Eden Box Set

by G. C. Julien

  They don’t seem to know we’re standing right outside the building, though. Is the plan to move in and take them all out? Blow up the windows?

  The guy to my left shifts his weight, obviously as confused as I am.

  Then, two women come walking down the sidewalk with baby strollers. Is this some kind of sick joke? Why are they including babies in the holographs? The two women walk quickly with bowed hooded heads. The moment they reach the building’s front doors, they stop walking and the taller of the two hammers a solid fist on the door.

  There’s a rhythm to her knock, which means she’s requesting access.

  The moment the door opens up, the guy to my left fires only two shots, and straight at the baby strollers.

  I’m about to angrily rotate the entire upper half of my body and give him a piece of my mind when both the strollers go up in flames and cause an explosion so big that the entire shooting range shakes under our feet and the scene’s industrial doors fly off their handles. Along with it come bone fragments and muscle tissue of the woman who opened the doors for the undercover mothers.

  I instinctively raise a forearm to block the body parts and James scoffs at me.

  “It isn’t real, dipshit.”

  Clenching my teeth, I fight the urge to shove my gun’s barrel up his tight, privileged ass. I can’t believe we used to be friends… I can’t believe how much this place has changed him.

  But I don’t do anything. The last thing I want is to find myself dragged out of Area 82 by a bunch of men in fancy black suits. Everyone knows that soldiers who aren’t cut out for the program disappear… Forever.

  “Good job, Lee,” says Master Sergeant Brown. He claps his two oversized hands together. “You set your emotions aside and located the hidden threat. Now, eyes on the prize!” and he points his thick sausage finger toward the bloody scene.

  James is already firing shots before I have the chance to raise my gun, and the next thing I know, the scene’s changed, and we’re standing inside the industrial building. The image spreads on either side of our shooting station and up on the ceiling, making us feel like we’re standing at that precise location.

  One woman jumps from her chair, and the sound of metal screeching against concrete floor resonates exactly from where she’s standing. I won’t pretend to understand how they went about making everything look, sound, and feel so damn realistic because I’m no expert in altered reality. All I know is that it bothers me.

  I can sense Master Sergeant’s eyes on me, which means he’s starting to wonder why I’m not taking any shots.

  So, for now, I block out Mama’s disapproving voice and promise myself that when this is all over, I’ll make her proud again. And with a quiet mind, I start firing shots through the women’s chests while reminding myself that it’s nothing more than a game.

  * * * * * *

  “Is he deaf?”

  Freyda kicks my knee and my eyes pop open to find the leader glaring down at me. I wish they’d turn those damn lights off. They’re giving me a headache.

  “Get up,” she orders.

  Freyda and the other women are standing beside her, arms crossed over their chests. I’m sure they aren’t too impressed with me. This isn’t the first time I’ve disappeared into my head, and now, I’m making an idiot of myself by remaining in the dirt, arms above my head.

  How long have I been kneeling here?

  The leader, now standing with legs far apart and shoulders drawn back like she’s prepared to go on a mission, throws her pointed chin out at me. “Get up. You’re taking us to Eden.”

  I plant one boot in the dirt and stand up. “Taking you?” I say.

  “Freyda here tells me Eve Malum is in Eden,” she says like she’s purposely evading my question.

  Eve’s name rolls off her tongue like she’s said it countless times before. Does she know Eve personally? Or, has she heard of her? It seems like everyone’s heard about Eve. And if Freyda had the time to explain to this leader that Eve Malum is running Eden, how long have I been sitting here in a daze, making a complete fool of myself?

  Besides, what does her knowing Eve have to do with me taking them?

  I take a step toward her, but not too close. Her men puff out their chests and stare at me like a bunch of robots, or better yet, trained police dogs. I’m beginning to feel like the outsider in all of this. Is it because I’m a man? Am I automatically guilty until proven innocent, while the women remain innocent until proven guilty?

  While I don’t like the feeling, I swallow my sensitivity and remind myself that this woman probably has many protocols when it comes to outsiders. And being that I’m twice her size, and larger than most of the men here, it would only make sense that I prove my worth before being accepted as one of them.

