Eden Box Set

by G. C. Julien

  “Then what’re you tryin’ to do?” Tye asks. “What’s the whole point of this? Why’re you here?” She’s not as aggressive as before, which means I’m doing good. She wants answers, and I don’t blame her.

  “I know a place,” I say. “It has over sixty acres of land, protective walls, and advanced technological defense systems.”

  “And you want us to go there?” Tye asks.

  I peer over at Eve again. She isn’t saying anything. I’m assuming this means it’s up to me to keep talking.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think that’s what’s best for everyone.”

  I flinch when someone yells, “He’s a fucking man!” Everyone starts getting rowdy again, and I take a step back on the stage. Women swear left and right; others try to calm them down. It’s like there are two types of women in this room: some who are open to the idea of receiving help from a man, and others who are opposed to it no matter how many facts I present to them. They won’t budge. I could tell them an army is coming, but because I’m a man, they wouldn’t listen. How am I supposed to work with this?

  Eve brushes past me, her heels ticking against the stage tiles, though I can barely hear it over all the shouting. I turn my head to follow her. Where’s she going? Is she leaving?

  Jesus Christ, please don’t leave me here.

  But she doesn’t leave. She stops in front of Freyda, looking incredibly tall in comparison in her bright red heels. She extends her palm faceup and wiggles her fingers like she’s asking for something. Her lips move, but I can’t tell what she’s saying to Freyda. It’s too loud in here.

  Freyda leans forward, and with her right hand, pulls her pistol out of her holster. It all happens so fast, I don’t have time to process anything.

  The next thing I know, cold metal touches me in the back of the head and I can’t hear anyone bickering anymore.

  All I hear is the sound of the gun being cocked.

  CHAPTER 13 – EVE

  The pistol’s grip feels all too familiar in the palm of my hand. I wrap and rewrap my fingers around it, feeling the rough texture on my fingertips. There’s something so empowering about holding a gun.

  Gabriel’s head is pulled away from his body as if he’s trying to create space between the pistol’s muzzle and his skull—as if this space is going to save him. What he doesn’t know, however, is that I don’t intend to kill him.

  I fight the urge to smile. Truthfully, I feel whole.

  I am in complete power. Everyone’s eyes are on me as they wait for my next move. No one dares to raise their voice—they’re afraid I might pull the trigger. I suppose they’re wondering what’s going on. I can only imagine what Gabriel is thinking.

  He’s probably terrified—confused as to why I would make a deal with him only to turn around and point a gun at his head.

  “I can’t watch you suffer like this,” I say, shifting my eyes to the crowd of frightened women. “You women have been through so much. I can’t—” With my other hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose as if on the verge of crying, even though I’m doing everything in my power not to smile. I need to get my point across. I need these women to believe that I would do anything. Otherwise, why would they follow me? “I can’t watch you suffer. If this man makes you fear for your life”—I eye each one of them individually, my stare lingering for a few meaningful seconds—“I will do what’s necessary.”

  I expect someone to stand up at any point and argue that taking a life is never the answer, but they all remain tight-lipped, so I continue. “He is a man, after all. If you believe him to be dangerous, let me kill him. Let me protect you—that’s all I want. I want you to feel safe. I do not want any of you going to sleep at night afraid for your lives. Afraid that this man”—I look at him with utter disdain—“is going to break out of his containment cell and harm one of you.”

  Gabriel tries to raise his tied hands, probably in an attempt to plea for his life. If he had an ounce of intelligence in that thick skull of his, he would know that this is all a ruse. Why would I kill the one person who knows the whereabouts of this safe space he speaks of? Area 82.

  My plan will work because my people are women.

  Women do not want violence, nor do they want to see others harmed—especially not someone who appears to be innocent. The women who fought against male soldiers during the revolution were led by anger and instinct, but right now, at this very moment, these women aren’t in immediate danger. Their lives aren’t at risk. Should these women decide to kill Gabriel, they will all have blood on their hands. Women are nurturing, not primitive. They won’t choose his death.

