by G. C. Julien
Everything’s falling apart. There are secrets inside Eden, my best friend is super sick, and now Nola is distancing herself from me.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
“Lucy,” Nola says, her voice back to being as smooth as it always is.
“I don’t wanna hear it, Nola,” I say. “Honestly, I don’t even want you here.”
Her eyes expand like little balloons and she pulls her chin back, rolls forming on her neck. She wasn’t expecting that. I wasn’t either, but I can’t stop.
“You’re supposed to be here for me, and you’re acting so f—” I’m about to start swearing, so I stop myself. Nola’s never heard me swear. “You’re being all weird, Nola. And it’s ever since you talked to Eve. I should’ve listened to my gut in the first place. I knew she was up to no good, and I couldn’t trust her. If it wasn’t for Eve, my mom would still be alive.”
I’ve never said that aloud before, but it feels good coming out.
Nola cocks an eyebrow, looking more intrigued than shocked now. Dr. Lewis is right in front of me, and I know I should shut my mouth. I shouldn’t be talking badly about Eve in front of her, but I don’t care anymore.
“Eve’s the reason my mom went to the White House!” I say, smashing the side of my fist against the concrete wall. “My mom didn’t want anything to do with it. She didn’t want to stick her nose in the war. She wanted a quiet life with me!”
“Lucy, what’re you talking—” Nola tries.
“Whatever Eve told you, you seem to believe her. I’m not an idiot, Nola. I’ve spent every day with you for the last five years. I know you. And I can tell you have something in your head. Probably a bunch of bullshit!”
“Lucy!” Nola hisses.
“Just leave me alone,” I say. “It’s obvious I can’t trust you.”
“That’s enough talking like—” Nola tries, but then, the words come flying out of my mouth.
“Fuck off!”
If her eyes weren’t attached to her skull, I think they would fall to the floor. Her mouth hangs wide open, and she looks at Dr. Lewis, who lets out a soft breath.
“Lucy,” Dr. Lewis says, “why don’t you come inside?” She then tightens her lips and glances at Nola. “I think it’s best you leave for now.”
I’m still fuming when Nola finally walks away. Dr. Lewis presses a warm hand against my upper back and guides me inside her clinic. Everything is so quiet and I’m calm the moment I step inside. She looks down at me, presses a finger over her lips, and points to the back of the clinic where two massive windows make up most of the wall. They’re protected by metal bars, of course, but the lighting makes it feel a little less dreary in here.
Then, I see her.
She’s lying on a stretcher-like bed with a thin cotton sheet over her curled body, all the way up to her neck. She looks like a caterpillar cocooned in the sheet. It’s even wrapped around her legs and feet.
“She’s running a high fever,” Dr. Lewis says.
Emily doesn’t even seem to hear her. Her eyes are sealed shut and her lips are a light shade of gray—almost blue.
Oh God, Emily.
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask.
Dr. Lewis lets out a solemn breath. She hasn’t even started talking and the room is already spinning around me. I want to know, but at the same time, I’m terrified of what she’s going to say.
“Without proper medical equipment, I can’t be sure. I gave her some acetaminophen to reduce the fever,” she says.
Now I know it’s bad. Her fever must be pretty high for Dr. Lewis to try to reduce it. Everyone in Eden knows that acetaminophen isn’t handed out lightly. There’s a limited supply, which means anyone with a headache is told to lie down or seek out help from one of Eden’s therapists. There are three of them, as far as I know, who do massage therapy and physiotherapy. But they also don’t get paid for their services. Eden has no currency system. It’s one of those things where everyone’s happy that it’s free, but at the same time, it makes many reluctant to ask for the favor.
Dr. Lewis picks up a bottle of pills and reads the back. “Do you know how long she’s had the cough?”
I glance up at the ceiling, trying to recall. “Um… Maybe a few weeks.”
