by G. C. Julien
The woman rubs hard, looking frail and malnourished. The task doesn’t appear easy for her, but her determination crushes any weakness she may have.
I can’t be certain that the disinfectant works, though Mavis has time and time again attempted to convince me that it is “as good as supermarket fizzle,” whatever that’s supposed to mean.
I refasten the blue surgical mask around my face—something I feel guilty for even wearing seeing as the supply is limited. Dr. Lewis, however, insisted that I wear one, as my survival is crucial to Eden’s survival.
While I agree this is true, I receive looks of resentment and hostility, making me want to tear the mask off. These women are not supposed to despise me—they’re supposed to love me. Why can’t they see that all I’m trying to do is guarantee their survival?
“I don’t think Dr. Lewis even gave her any antibiotics.”
“’Course she didn’t. Ireela is… was,” the whisper corrects, “eighteen years old. Everyone knows Dr. Lewis doesn’t give antibiotics at that age.”
Where is that coming from, and what is everyone whispering about? Keeping my back against the wall, I move down the main hall and toward Division Three, careful not to touch anything with my hands. If Dr. Lewis can’t get a hold on this, Mavis and Perula are Eden’s only hope.
When I reach the end of Division Three’s corridor and step outside, however, I’m greeted by a sight so shocking I find myself holding my breath.
What’s happened?
Why is this woman crying on her knees? A small crowd has formed around her—motherly women with rounded backs and concerned looks on their faces as they try to console her with gentle touches and soft words. I lock eyes with Lucy, who appears to be coming out of her Herb Shack. She looks as confused as I am with her fingers locked together and her arms dangling in an awkward fashion in front of her like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
Her steps are so calculated it’s as if she’s crossing an invisible minefield filled with triggers capable of worsening this woman’s heartache with one wrong step.
I move forward, prepared to question the women to find out what’s going on when one of them stands up and stretches her seemingly achy back.
“Loretta’s a mess,” the woman says.
I know Loretta, and I also know the woman who just stood up, though her name sits at the tip of my tongue. She takes a step toward me, and I step back right away, not wanting her skin anywhere near mine.
Her name’s Beatrice, or Beatry, I now remember. In my mind, I call her Beatry as I stare at her bagged eyes, her slouched stance, and her gossipy-looking lips flapping up and down. She’s speaking so fast, and I’m partially deafened by Loretta’s cries, that I can’t make out what she’s trying to tell me. She takes another step forward, maybe realizing that I can’t hear her, and I grimace.
“You remember Ireela?” she says, her rancid breath making me want to push her at arm’s length.
Ireela… I know her—a promising young woman full of fiery ambition and an incredible sense of self-discipline. She graduated two years ago and chose her career path in Mechanics. Every time her name escapes the mouths of women around Eden, it is surrounded by positive words of love and positivity. She is destined for great things.
What’s going on? I stare at Beatry and then at Loretta, her mother, who is bellowing toward the sky as if she’s lost someone she cares deeply about.
Oh God.
My stomach sinks like a bag of sand in water and I find myself rushing toward Loretta.
Not Ireela.
Don’t let it be Ireela.
Loretta’s bloodshot eyes roll toward me when she hears me approach, and everyone follows her stare. For a moment, the sobbing stops, and we’re left standing around in silence as a cool autumn breeze sweeps through grass, bringing along with it hundreds of red, orange, and yellow leaves. They form a small pile around Loretta’s knees, almost as if trying to comfort her.
Her stare turns into a glare so rapidly that I don’t have the time to process what’s going on.
“You!” she spews, and in one quick movement, lunges to her feet and straight for me.
She screams at the top of her lungs, shiny saliva coating her bottom lip and pooling around its corners. At the same time, three women grab her around the waist and chest to prevent her from attacking me.
I’m too shocked to even back away. Instead, I stand there, Loretta’s yellow fingernails mere inches from my face as she claws the air like a caged feral cat trying to attack the person responsible for its imprisonment.
