Eden Box Set

by G. C. Julien

  But the woman breaks off into uncontrollable sobbing.

  “There are children!” a man shouts, his voice carrying over the crowd.

  Everyone starts yelling again, but not at him… at the police officers. Like they aren’t doing enough.

  I wonder if male officers will show up. I doubt it if I’m being honest. After everything that’s happened, any male authority figure is probably going to be attacked by the citizens. So, these women, even though they probably hate their jobs because of all the bullshit they’ve had to face over the last year, are still standing here, trying to help people.

  “I understand your concern,” the young officer says, “but—”

  “But what?” a woman shouts. “Hours ago, our city was at war! Where’s the fucking president now? What are the authorities doing to make this right? Or is this it? Are we living in some third world country now? Are we still at war? Should we be finding weapons? What the fuck—”

  I’m not sticking around to watch this.

  I need to get the hell out of here. Turning, I rush down the alleyway, my boots making a slapping noise against the wet cobblestones when I hear a window shatter behind me.

  “Hey! You!” the police officer shouts. Her voice sounds croaky and strained, and I can tell it’s the older one.

  “What’re you gonna do?” someone says. “Shoot me? Go ahead!”

  Then, more glass shatters and I see people, their clothes like a bunch of jumbled colors, run down the street.

  People scream and more glass breaks.

  “Family before law!” someone shouts, and it starts a chant.

  “Family before law!”

  “Family before law!”

  Across the road, a man and three women break into what looks like a drug store. The owner, a middle-aged Arab man who looks like he wouldn’t harm a fly, is waving his gun at them, but it’s obvious he doesn’t want to shoot.

  Only a few hours into this nightmare, and people are already looting.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “You trust her to fly a plane?” Yael asks, pulling her thick wavy black hair over one shoulder.

  Dakota is at least a yard away from us now, which is pretty stupid. She shouldn’t be distancing herself from us. It takes two seconds for someone to fire a shot at her. And if she’s seen alone, she’s a walking target.

  “She’s going through a lot,” Freyda says.

  “We’re all going through a lot,” Yael says.

  Freyda shakes her head. “Not like her. Camille, the young woman who died last month?” she says, and everyone nods. “That was Dakota’s daughter. Twenty-six years old. Something to do with an infection of the kidneys.”

  Yael looks away, probably feeling like an ass for having compared her hardships to a grieving mother’s.

  “And what she said about being unhappy,” Freyda adds. “What’s said here, stays here.”

  I’m about to make some stupid joke about “What’s said in a postapocalyptic world stays in a postapocalyptic world,” but I don’t have time. A loud gunshot suddenly blasts nearby, and I’m pulled back to North Korea. I’m standing behind an electrically engineered blockade, surrounded by a dozen men who smell like three-month-old sweat and dry piss.

  We’re about to attack, but something’s wrong.

  “Gabriel!” James shouts.

  His ginger hair looks brown and his yellow eyes almost black behind his tinted glass mask. I know it’s James because he wears a red emblem on his onyx-colored BIO-8 Skin—a skin-textured armor that engulfs a soldier from the neck and below with the press of a button, providing bulletproof and knife-proof protection. From behind the glass shield over his face, his mouth flaps open and closed. He’s yelling at me and pointing behind me. I don’t even have the time to turn around when an explosion goes off and I’m propelled in his direction, my body knocking hard against the mud wall beside me. I blink, my ears ringing, and the next thing I know, I’m being dragged through the mud.

  I’m assuming it’s James and that he’s saving my ass, but I can’t see anything. There’s debris in my eyes and all I smell is burning… Burning wood, burning flesh, burning hair.

  “Gabriel!”

  I blink hard again and find myself being shoved by Freyda. Her eyes are so big that I panic, thinking another explosion is about to go off.

  “Snap the fuck out of it!” she shouts, shoving me again.

  What happened? Where am I?

  The gunshot.

  Fuck.