  “How many more of you are there?” I ask, and Freyda’s glare tells me I should have kept my mouth shut. I must be coming across as too inquisitive, which is often taken as a red flag. Why would someone like me need information like that?

  The leader catches Freyda’s death stare and smiles. The curve at the corner of her lips looks out of place. It’s like she stuck a sticker over her lips to give her new ones that look a bit less disgusted.

  “It’s okay,” the leader says, the invisible sticker on her face now falling off. “You’re obviously ex-military. So long as you prove your worth, you’re welcome inside of Elysium.”

  I’m assuming she’s referring to Area 82, but I don’t ask her. It’s also not a good idea to question her on where they came up with the name Elysium or what it even means. If I’m going to make friends rather than enemies with these people, I’m going to keep my mouth shut and do as told.

  “Ever been in a Blue Falcon?” she asks me.

  I’m about to say, “Blue Falcon?” when Dakota jumps out from behind Freyda, her face lit up so much you’d think she found a pack of cigarettes. She grins and slaps two hands together. I realize a Blue Falcon is a plane before Dakota even opens her mouth to talk. The only thing she gets that excited about is planes.

  “Sixty-two or sixty-three?” Dakota asks, craning her neck to meet the leader’s eyes. “D series?”

  The leader, visibly impressed by Dakota’s knowledge of aircraft, crosses two solid arms over her padded chest and cocks an eyebrow.

  “Sixty-six, F-series.”

  Dakota’s jaw drops so low you’d think it unhinged from her skull.

  This time, the leader smirks and lets out a faint laugh. It sounds like a forced cough brought on by a tiny bit of dust. The kind of a cough that makes you wonder why the person even bothered coughing in the first place.

  “Rodriguez,” she says, eyes still on Dakota.

  All of my military training comes back to me. I stiffen my posture, legs at shoulder’s width and hands hanging at my sides like two solid pieces of wood. I’ve done it countless times before, prepared to obey any command.

  “Freyda says you led them here, which means you can lead the way back. I’m going to require coordinates for Eden’s approximate location.”

  I offer a brief nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Call me Vrin,” she corrects, and my stomach sinks.

  CHAPTER 6 – LUCY

  Emily’s sleeping with her back facing her cell’s iron bars, her shoulders moving up and down with every labored breath she takes. Although tempted to go inside and try to console her, I don’t. What if she’s contagious? Dr. Lewis said she isn’t, but now, with the way Eve’s locking everyone up, I don’t want to take that chance.

  I’m sure Emily will understand.

  “Elsa, get back here!” someone shouts, and at the same time, little Elsa storms past me and out the back door into Division Five’s courtyard.

  May, her older sister, who seems to always be chasing after her, stomps down the hallway and rolls her eyes at me—it’s a look that says, Here we go again. I feel awful for May and Elsa. They’ve been here since the beginning without their mom and May’s been forced to take over th
e role of parental guardian, which sucks because she’s only thirteen.

  I’m tempted to go out and help her, but she’s done this many times before, and she’ll catch Elsa like she always does—by the arm, with Elsa kicking and screaming and saying that she doesn’t want to do her homework.

  Without giving it too much thought, I make my way toward the main hall and down Division Three’s corridor. Today feels like a holiday but in a negative sense. Everyone is standing in the main hall, panicked voices carrying over one another. There’s no laughter or joy. Instead, everyone’s miserable and trying to place blame on someone else for the bug that’s spreading around Eden.

  Bugs don’t often scare me all that much. So far, my immune system’s done a good job of protecting me. But at the same time, things have never been this bad.

  “I heard Eve’s runnin’ out of beds,” someone whispers.

  “What if this wipes us all out?”

  “Ruth,” someone hisses, and the sound of skin slapping skin echoes in the hall. “You can’t think like that!”

  “Ouch!”

  “Oh, quit being such a baby.”