Why is she exuding so much anger? So much hatred? I catch a glimpse of Lucy in the background—she’s come a bit closer, but it’s obvious that the attempted attack has frightened her. She doesn’t move, and instead, watches in awe from a distance.
“You—” Loretta shouts, swinging once more across the air in front of my face.
With her lips pulled back over her upper teeth and features deformed so much, I’ve nearly forgotten who she is. She takes a swing sideways in an attempt to free herself and hits Beatry between the eyes.
“Ah!” Beatry cries, releasing Loretta to place two hands on her injured forehead.
Loretta gains traction in the grass and lunges forward once more, her claws now grazing the tip of my nose.
Still, I don’t back away. Should I be frightened? Or, should I return the anger? How dare she turn on me, Eve Malum, as if I were responsible for the death of her child? Despite wanting to be angry, I can’t feel anything. This is the first time one of my women has turned against me, and I can’t quite figure out how to feel.
* * * * * *
“Do you ever talk about them?” Freyda asks as if she expects me to pour my guts out to her—to tell her how I feel and how my feelings are affecting my ability to rule over Eden. How does my family have anything to do with my ability to lead the women of this garden?
She leans back in the leather chair across from my desk, chin elevated, and nostrils flared as she lets out a peaceful breath.
“You’re a ticking timebomb, Eve,” she says. If I weren’t glowering at her, she would kick her feet up onto my desk. But something tells me my stare has reminded her of her position, and of mine.
She straightens her posture, the back of her chair springing in an upright position, and she clears her throat. “I mean no disrespect, Eve. All I’m saying is that if you keep holding everything inside, you’re going to snap at some point… Trust me. Pain, whether physical, emotional, or psychological, has a way of bringing the worst out in people.”
I scoff and dig my fingernail into the groove on my desk I’ve been clawing at for days. The thought of Mila and my mother bring along with it a dark cloud so large I can no longer see the sun, which is precisely why I don’t allow such thoughts to enter my mind; the truth is, they are a distraction—pollution capable of tarnishing my ability to lead.
My nail bends backward when I press hard into the wood, and a sense of relief washes over me. I look at Freyda, who seems to be expecting me to say something that will comfort her, and force a quivering smile.
“Feelings are a weakness, Freyda. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll become of value to me.”
* * * * * *
“Stop!” Lucy shouts.
She runs through the grass, clenched fists swinging on either side of her body.
I reach for my face, where warm blood spills across the bridge of my nose onto my cheek. Loretta, not yet satisfied with the amount of pain she’s caused me, shouts one more time and swings with a solid fist, no doubt hoping to inflict more damage than a scratch this time.
All of a sudden, every woman in Division Three—a total of six or seven—jump into the altercation, pulling Loretta away from me.
“Stop it!” Lucy shouts again.
Why is she defending me? After everything she’s said—why would she care? She doesn’t care about me.
It isn’t true.
She does care about
you.
This is proof.
If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be getting involved.
I watch Lucy as she enters the fight in a panic, and in an instant, I don’t care about Loretta’s threatening shouts or weaponized arms. To my surprise, Lucy places herself in front of Loretta’s attacks. While the act is noble, it is useless—the women of the division slowly pull Loretta down into the grass, eliminating the threat.
“Loretta, calm down!”
“Hold still!”
“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down!” comes Loretta’s voice. She kicks and squirms and throws a fist in the air any time she manages to free an arm from someone’s grip. “That bitch—that fucking bitch!”
I don’t understand what’s going on. Why is she blaming me?
“Eighteen years old…” Loretta cries. “She was eighteen fuckin’ years old! What kind of… What k-k-kind of monster prevents an eighteen-year-old f-f-from getting… From receiving fucking antibiotics.” She kicks again, hitting a poor middle-aged woman right in the ribs. The woman stands up and stumbles away with a hand over her belly, clearly injured by the hard blow. “She was… She was eighteen! She turned eighteen last week!” she turns her head to the side, and all at once, the anger dissipates, and she starts sobbing against a woman’s shoulder.