  “What’s killing him gonna do?” someone asks.

  Then, someone else shifts on the cushion of her chair before standing up. She’s young and introverted—her eyes never leaving the floor. “We came to Eden to live a life without violence.”

  Her words are barely audible—a muffled mumble—but everyone heard them.

  “She’s right,” someone else says.

  “We can’t take a life just because he’s a man. He didn’t do anything to us. Right, Eve?”

  “What if he does?” I ask. “What if he turns against us?”

  I need to push them—I need them to be certain that they want Gabriel to live. Weeks, months, or years from now, when his true colors surface, they will all be reminded of their decision. They will all realize that they cannot think for themselves—that I am better suited to make decisions here in Eden.

  “It isn’t right,” says the shy woman. “This isn’t what you’ve taught us, Eve.” This time, her dark eyes shift in my direction. She bites her bottom lip and wraps her arms around her belly, her shoulders drooping. She reminds me of a helpless turtle trying to return inside its shell.

  “I-I’m only trying to help,” Gabriel cuts in. “This place… This place I’m talking about. It could save hundreds of more women. You don’t have space here. And like Eve said, you’re running out of res—”

  I press the gun’s metallic muzzle harder into the back of his head, through his curly hair, and he stops talking. I hate hearing someone rant. It’s unbecoming and quite honestly, irritating. His voice sounds like the deep rumble of a rusted car’s engine in comparison to the beautiful feminine voices of Eden.

  “We don’t all trust him,” someone else says, “but that’s not a reason to kill him. You said it yourself, Eve—he saved some of our people. Maybe this place he’s talking about can save more lives. You’ve guided us this far through peace, Eve.”

  I raise my chin, my eyes fixated on the middle-aged woman. She extends her sun-damaged hands and makes a gentle up-and-down motion, like she’s trying to convince me to put the gun down.

  I have them right where I want them. The corner of my lip twitches upward, but I consciously correct this. Two minutes ago, these women were fighting over his presence, and now, they’re defending him to save his life.

  The amount of empathy and compassion women have for living beings astonishes me. If this were a room full of men and Gabriel were a woman, they’d have beaten her, gang-raped her, and left her for dead. I realize I’m pressing the gun even harder into the base of his skull as I think about this, so I shake these thoughts from my mind and unclench my jaw.

  Stay calm, Eve.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  How am I supposed to stay calm?

  “She’s barely breathing!”

  I don’t know what to do with myself. I clasp my fingers together, then let them go.

  “Someone do something!”

  The little girl’s mother holds her tight against her chest. She kisses her daughter’s sticky forehead and brushes her thin blond hair out of her face.

  “Oh, baby, hang on, baby,” she says through broken sobs.

  Then, at the end of the long corridor, Nola comes running through the crowd with her arms flailing over her head. They’re empty. Why are they empty? She was supposed to find something—anything. Antibiotics, maybe.

&nbs
p; As I stare at the little girl’s face—at those light eyes that keep rolling in the back of her skull—I’m reminded of Mila, and a wave of emotions washes over me; I am hopeless, terrified, and enraged all at once. In a flash, I see Mila’s bloody face, and then I see her black-rimmed glasses on the pavement, broken.

  Every time I think of her, that’s all I see. And every time I think of Mila, I’m reminded of my mother. Is she even alive? Does it matter? I clench my fists and my knuckles pop. If my mother hadn’t been so involved in the revolution, maybe Mila wouldn’t have turned out the way she did—maybe she wouldn’t have wanted to fight, and she wouldn’t have gotten herself killed.

  “I-I couldn’t find anything,” Nola says, little wrinkles forming at the corners of her lips. She straightens her back and wipes a line of sweat from her cheek. “I don’t know what to do. We’ve already given her a bottle of juice. I assumed maybe her sugar was low. So why isn’t it working? When’s the last time she ate?”