  I take a few rushed steps toward Dakota, even though I have no idea what I’m running into. I can only assume that someone tried to shoot at her, but I stop myself short when I see Yael coming out of the forest beside us. Her jeans and T-shirt are covered in bloodstains, and she’s walking toward us like she just came back from a hike, her shoulders drawn back and her boots kicking through the tall grass. By her hips hang two pointed blades, blood dripping from their tips. She wipes them on her jeans before slipping them back into their holsters.

  I glare at her. Not because I’m pissed off, but because I have no idea what the fuck just happened.

  “Thanks for the help, Gabriel,” she says, her dark eyes aimed my way.

  She’s barely made any eye contact since I met her, and now she’s looking at me like I’m nothing but some piece of shit.

  I glance at Freyda and then toward Dakota, who’s walking back toward us, fingers pressed firmly against the side of her neck. Was she shot? Is she hurt?

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “What are you, blind?” Miller says.

  That’s the first time Miller shows any form of aggression. I took her for the gentle giant kind of woman when I first met her, but it looks to me like she’s willing to stand up when the safety of these women is involved.

  Jada runs a hand through her dark fuzzy hair and gives me the stink-eye.

  I really fucked up.

  I’m supposed to be protecting these women and I disappeared on them.

  “Three male rebels,” Yael says, matter-of-factly. She throws her chin out at Dakota. “They took a shot, but luckily, only nicked her in the neck. We’ll have to get that cleaned up.”

  Dakota’s now standing beside me looking pretty unimpressed. It’s the kind of look that says, “You’re totally useless.”

  “And what,” I say, eyeing Yael, “you took care of it?”

  She gives me a full up and down, her chin angle with the ground, and says, “Someone had to.”

  I shoot Freyda a look, but all she does is glance away and slide her pistol into her holster. I don’t even know if she fired shots. I fucking hate this feeling. I hate blacking out.

  Who is this Yael? How’d she manage to take on three rebels on her own? She isn’t even hurt.

  “Where’d you train? You military?” I ask, returning my attention to her.

  She cocks an eyebrow, almost in a condescending way, then wipes a speck of blood from her chin. “Was,” she says plainly. “Israeli special forces.”

  CHAPTER 25 – EVE

  “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” I say. “She’s gentle.”

  Little Scarlet reaches toward Pearl’s muzzle, her mother by her side. She giggles the moment she touches its nostrils and turns around, her big honey-brown eyes glued to her mother with fascination.

  The children of Eden know that Pearl is designed for assisting Georgia, the woman responsible for Eden’s primary garden, and the horse is not to be approached at any time. She’s a wonderful animal and would never harm anyone, but the idea of children frolicking around her isn’t something I encourage. When Freyda first introduced Pearl into Eden, a little girl nearly lost her finger, having tried to feed Pearl a bundle of grass when no one was watching.

  Now, the children know that unless Freyda or myself are nearby, they should look at Pearl from a distance.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” her mother says, now brushing her fingers against the tip of Pearl’s fuzzy, pearl-colored nose.
r />   Scarlet nods then turns her attention to me. “How old is she?”

  I smile because I’m reminded of our mornings spent discussing how Eden came to be. Scarlet has always been the most lively and inquisitive child, posing questions about anything she is curious about.

  I pet Pearl down her neck and plant a soft kiss on the side of her muzzle. It’s warm and softer than a freshly washed fleece blanket. “I don’t know all that much about horses,” I admit, my words coming out with such liveliness as if I were eighteen years old again and telling little Lucy a story, “but Freyda seems to think Pearl’s about eight years old.” I stick out two hands, one with all five fingers stretched out, and the other with only three.

  The other little girls gasp, and Scarlet turns to her mother again, this time, with a red-lipped grin on her porcelain face. “She’s older than me!” she says to her mother.

  Her mother smiles, more at me then at Scarlet, and another little girl steps forward.