Without looking back at me, Lucy returns to the Herb Shack. I stretch a hand out toward her, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I watch Loretta as she continues to sob, at last understanding why she’s put the blame on me—I’m the one responsible for Eden, which means I am also responsible for Dr. Lewis.
Although the decision to deny antibiotics to any woman over the age of eighteen was Dr. Lewis’s idea, I’m still the one who approved it. Had I stepped in when Ireela was sick—had I forced Dr. Lewis’s hand to prescribe her antibiotics—perhaps Ireela would still be here. Instead, I was busy hiding away, mulling over the depressing thought of Lucy despising me, and worrying about Freyda.
What have I done?
Eve Malum, ruler of Eden, would have never allowed her own emotions to get in the way of her rulership.
Feelings are a weakness, I remind myself.
No matter how many times I repeat this line in my head, it won’t change the fact that Ireela is dead. It also won’t change the fact that every woman surrounding Loretta is looking at me in a way they’ve never done before.
Their foreheads are full of frown rolls and their lips sealed tight. Their eyes, dark holes in their faces, stare into me as if I were some vile, poisonous woman not fit to lead them.
CHAPTER 8 – GABRIEL
“You, sit,” Vrin says, pointing at me and then toward one of the hundreds of gray cloth seats at the center of the plane. They run along the sides, too, with black straps hanging and waiting to be used as seat belts. “And hold onto your dog.”
I pull Justice close to my chest and plant a soft kiss on her forehead, right between her eyes. Poor thing’s exhausted. There are so many voices around her that she’s having a hard time keeping her eyes closed.
If I were to estimate, I’d say there are about a thousand seats in here. Maybe more. They’re all squished together in tight rows, and all I keep picturing is soldiers wearing metal hats, camouflage clothing, and military boots.
All I see when I look at this plane is me, somewhere in the corner, getting ready for takeoff before my mission in North Korea. Although this plane is three times the size of the one I flew in, it’s similar. The walls, curved metal without any windows and instead, fluorescent lights overhead, make me feel like I’m standing in a spaceship. It’s meticulously clean. So clean that I could lick the floor and not catch a single speck of dust.
“Can you believe this?” Freyda asks. She looks like a kid about to get on a rollercoaster for the first time in their life.
I can believe this, and I do believe it, but I don’t say anything. I pull my seat belt from the seat and fasten it around both me and Justice. I’m not trying to be an asshole by not responding. This isn’t about the fact that she’s been less than nice with me today. I’m not being passive-aggressive, either. I’m scared if I open my mouth to say something, I’ll throw up.
Why am I so anxious?
Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the headrest as Vrin marches around the plane, telling her soldiers where to sit and what to do. Yael follows her brother, Avi, farther back in the plane, talking more than I’ve ever heard her talk before with that thick Hebrew accent of hers. I can’t imagine how long they’ve been separated, but it’s apparent time apart hasn’t changed their relationship.
Dakota drops into the seat beside me and I crack one eye open to look at her.
“Holy fuckin’ jet balls,” she says, slapping her knees. “I can’t believe I’m sitting inside an F-series Blue Falcon! This thing is… This thing’s fuckin’ epic. I would’ve given up my entire life’s savings to fly one of these. Hey, you think they’ll let me? Fly, I mean? You think the pilot’ll let me copilot?”
Justice lets out a whimper. She must be hungry. Either that or she has to go. I hope she doesn’t pee on me. I pet the top of her apple-shaped head. Maybe she’s anxious like me.
“I mean, that’d be a dream come true.” Dakota lets out a donkey-like noise. It’s a mix between a grunt and a whine like she’s frustrated and excited at the same time.
“What’s going on here?” comes Vrin’s voice.
Dakota stares at the floor like she’s been caught drawing in class.
Freyda sticks a thumb out toward Dakota. “Dakota here’s a pilot. You in need of a copilot up there?”