  The mother barely responds. She’s too preoccupied trying to comfort her daughter. Nola kneels on one knee and rests a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. “When was her last bite of food?”

  The mother shakes her head, her mouth open and droopy. “I-I don’t know. I’ve been trying to keep her steady with the few s-s-snacks we found.”

  “When?” Nola repeats. She’s so calm—more than me, and I’m not even helping. I feel like these women rely on me to save this little girl’s life, but how can I? I’m not a doctor. I never promised to provide medical help. I was supposed to find a doctor for Eden, and I did, just as Vrin instructed me to do, but she was shot during our migration—killed for no reason by a band of male rebels.

  What have I done? If I hadn’t forced these women to keep moving, maybe this wouldn’t be happening. Maybe this little girl would be alert and lively, playing with her friends—not on the verge of death in her mother’s arms.

  “M-maybe last night,” the woman says. “I-I think. She had… She had a granola bar. We picked it up from—”

  Nola inches her way closer to the little girl and presses the back of her hand on her forehead. “Does she have any other medical problems?”

  The woman bursts out crying this time and she squeezes her little girl closer to her. “Oh, baby,” she says. “We haven’t been to a doctor in years. I-I don’t know.” Her words are barely comprehensible, but Nola seems to be catching everything she’s saying. “Because… Because of all the men. I couldn’t work… They fired me… I-I couldn’t afford medical bills.” She’s crying so hard now that her face is beet red and squiggly blue veins bulge out from her temples.

  Nola glances up at me, a somber look in her eyes. Why is she looking at me? Why is everyone looking at me like that? My heart races and I wipe my palms against my jeans. I did what I promised—I followed through. I brought these women to safety. What more do they want from me?

  But everyone’s attention returns to the little girl when a long breath escapes her parted blue lips.

  “Baby? Baby? Lina?” the woman gently taps her daughter’s face over and over again. “Oh, baby, no, no, no.” She clutches her daughter’s little body and squeezes her so tight I fear the little girl’s bones might break, then lets out a pained bellow that immediately pulls me back to the day I watched my little sister die.

  The pain on this woman’s face is enough to bring me to my knees. I want to rip my own skin from my face, pull my fingers until they snap, and bend backward until I break. I want to hurt—I need to feel excruciating physical torment to forget the pain inside.

  I can’t handle this.

  One second, I see Mila’s crippled body and I watch as blood spews from the gunshot in her neck. It isn’t real.

  It can’t be real.

  That never happened.

  Mila’s alive.

  She’s alive.

  Then, the crying woman comes back into view. Her mouth is open so wide that I can see her tonsils. She keeps repeating her daughter’s name and pulling her limp body into her arms. The little girl’s head hangs loosely over her mother’s elbow and her pale lips are parted underneath glazed blue eyes.

  She’s gone.

  She’s dead.

  Mila’s dead.

  Mila’s dead and she’s never coming back.

  No, it’s not true.

  You killed the president.

  Why won’t my mind shut up? Why am I having these thoughts?

  You’re a murderer… a fucking killer. You’re the reason Mila’s dead. You should’ve never brought her with you to help Ophelia from that bastard stalker. That’s why you killed Ophelia. You wanted to kill her, you little bitch. You blame her for Mila’s death. You avenged your sister.

  What? This isn’t true. I never wanted to hurt Ophelia—

  Oh God, what have I done? Who am I? I stare at my hands, and although completely dry and dirt-stained, all I see is thick blood filling the cracks around my fingernails.

  It’s everywhere.

  Why is there so much blood?

  Vivid flashes of women being shot at with machine guns cloud my mind. Gunsmoke pollutes the air, and women dance backward with flailing arms as bullets come blasting through their chests and out of their backs.

  A grenade goes off and pieces of muscle, bone, and tendons fly in every direction.

  This didn’t happen.