  I tune them out and rush down the corridor as if moving quickly through the air will prevent me from catching the germs. It’s pretty bad when even breathing feels like something you shouldn’t be doing. Why are all the women standing around like a bunch of sheep, anyway? Eve asked them to go outside because there’s less risk of germs spreading.

  It doesn’t seem to matter what Eve said, though. The women are complaining that it’s way too cold out there, and although they’re right, they’re being a bit stupid in my opinion. Why would anyone want to be trapped indoors, where bacteria sit on surfaces for hours if not days? Well, that’s what Dr. Lewis told me.

  I kick the door open and a cold gust of wind squeezes its way past my lips, into my mouth and the back of my throat. It feels like an ice cube going down, so I swallow hard and plow my way through the cold wind, arms wrapped tightly around myself.

  Hopefully, Mavis and Perula’s Herb Shack is toasty. Most of the time it is, thanks to the glass roof that lets all the sun inside. Pearl, Freyda’s beautiful horse, seems content roaming the courtyard without anyone nearby. She’s chewing away at the grass and standing so still it’s a wonder she isn’t getting cold.

  Without knocking on the Herb Shack’s thick wooden door, I swing it open, startling both Mavis and Perula with my rowdy entrance. Perula’s glasses nearly fly off her face, so I’m assuming she was on the verge of falling asleep in her rocking chair with the book she has in her hands. Either that, or she was asleep.

  Mavis looks pissed off like she always does, head bowed low and eyes so narrow they resemble two perfectly drawn pencil lines.

  “Always blafenin’ and stomperin’ around, you kids,” she says, wiping soup or potion off her face. It’s green, with bits and pieces of yellow root.

  My lips start stretching into a smile and I’m about to burst out laughing. Although I didn’t see what happened, I know exactly what happened, I made her jump so much that she flung her spatula out of her cauldron and into the air.

  I can picture it as if I did see it: a big jerk of the shoulders, eyeballs bulging out, and a grimace so ugly she must have looked deformed as the liquid splashed on her face.

  I can’t hold it in anymore, so I let out a laugh and slap a hand on my belly. It’s peeving her off, but I don’t even care. I can’t help myself.

  Perula smirks and side-glances her sister, obviously amused by how much fun I’m having.

  Mavis, on the other hand, doesn’t understand empathy. An entire room of people could be laughing so hard they’re in tears, and her lips and eyebrows would remain as flat as a sheet of cardboard.

  “Something funny, monkeroo?” she snarls.

  If I keep this up, she might explode on me like she did last time, so I clear the smile from my face. It’s warmer in here than it is outside, and it’s most likely free of germs. So, if I want to stay safe, I’d better stay on her good side, which seems to be near impossible these days.

  “Are you here to help us, child?” Perula asks, observing me from behind her dangling glasses. She closes her book and lays it gently atop a wool blanket on her lap.

  “Help?” I ask. “With what?”

  It came across as arrogant and entitled, which wasn’t at all what I intended. The whole point of becoming a Healer was to learn from Mavis and Perula so that I can use my learned knowledge to help the women of Eden.

  And what have I been doing with my time? Checking up on Eve and chasing after conspiracy theories. But they aren’t simply theories. Eve’s dangerous, and I know I’m supposed to be focusing on my career path as a Healer, but what good is it if I’m a Healer and Eden falls apart? Surely, I’m overdramatizing everything in my head right now, so I clear my throat and say, “Of course that’s why I’m here. What can I help with?”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Mavis blurts, her voice sounding like a plate being dropped on a kitchen floor. “Get over here and help me cut up garlic.”

  “Garlic?” I say. The smell hits me out of nowhere. “Oh God.” I shove two fingers flat against my nostrils. “How much garlic do you have here? And what’s it for?”

  Mavis curls a lip over her thick front teeth like she’s about to call me an idiot in her own twisted way when Perula gently and fortunately cuts her off. “Believe it or not, Lucy, garlic has been used for centuries as a natural antibiotic. In fact”—she points at the Herb Shack’s webbed ceiling like she’s about to lecture me on the entire history of garlic—“in the seventeen hundreds, garlic was even used to ward off the plague.” That last word slips off her tongue as if capable of infecting people with it—slow and dreary. “Dr. Lewis isn’t a strong believer in holistic medicine, but I think it’s safe to say that she’ll be willing to try just about anything at this point.”