  “And me!” the girl shouts. She smiles so much that her beautiful angular eyes turn into little black lines.

  I let out a laugh, and for the first time in a long time, I have nothing but love for these little girls. They are becoming such bright young ladies, and the thought of their development warms my heart. These girls are our future.

  They will be the ones to rebuild America years from now—they will be part of something bigger than themselves. This overwhelming feeling of pride causes my throat to swell.

  “Did you know that Pearl’s grandparents used to be a unicorn?” I say, changing the subject entirely.

  Scarlet’s eyes widen and her mouth hangs open. “A unicorn?”

  “Well,” I say, smirking. “There are myths.”

  “What’th a myth?” asks the little girl standing near Scarlet. She has a lisp that makes her look even more adorable than she already does.

  I let out a laugh, and a few of the mothers join in with me.

  “A myth,” I say, “is a story from a long time ago. Sometimes, these stories even have magic in them.”

  “Magic!” a few of the girls shout.

  I reach for the nearest seat—the side of one of Georgia’s garden beds—and sit down. The children circle me and plop themselves down onto the grass. I glance up at Lucy, who is standing uncomfortably with her fingers in her hand, pulling and playing with them.

  “Lucy here knows a myth or two,” I say, and their little heads move from side to side as they look for Lucy. “I’m sure she’d be happy to share one of her stories.”

  Seeming uncertain, she stares at me then gazes down at the children as if attempting to assess their level of interest.

  I wave toward Lucy and offer her a sweet smile. “Come on, love.”

  She offers me a brief nod and steps quickly toward me.

  I pat the wood by my lap. “You can sit here.”

  She still seems uncertain. She looks at me as if I’m a stranger. It’s upsetting, though I know this isn’t her fault. I’ve spent the last few years distancing myself from her. It’s only natural for her to doubt my intentions.

  If only she could read my mind; if only she could see how truly sorry I am for the way I’ve behaved.

  I pat the wood again and give her my Aunty Eve smile—a crooked smirk that playfully says, “Get over here, kid.”

  It seems to work. The corners of her lips twitch and she joins me on the garden bed. I wrap my arm around her shoulder, and even though she stiffens the moment I touch her, this is the warmest feeling I’ve had in a long time.

  Nothing is going to take this away from me.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “Still nothing?” I ask.

  Freyda shakes her head and slouches against the wall. For the last few days, Freyda and I have been secluding ourselves in this room—this office—to discuss what is happening and how we intend to move forward. Every day, she keeps me posted on her attempts to communicate with the outside world.

  Do I regret what’s happened? Do I regret taking part in an underground resistance that is responsible for America’s collapse?

  Not for one second.

  I understand that the life ahead of us is going to be difficult, but the life we once knew was poisoned with corruption and greed. Our primary goal right now isn’t to focus on what’s been lost, but rather on what remains.

  “Are you sure this is for real?” Freyda asks. “I mean, it sounds like something out of a movie… The Binaries,” she scoffs.

  I scratch my nail into a small indent on the desk in front of me. “This isn’t some joke for your amusement.”

  She quickly clears her throat and straightens her back. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean any disrespect. If you’d like me to keep looking into it—”

  I cock my head to one side and smirk. While I oddly enjoy how quickly she backed down, I don’t understand where this is coming from. Only a few days ago, Freyda was lecturing me on how to become a stronger leader. Now, the moment I show her any form of anger or aggravation, she withdraws like a submissive dog, prepared to obey any order I give.

  Is this what she was trained for? Was she programmed to follow orders? I rub my chin and stare at her, admiring her new demeanor. Perhaps this is what she’s been pushing for all along—a leader to follow.

  “I would like you to keep looking into it,” I say, and she offers me a brief nod. “The Binaries are out there, Freyda. I realize it may sound like some fictitious delusion, but doesn’t it all?” I laugh, even though there is nothing funny about the situation we’re in. “We’re living in a goddamn prison. I don’t see how it gets any crazier than that. So no, the Binaries aren’t some joke. Bethany spent years researching”—I pause, realizing she has no idea who Bethany is. “Bethany Lee,” I add, “the most notorious leader of Washington’s underground resistance.”