  Why am I seeing this? Why is there a constant war playing in my head? A sharp pain shoots through my chest, and I clutch at my heart. I want to fall to my knees, but then I’m reminded of who I am—of who I became that awful day.

  I was the first woman who made the decision to attack. After the EMP, I was the first woman to come walking out of the White House—to march through the front doors with the president’s rifle in hand and blood splattered all over my shirt, neck, and arms. I was the first person to utter the words “It’s over” to thousands of broken women before me.

  That day, I became their leader—their savior.

  There’s no going back for me. These women need me. I clear my throat and the tightness I felt in my chest only minutes ago disappears instantly. I inhale a slow breath through flared nostrils, and relax a little as the oxygen makes its way into my lungs and through my entire body.

  The tips of my fingers tingle and my heartbeat slows.

  These women need me—they need a savior.

  I cannot be weak.

  As I gaze at the wreckage in front of me—at the woman whose heart is shattering into a million pieces as she holds her little girl’s dead body—a strange sensation comes over me; it’s a feeling I’ve never felt before.

  I feel nothing.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  I loosen my grip, bend my elbow, and point the gun at the ceiling. Gabriel lets out a relieved breath and turns to look at me.

  “Very well,” I say. “Gabriel will stay here with us.” I squint at the crowd as a way of expressing love and tenderness, though I feel nothing inside—nothing but hatred toward this man and toward any woman who feels his presence is welcome here. I’m content that my plan has worked. I do need Gabriel if we’re to build a better society—if I’m to gather more women into my paradise. But that’s all he is—a pawn. After that, I’ll figure out what to do with him. “If anyone has missed a meeting tonight, please share with them our plan. Tell them that soon, we will be moving to a better Eden.” I pause and extend my hand toward the women who are reaching for me. Our fingertips touch and their eyes soften with satisfaction. “Oh, and one last thing, my beautiful ladies. Please don’t share this with the children, at least not yet. They need to focus on their education, not worry about having to relocate what they’ve come to know as their home.”

  Everyone smiles and nods like perfectly programmed robots.

  CHAPTER 14 – LUCY

  I hate it when my heart beats this loud. I always think someone’s going to hear it. It doesn’t help that I’m hiding someplace I shouldn’t be, but I want to know what’s going on.<
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  I’m not brave enough to open the door—the one at the back of the storage space with half its white paint peeled off. Emily likes to open it a crack to see inside the theater’s Preparation Room, but I’m not that brave. Instead, I press my ear against the door. I’ve always been good at that. Sometimes, I’m sorry I never told my mom how much I used to listen to her and Eve talk in the living room. She thought she was protecting me, but I heard it all.

  Thinking about that makes me feel guilty. Now, I’ll never be able to tell her how much I used to pretend I was sleeping. I won’t be able to grow up with her at my side; I won’t be able to make jokes with her about when I was young and how much of a rascal I could be. We won’t laugh about those times because she isn’t here anymore.

  I seal my eyes and a warm tear glides over my cheek and drips from my chin. I take a deep breath, but I don’t let it make any sound as it comes out. I can’t think about my mom right now. I need to focus.

  “You’re the one who let me try it all, you wart-faced donkey!”

  I don’t even have to listen to her voice to know that’s Mavis.

  “It’s called portion control,” Perula says.

  “Portion, farortion!”

  I don’t know why Perula bothers trying to argue with her sister. She’s always coming out with the funkiest things, and half the time, it doesn’t make sense. Although I can’t see Perula right now, she’s probably shaking her salt-and-pepper-haired head with a palm flat on her forehead, a gesture that says, “Why is my sister such an idiot?”

  “Mavis,” Perula says. Her voice is calm. I don’t think she wants to argue. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

  Mavis grunts.

  “For us to move, I mean,” Perula says. “We have so many plants in the Herb Shack. How’re we supposed to transport that to some new Eden? Do you honestly think this Gabriel man wants to help?”