  I stare at the garlic—pinkish balls attached to long white stems that turn green at the ends, sort of like green onions. Underneath the balls are little strings covered in earth, which I’m assuming are its roots. I’ve never seen fresh garlic before—only those little beige half-moon looking things that Mom used to chop up and sprinkle in some of the dishes she’d make.

  “Good for your heart,” she’d say when I’d complain about it.

  I’m about to ask Mavis how I go about cutting them but choose to observe her doing it instead. She snatches a handful of them and glares at me when she catches me watching, sort of like an exhausted nanny forced to take on the responsibilities of a child’s alcoholic parent.

  Letting out a long breath, she says, “You peel this off first. But don’t you go throwin’ out the scape!”

  “Scape?”

  Her eyelids go flat and she breathes out sharply again, this time, through her flared nostrils. “The green stuff. We can use it. So don’t be wastin’ it, you hear?” She points the tip of her knife at me for emphasis, and I nod. “Now, after this is gone, pull the pieces apart. One piece at a floppidy doppin’ time. Like that… See? Ah, perfect.”

  A proud smile creeps on her face and I can’t help but stare. Mavis never smiles, at least not genuinely like this. Right now, she’s acting like she performed a successful heart transplant. Her dark eyes shoot sideways at me and the skin of her face droops in an instant. It’s like she’s afraid or ashamed to demonstrate any form of true happiness. The only laughter that ever comes out of her mouth is usually triggered by petty insults or a drug-induced state of mind.

  Poor Mavis.

  Looking away, I start peeling the crinkly skin off the garlic cloves, and, as she instructed, I pry them apart. Though I’d never admit it because Mavis is such a grump, I’m enjoying myself. This reminds me of my time baking muffins with Grandma. She’d set me up on a stool and get me to butter the muffin trays while she mixed the batter together.

  The one difference is Grandma talked to me. Mavis is quiet, but it’s a nice quiet. Not that I’d ever compare Mavis to an anim
al, but it’s a bit like the feeling one gets when they’ve made progress with an abused rescue animal. Well, from what I’ve seen online on my H-Cap. Though I’ve never been through it, I can assume that this is how someone might feel when a feral cat they rescued lets someone pet them for the first time or when a beaten dog accepts a treat. I click and tear at the garlic while she does the same, and every few minutes, I glance sideways at her, thankful that she’s letting me stand so close.

  We’re actually doing something together.

  It’s nice.

  If I voice it, she’ll tell me to shut the ugly hole in my face, or that I’m doing a bad job at splitting the cloves and to go outside to find something better to do. So instead, I enjoy the moment and smile on the inside.

  I look up at Perula and she winks at me. I’m about to smile at her when something interrupts us—something loud and incredibly disturbing. It’s the sound of a woman hollering at the top of her lungs, her voice cutting every few seconds between loud sobs.

  That kind of scream that comes out of someone for a really bad reason.

  I run outside in time to see her collapsing to her knees, tugging at her long auburn hair and pounding at her thighs. Five or six women rush around her, grabbing anything they can to prevent her from hurting herself.

  She cries so hard her voice goes hoarse.

  On the verge of crying at the sight, I swallow hard.

  I know exactly what happened.

  Someone died.

  CHAPTER 7 – EVE

  Nola and a young woman walk about Eden, spraying what I can only assume is one of Mavis and Perula’s disinfectant concoctions. It smells of lemon and herbs, though I wouldn’t be able to identify what they’ve put in there. I’m told they are preparing an antibiotic mix. With any luck they’ll bring it to me quickly.

  Nola shoots mist on every doorknob using one of the cafeteria’s industrial cleaning bottles—something we emptied a long time ago—while the woman behind her scrubs at the moist surface with a beaten gray rag.