  Freyda offers a brief nod but doesn’t cut in.

  “She spent years,” I continue, “building this team… this group of women with incredible knowledge. Neuroscientists, engineers, surgeons, programmers… and they knew what was at stake. They knew this was coming. They agreed to find a safe haven until the dust settled. I don’t know where they went, and I don’t know how long it will be until they resurface. But we have to keep trying. I need you to keep trying, Freyda.”

  She nods again, her lips tight and her eyes glued to mine. “I will.”

  I offer a genuine smile. For the first time in a long time, it seems like I have someone by my side—someone I can count on.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “And now,” Lucy says, her arms exaggeratedly stretched out into the air, “they say she lives under the water… in the Pacific Ocean.”

  The little girls gasp and slap hands over their mouths.

  Though I do enjoy watching their expressions during story time, I much prefer watching Lucy deliver the story. She is so animated, so full of life and excitement. The last time I saw her like this, she was seven years old. I’d gone to visit her and Ophelia. As I always did, I brought Lucy a cookie. She ate it so fast that crumbs flew out of her mouth and onto the floor as she spoke. I remember laughing because Ophelia got upset. She kept mumbling about how she’d just cleaned the entire apartment. But little Lucy was so excited to tell me about her day, to explain to me how she’d won first place in a race at school.

  Watching her talk was one of the best feelings in the world. I could feel the excitement and joy bursting out of her, and it warmed me inside. That was the last time she smiled so big. A few months later, everything started going to shit.

  But now, to watch my little Lucy tell a story to a group of children… I can’t even begin to describe the joy it brings me. My throat tightens, and I take a deep breath.

  I have her again. I have my little Lucy.

  She looks at me from the corner of her eye and the grin on her face shortens into a subtle smile.

  “What a story!” I say, bulging my eyes out at the children. I slap my knees and lean forward, my
gaze moving from one child to another. “I have an idea—”

  But then, a silence so heavy fills the air that for a moment, I think I’ve gone deaf. I follow everyone’s eyes to find Zack standing at the back of the crowd, his fingers tucked into the front pockets of his pants. He looks uncomfortable. It’s apparent he wasn’t expecting everyone to look at him, almost as if he thought he could join in on the amusement without being spotted.

  The crowd of women separates even further, and he stands alone in the open. He keeps jerking his head to the side as if trying to get his wavy locks to mask his face. I can sense Lucy staring at me, but I don’t look back. I know she admires this boy. I’ve seen the two of them together.

  Who does he think he is, intruding on our story time like this?

  My back stiffens and I elevate my chin.

  He’s only a boy, Eve. He deserves love and kindness like every other child here.

  “Zack,” I say sweetly, and he focuses his dark eyes on me. “Come join us. Lucy here was telling us about the myth of Octopula, and I was about to assign some homework.”

  “Homework!” says a little girl. She frowns and pouts so much so that her little chin sticks out farther than her lips.

  “This is fun homework,” I say.

  I notice him staring at Lucy more than anyone else. I’m assuming she comforts him somehow.

  He takes a step forward, and the crowd of women and children start to murmur. It sounds like a thousand insects buzzing around my head.

  “Everyone,” I say, but the whispering only grows louder. Why aren’t they listening to me?

  “Enough!” I shout, and the heavy silence returns. I brush my fingers along my eyebrow and stretch my lips back into their smiling position. “Please, everyone… Children. I know it might feel funny having a boy around, but Zack here is part of our family now. He’s a person like each and every one of you.”

  I can tell some of the mothers aren’t impressed with the message I’m delivering. Some have crossed their arms over their chests and others are avoiding eye contact altogether, but most are receptive.