Dakota, clearly embarrassed by Freyda’s request, glances up at Vrin. It’s almost like she’s reverted to her adolescent years. Maybe it has something to do with the plane and Vrin and all the soldiers. Maybe’s she’s feeling intimidated and out of her league in this thing.
Vrin sucks on her front teeth, inspecting Dakota from head to toe as if trying to decide whether she’s worthy of setting foot in a Blue Falcon cockpit.
“You got your license on you? Your medical papers?” Vrin asks.
Dakota pulls her face back and flares her nostrils. “What? How would I possibly have—”
With a dismissive wave, Vrin lets out a soft laugh. “We’re always looking for pilots. Come on, I’ll take you to the front.”
Dakota balls two tight fists by her face and bears all her yellow-stained teeth. I wait for a loud, high-pitched squeal to come out, but she doesn’t make a sound. Despite Dakota’s bitchy attitude with me, I’m happy for her. She seems so excited, and after what she’s been through, losing her daughter, she deserves happiness again.
Everyone deserves happiness, even if they’re complete assholes. Maybe if they were happier, they’d be lesser assholes.
Dakota unclips her seat belt and gets up with a swing of her upper body. Vrin, still smiling, turns away and leads her toward the front of the plane. Unlike Eve, Vrin’s smile looks genuine. She’s hard, which is good, in my opinion, but there’s a human side to her that seems to shine through every now and then. And I’ve only known the woman for a few hours.
The fact that she’s working with men also says a lot about her. She isn’t holding on to the old ideology that men and women can’t coexist. Or that one sex is better than the other.
It’s obvious she’s using gender strengths, rather than focusing on the subtle differences that set us apart. I’m curious to get back to Area 82, or Elysium, as Vrin called it. Are there many women? And if so, what sorts of tasks has Vrin assigned to them? No doubt she has female soldiers, too. I get the feeling Vrin’s a fair leader.
I think of Eve and wonder how that’ll play over when we get to Eden. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’s willing to resign from her position and take orders from someone else, whether that be Vrin or someone higher up waiting inside of Area 82.
Closing my eyes again, I try to relax my body. The men farther back in the plane are bickering back and forth. Without
a doubt, they’re excited about the prospect of an all-female colony. They aren’t vulgar, though, nor are they disrespectful. Not like Adam and his goons. If anything, it’s more like listening to innocent teenage boys talk about their crushes. Most of them are young, too. That leads me to believe that Vrin’s been polishing teenage boys into respectable soldiers.
Their voices carry throughout the plane, full of excitement and nervousness.
But that sound disappears, at least from my ears, when the plane’s engines turn on. The deep rumbling vibrates under my boots and in my chair. It’s a subtle vibration, but it’s enough to get my heart going. They’re doing their checks, and it’s only a matter of time before we take off.
Jesus Christ.
What’s wrong with me? I was never like this. I’ve been in planes hundreds of times before. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve jumped out of fucking helicopters. But right now, all I want to do is find the nearest exit door and run off the plane before we’re airborne.
“What’s wrong with you?” Freyda asks.
How long has she been staring at me? She watches my face, my white-knuckled hands around the armrests, and my face again. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” I grumble.
I’m not fine. I want to throw up. And the more anxious I feel, the more pissed off I get because I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I’m a brave guy. I’m not afraid of confrontation. Not afraid of guns. Not afraid to tell someone to shove their head up their ass if I have to. But right now, I feel like a kid, and all I can think about is Mama. If she were here right now, she’d slap a hand on my knee and say something along the lines of “Oh, Gabriel, mi amor. Do not be afraid. God is here with you. Okay? My sweet Gabriel.”
Then, if I didn’t calm down, her feisty side would come out and her second slap wouldn’t be as comforting. “Be a man, Gabriel. Is only a plane.”
I smile to myself. Mama always had a way of comforting me without babying me. She’d offer a few sweet words of consolation, and if that didn’t work, she’d tell me to toughen up. I suppose that’s why I turned out the way I did: a weird balance of sensitivity and toughness.