I feel like such an idiot. I can’t even say for sure how long she’s had it. I mean, I noticed it a while ago, but it didn’t seem that bad. I guess I figured it was allergies. I was so preoccupied with myself that I didn’t even think to tell Emily to see Dr. Lewis. Even the smallest of infections need to be addressed right away here in Eden.
Dr. Lewis nods knowingly. “It progressed rather quickly, then. I didn’t want to scare you, Lucy, but it sounds like pneumonia.”
Pneumonia? What is that, anyway? I’ve never had it. I think she realizes that I’m confused. She smiles, even though there’s nothing to smile about, and places the bottle of pills on one of her medical tables.
“It’s a lung infection,” she says. “It can sometimes be mild, which is known as walking pneumonia. Some people aren’t even aware they have it. They think it’s a chest cold. But the congestion in her lungs…” She makes a face and shakes her head from side to side. “It sounds severe.”
“But it’s treatable, right?” I ask. That’s all I want to know. I need to know she’ll be okay.
She stares at me with a terrifying sadness in her big brown eyes, and my stomach wants to climb out of my throat.
“All we can do is wait,” she says. “I’ve started her on some antibiotics—”
“Antibiotics!” I say.
I don’t mean to raise my voice, but now I know it’s really bad. Antibiotics are only given as a last resort in Eden. A few women have died because Dr. Lewis didn’t want to give them antibiotics right away. She wanted to wait it out, not realizing how bad the infection had spread. She also rarely ever gives it to adults. It’s one of her rules. Kids always come first; they have weaker immune systems.
Some women resent her for this, and I don’t blame them, but at the same time, there’s only so much she can do. She doesn’t have any fancy equipment like the hospitals had. And she’s a great doctor, but she isn’t perfect. She makes mistakes like anyone else.
“She needs help fighting the infection,” she says. “They’re strong antibiotics, so if they’re working, we’ll know within the next twenty-four hours.”
My mind’s racing all over the place. This can’t be happening, can it? Only a few weeks ago, Emily started popping up into my cell to chat. And now, almost as if out of nowhere, she’s lying on her deathbed.
“You should let her rest,” Dr. Lewis says. She forces a big white smile. “I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t you worry.”
How can I not worry? I am worried.
I’m beyond terrified to lose my new best friend.
CHAPTER 21 – GABRIEL
The shortest of the bunch looks like she wants to either kill me or have her way with me. I can’t tell which. I swallow hard and throw my bag over my shoulder. Freyda gave it to me. There’s a knife in there, a blanket, some medical supplies, a lot of water, which is making it heavy, and a lot of food. Mostly fruits, vegetables, and nuts. I’ll have to manage how I eat them carefully, so they don’t spoil.
It looks like a military bag or a giant hiking bag. The women, including the shortest, all have bags too, but theirs don’t look as heavy. I don’t blame them for taking advantage of my size. Besides, these women probably haven’t walked more than a mile in the last five years.
I look down at their feet. They all did as told and found comfortable pairs of waterproof boots, either from storage or from friends in Eden. I also asked them to bring a set of sneakers to keep in their bags. Weather is unpredictable, and so is life. If something happens to their boots, they need a backup plan.
“Can we do a little roundtable kind of thing?” I ask.
No one looks impressed with me. There’re four of them forming a crescent moon beside Freyda. The best
of the best, Freyda told me.
Freyda lets out a soft breath and points at the shortest one first, the one who was giving me the look. She has dirty blond hair with a few gray strands pulled into a tight ponytail, blue eyes that look grayer than stone, and prominent blotchy freckles that run across both her cheeks. She looks like the short and feisty kind. She’s sporting a black vest with wide pockets (something that looks like it came off a man) and baggy cargo pants.
“This is Dakota,” Freyda says, and Dakota crosses her arms over her chest and raises her chin.
I try to smile, but my lips barely move. There isn’t much I can do about getting these women to like me, and to be honest, I don’t much care to. I’m here to bring them to Area 82. Not to make friends.
