants.
But, I need my women to want him in Eden if my plan is to work.
“Who?” someone calls out.
“Who saved them?”
“A man,” I say.
Some women gasp while others clutch at their hearts with bulging eyes and open mouths.
“His name is Gabriel,” I say, but no one moves or speaks.
Have the drugs even kicked in? I glare toward the Preparation Room and spot Perula’s worn face poking out of the doorway. She grins and gives me a tight, fisted thumbs-up.
I clear my throat. “Freyda.”
Within seconds, she appears inside of the Theater Room with Gabriel following behind. He looks like a giant compared to everyone else in the room. He has rope fastened around his wrists, both of which hang loosely in front of his abdomen, and he’s wearing basic hemp clothing made by Sahana—a special request of mine. He’s also cleanly shaven.
The mixture of voices that explodes around me is enough to give me a migraine. Then, one woman stands, fists partially raised, her face beet red.
“That mother fuckin’ piece o’ shit! What the fuck is a man doing in Eden?”
“Sit down, Tye!”
“Don’t you dare tell me to sit down! After everything they’ve done—”
“Shush, Tye!” someone else cuts in. She looks much younger, and she stands, her back muscles tightened and her head sticking too far out from her body. “I don’t see anything wrong with having a man around.” She then turns to Gabriel, gives him a full up and down, and winks at him. “Think of him as a new toy.”
A few whistles form a melody in the room, and Gabriel shifts uncomfortably.
“Men have torn America to bits, and you’re thinkin’ about sex?” Tye says.
“Nobody said—”
“Enough!” I shout, and the bickering immediately stops.
I clench my teeth, wanting nothing more than to walk into the Preparation Room and grab both Mavis and Perula by their throats. The cocktail was supposed to mellow them out, not make them fight with each other. Then again, I suppose that this topic cannot be numbed by substances.
“He isn’t being integrated into Eden,” I say.
“We sure hope not!”
I raise my chin and stare at this woman—Tye. What I would do to wrap an old cable around that thick neck of hers. Who does she think she is?
Freyda clears her throat, and I’m propelled back to reality—back into the very moment that could change Eden forever.
CHAPTER 11 – LUCY
“Is it true?” I whisper, and Emily flops over in her bed. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her braid looks like haywire tied with an elastic.
With the back of her hand, she rubs her eyes and then the white muck from the corner of her pale lips.
“What?” she says, but it comes out sounding more like “Ahh.”
She’s holding a stuffed bunny, something that I assume used to be white. It looks more yellow than anything now, and its ears look like they were soaked in liquid sugar. The fur appears sticky and hardened. She tries to sit up but instead starts coughing, her lungs sounding like little bubbles of water. I take a step back involuntarily. The last thing I want is to catch whatever the heck she has. And with all the kids around here, viruses spread pretty fast.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know you were sleeping.”
She shakes her head as if to say, “It’s okay,” then pushes herself up with her elbow. Poor Emily. She looks awful. Her usual porcelain-like complexion is more gray than white, and her brown eyes look almost black. I’m glad her room’s all the way at the back end of Division Five. I hate to be selfish, but I wouldn’t want her near my room. Not with a cough like that.
“We should get you to see Dr. Lewis,” I say.
Dr. Lewis (she always tells me to call her Ezri, but I feel weird doing that because she’s the same age my mom would be) takes care of sick people in the Medical Unit. In a way, it’s funny. Mavis and Perula are supposed to be Healers, when in reality they’re just potion mixers. They work with natural ingredients to create remedies for stuff. Dr. Lewis, though, is a real doctor. I’ve gone to see her a few times, mostly for small cuts and scrapes from playing outside. She’s nice, and she’s especially good with kids. She has beautiful shiny brown skin that always looks so clean, and the coolest hair I’ve ever seen. It’s an Afro, fluffy and round on her head, but sometimes she braids it tight against her skin. I like it in an Afro, though. It suits her.
The first time I went to see her, I had a cold that was going around Eden. She was so welcoming that I didn’t want to leave. She let me lay in a padded bed with fresh white sheets for hours. She gave me lemon honey drops for my throat, which I now know were probably made by Mavis and Perula. I wonder if I’ll be working closely with her as I get older. Maybe I’ll be making all kinds of recipes for her to give to the women of Eden, like Mavis and Perula do.
Emily furrows her brows. “No, no, I’m fine. Wh-what’re you talking about? Is what true?”
Her voice sounds like music from a radio with too much bass.
“There’s a meeting,” I say, “about some guy.”
She tries to smile, but she starts another coughing fit. This time, I hear the phlegm come loose in her lungs. She swallows hard, and I’m not sure if
her throat is bothering her, or if she swallowed whatever came up. Either way, it makes me want to be as far away from her as possible.
“Seriously,” I say. “Go see Dr. Lewis. If you don’t go, you’re being selfish. Little Angelica sleeps right there—” I point at the empty cell across from Emily’s room. She’s probably in class right now, but a six-year-old doesn’t need to catch something like this. “You should be isolated.”
She coughs up again, this time, into the elbow of her arm.
“Y-yeah. You’re right.” Her glassy eyes meet mine, and drool drips from the corner of her mouth. “God, this is horrible.”
I make a come-hither hand gesture. “Come on. I’ll take you. Don’t touch me, or anything, for that matter. And try not to cough on me.”
She makes a face that says, “Shut up.” At least she still has her sense of humor.
I extend my arms, prepared to catch her if she falls, but I hope she doesn’t. What scares me most about kids getting sick in Eden is that they don’t all make it. As much as Dr. Lewis is a great doctor, and as much as Mavis and Perula make some pretty strong stuff, it isn’t always enough. When we first came to Eden, a bunch of kids got sick and then almost everyone caught it. It was horrible. Kids were throwing up in their rooms at night, and adults came in as often as possible to comfort them even though they were just as sick. That’s why Eve decided that in every Division, there should be adults every few cells to watch the children. And there’s a lot of us, too. Kids, I mean. Many of the adults weren’t strong enough to make it all the way out here, so they sent their kids, pleading with Eve to take care of them.
Eve said we were supposed to go back to get the rest of the survivors, but then she told everyone that the small town—the one where the grandmas and weaker women stayed behind—had been attacked by male rebels.
I don’t know where she got that information, but it’s what she told us. All of that to say… the first year here in Eden was pretty dark. A lot of kids cried, and a lot of adults, too. And to make things worse, a lot of kids died. It’s hard to forget the first girl who ever died in Eden. She looked so sick. I remember her skin most of all: clammy and cold-looking. She kept shaking in her mom’s arms, and everyone kept rushing around them trying to figure out what to do.