“She’s our pilot,” Freyda adds. “Thirty years of experience flying anything and everything. And this right here”—she sticks a thumb out sideways—“is Miller. She’s ex-military.”
She looks ex-military, too, and is wearing what I assume is her old gear: camouflage pants and a thick cargo jacket with black stitching. Her hair is shorter than everyone else’s, and it suits her. It’s light brown with shaggy waves that hang right above her eyebrows and over her ears. Although she’s thin, she also looks tall and strong. She could probably take someone out with one swing. She places two veiny hands on her waist and gives me a proud grin.
“Sixteen years of service,” she says.
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything and move my attention over to the next woman.
“That’s Jada,” Freyda says. “She was on the police force with me.” She reaches out and squeezes Jada’s shoulder.
The woman doesn’t look much older than Freyda. She has smooth dark skin, short fuzzy brown hair, and piercing eyes that look like roasted almonds. She smirks, her plush lips curving up under her small nose, but I know the smile was intended for Freyda.
“And that right there,” Freyda says, pointing at the woman at the end of the line, “is Yael.”
I can’t tell what nationality she is. She’s tall, almost as tall as me, with thick curly black hair that reaches the middle of her back and angular eyes that are a yellowish green and look like snake eyes. They complement her rich, olive complexion. Her face, too, is stunning and perfectly symmetrical with thick red lips and nicely arched eyebrows. Her jeans look like they’ve been worn a thousand times, and her shirt is full of dirt stains. Over it, she wears a brown leather jacket that hangs open in the middle. She stares at me, her lips sealed shut. I’m assuming she’s the strong, silent type.
I want to ask her what her background is because she isn’t saying anything, but every time I open my mouth, I piss someone off. It’s best I focus on the mission rather than the team.
Freyda reaches for the door switch, the one that opens Eden’s front gates, I’m assuming, then glances back at all of us. “Everyone ready?”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Are you ready?”
The little boy nods with tears streaming down his face. Even though he says he’s ready, I know he isn’t. No one’s ready for pain. Not to this level, anyway. The kid looks like he’s six, maybe seven years old. His cheeks are bright red, probably due to the pain, and his black hair is covered in God knows what. It looks like blood, dirt, and ash from a burning building.
I look up at the boy’s father. His eyes, which are far apart on his face, are wide open and he’s nodding along with his son, almost as if trying to absorb some of his pain. That’s what it looks like: he’d do about anything to take away his son’s pain.
“There’s no other way,” I tell him. “Electricity is out, and whether you believe me or not, help isn’t coming. If you wait for an ambulance, he’ll die.”
The father nods, and the little black hairs from his bangs dance on his forehead.
“Is okay, Akeno,” he says. His voice sounds like gravel being dumped onto cement. Like he hasn’t had a lick of water in days. “Papa right here.”
Akeno, the little boy, squints his narrow eyes and squeezes his dad’s index finger. I let out a long breath through my nostrils and push away one of the plastic chairs beside me. We’re crouched in the middle of a sushi restaurant with a missing roof. At the back of the place, near the kitchen, what I assume were once two massive chrome fridges look like silver puddles of water. Grenades and gunfire likely tore this place apart.
“H-h-he was with me. Today only,” the father says. “His mother went to protest. He taken out of school because he a boy. I-I-I don’t know how this happened.”
He sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his torn sleeve. He has a sangria-colored apron on, so I’m assuming he’s the cook or the owner.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say, staring the father in the eyes. I then pull at the bottom of his apron and turn my attention to the boy. “Akeno, I want you to put this in your mouth, okay?”
The boy doesn’t question anything I say. He knows I’m trying to help. He nods again so fast that it’s hard to tell if he moved or if he’s shaking. The father looks confused, but he doesn’t say anything either as his son bites down on the end of his apron. Instead, he runs his hands over his face and through his hair.
I glance down at the boy’s leg, which is now turning a deep shade of purple. I managed to wrap some rope around his thigh to cut off circulation to control the bleeding. I firmly rest my fingers on his knee and apply a bit of pressure, so his leg doesn’t kick up when I go in to get what’s left of the bullet. It looks like it split inside. There’s a hole right through the boy’s thigh, which is no bigger than my forearm, but inside this hole, I can see a piece of bullet fragment beside his femur bone, which is also damaged.
“This is going to hurt,” I tell the boy, but all he does is keep nodding. His eyes are so full of tears I can barely see the shape of his iris, and his red-lipped mouth looks like a slimy piece of raw salmon. I look up at the father again. “Make sure you hold him down.”
I reach for the bright green bottle of sake beside me. I grabbed it from the kitchen before laying the boy down. There’s Japanese writing on its white label, and although I can’t tell what the alcohol percentage is, I’m sure it’s high enough. I’d have preferred vodka or whiskey, but this Japanese wine will do.
Most people associate wound disinfection with strong booze, but Sabin, one of our military medics, is the one who taught me that even wine serves its purpose. I didn’t believe him until he told me Hippocrates, one of the most celebrated Greek physicians of all time, believed this, too.
If some famous Greek guy believed it, then so do I.
I crack the seal and twist the cap off, and a cool mist licks the bottle’s lip and collar before slithering its way into the air. I reposition myself so that my weight rests on my other knee, then apply even more pressure to the boy’s leg because I know he’s going to kick.
There’s no point counting down, either. In one rapid motion, I tilt the bottle nearly upside down and the fluid pours all over his leg, mixing with the blood and creating a pink layer on his skin.
He lets out a scream so loud that even his father flinches. He looks so helpless, fidgeting where he sits, wanting to save his boy but knowing that there’s no easy way out. A few voices erupt behind me, but I pay no attention to them. I’m assuming people are watching through the restaurant’s busted windows.
I don’t even realize the boy stopped screaming until the father starts shouting in Japanese. I can’t understand anything he’s saying, but he’s no longer holding his song, and he’s making sporadic gestures around his face. He keeps pointing at his son, who looks dead with his chalky white face and now colorless lips that are parted a bit and forming a small black crack.
“It’s okay,” I say, and I raise a flat palm in the air as the universal sign of submission or peace. “He’s alive.”
This seems to work. The father starts to calm down, his breaths short and shallow.
“It was too much pain,” I say. “He pa
ssed out.”
The father cocks a curly-haired eyebrow, so I place my two sake-soaked hands together and rest my face on them as the universal symbol for sleep.
“He okay!” the father shouts.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, he’s okay. But I need to move fast before he wakes up.”
I don’t think he understood me. He’s too panicked right now, so without wasting any more time, I rinse my finger off with some more of the sake, then stick my wine-soaked finger into the wound, feeling around for any metal shards. I’d much have preferred a nice clean pair of tweezers, but I’m not exactly in a medical facility. I’m doing the best I can.
I feel his femur bone, then some nerves and warm muscle tissue, until finally, something hard and sharp-edged pokes the tip of my finger.
“Got it!”
I reposition myself on both my knees now, my back hunched and my face nearly touching the boy’s leg. I can’t seem to pull it up with my finger. It’s too big, and the wound is too small, so instead, I push. If I can get it out through the wound, I’m happy with that.
Then, I hear it. It ticks against the floor underneath his leg.
“You got it!” the father exclaims.
I pour what’s left of the sake into the boy’s gunshot wound and sit back, my bloody hands dangling over my knees. A few people start entering the restaurant looking like a pack of wild deer, their eyes bulging, their stances cautious.
I look up at the curious crowd. “I need one of you to find me a needle and some thread.”
CHAPTER 22 – EVE
“How’re my lovely ladies doing?” I ask, stepping foot inside Mavis and Perula’s Herb Shack. I despise being in here—it always smells of moisture and dirt. To make matters worse, Mavis and Perula aren’t known for their cleanliness. I glance at the ceiling, observing the dozens of spiderwebs that have accumulated this summer alone.