Razor Girl

by Marianne Mancusi

  Still, it was better than dating a pathetic geek like Chris Griffin. She was sure of that.

  Chris waved to her from the court again then tripped over his feet and went sprawling to the ground. The crowd went wild. Molly groaned. You wouldn’t think they’d allow that sort of incompetence in here. Wasn’t that the whole point of sims and why they’d gotten popular?

  “I’m exiting,” she declared. “I can’t stand him staring at me for a second longer.” She blinked her eyes twice.

  The signal to exit worked. A moment later the gym disappeared and she was back in Erin’s basement. Molly pulled off her VR goggles and leaned over to switch off her deck plug-in. She watched her friend do the same in the armchair across from her.

  “I gained a level with that last flip,” Erin said, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “Unlocked the NCAA courts!”

  “Stellar,” Molly muttered. “I’m thrilled for you.”

  Her friend looked a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, well, you’d be just as high if you had your own copy and didn’t always have to play at my house. I get a lot of late-night practice once my parents go to bed. That’s when the real action on the court happens anyway.” She winked.

  Molly sighed. “Yeah, well, that’ll never happen. Not as long as I live at home.”

  “You know, the fact that you don’t have your own sim deck in this day and age is almost criminal. Someone should report your dad for child abuse, denying his kid virtual reality.”

  Molly sighed. Never mind the sim deck—the virtual reality video game system that every three-year-old kid was given by his or her parents—at her house they didn’t even have a Smart TV. There was just a small, thirteen-inch black-and-white television sitting on a stand in one corner of their living room. It was the kind of TV they’d made last century, when television was first invented. It was almost as bad as having no TV at all. It got thirteen stations from bent, rabbit-ears antennae her dad had jury-rigged from a coat hanger. And none of the thirteen ever had anything worth watching, just crackpot broadcasts by old technology enthusiasts and something called “I Love the Aughts” reruns by a station called VH1.

  When she was younger, she’d begged her dad for a Smart TV like all her friends had hanging in their living rooms, the ones where you could inject yourself into the show, become a character. But time and again her dad had explained that those kinds of televisions were dangerous. After all, there was no way to tell what programs the government had put inside of them, what the interactive devices were doing to your brain. Weren’t the higher-ups involved enough in their lives? he would ask her. Molly supposed he was right.

  “I’ve got to kick you out,” Erin said apologetically. “Gotta hit the doctor’s office this afternoon. I’m…I’m getting my LTF! Can you believe my parents finally said yes? How rocking is that?”

  “Lucky you,” Molly said.

  An LTF. A License to Fuck. It wasn’t the official name, of course, but that’s what all the kids—and, Molly knew, quite a few adults—called the Copulation Conditional. Kind of a stupid name, but what did the government expect when they started legislating people who could have sex and requiring you get a license?

  The AIDS vaccine had been the biggest scientific breakthrough of the 21st century, if also the most controversial, especially after the United Nations exerted their newfound global legislative powers and made it mandatory for everyone in their majority. It made sense, after Africa was decimated by the disease’s resurgence in the early twenties. The virus had mutated, rendering the formerly effective drug cocktails useless. And now, from the richest Upper East Sider in New York to the poorest bushman in Australia, everyone over eighteen was required to be vaccinated. Not that anyone sane would want to have sex with a partner who might be infected. Everyone knew how virulent the disease was, and how gruesome its effects. How could they not know with those UN Biological Division advertisements playing 24/7 on every media outlet? Even if you didn’t agree with the laws against unlicensed fornication, it was safer to stick to those partners who had their CCs.

  The vaccine was available for those younger than eighteen, too, but because of certain complications with children in early tests—as well as moral objections across the more religious sectors—it eventually had been left up to the parents to decide about inoculating their families. And Molly’s dad had said “no way” without even offering a reason why. Not that Molly had argued with him over it much.

  “Does Drew have his license?” Erin asked.

  “Yup. And he’s not happy about me having to wait, let me tell you.” Molly slid her VR goggles into their protective case and handed them back to her friend. “He thinks we should just hook up anyway.”

  “You mean, break the law?” Erin asked.

  It wasn’t too likely they’d get caught. Molly knew that there’d been problems like this through the ages for youngsters in love and ready to do the nasty. It wasn’t exactly like the sex police were going to come and get her, though the penalty for people caught having sex without a license was pretty severe: extended quarantine to make sure you didn’t have a disease or unauthorized pregnancy, and exposure through the media for ridicule and contempt. But that wasn’t her biggest issue. She just wasn’t in love.

  Erin shook her head. “What’s your dad’s deal, anyway? I mean, he’s a doctor of some sort, right? He should be all for vaccinations and stuff.”

  Molly shrugged. Her dad was a medical researcher/scientist whose early claim to fame was the invention of special cybernetic implants used to turn a platoon of human soldiers into robotic murder machines. The implants had made them stronger, faster, and better at killing. Which they’d proceeded to do for three years, he’d told her. Deployed by the government to sweep into conflicted territories and murder men, women, and children without effort or remorse, they’d killed and killed and killed until finally those opposing governments waved their white flags and gave in to all demands. They’d been used in the Middle East and Africa, mostly. Wherever they went, things changed. Mission accomplished.

  Ian Anderson hadn’t taken this quietly, of course. Learning of some of the shadier situations his soldiers had developed, about the devastation his inventions caused, he’d quit his job and joined a militia group, rallying against the government for which he’d once worked. It hadn’t helped when the platoon of soldiers went mad and killed each other, either. Breaking into his former labs, he’d destroyed all of the prototypes and plans and then set fire to the building itself in order to ensure these creatures could never be built again.

  “What had he expected?” one prosecutor had asked at his trial, as well as a number of newspaper reporters. What had he thought would be the use of super-powered soldiers? He hadn’t answered, but Molly knew that her father had expected the creations to protect the people. He’d been trying to help, and the government had turned his inventions against him. He still muttered about it while he was working.

  His years in prison hadn’t helped his anger, either. Molly was embarrassed to admit it, but her father’s cellmate had convinced him that the end of the world was near. Ian talked about it often, and had decided he needed to start making arrangements. Armageddon was on its way, and the Andersons would be ready. Not even his wife had been able to dissuade him from preparing. Molly was torn between admiring her father’s genius and horror at what the rest of her school would think if they knew him. She never brought up that her father’s lawyers had used his mental instability to eventually have him released back into the world. He’d been going to the court-appointed therapy, even if he never talked about it.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Erin said, patting her friend’s shoulder. “It will suck not to fuck.” She cracked up at her accidental rhyme.

  Molly rolled her eyes, having one of those moments where her friend seemed like a character out of one of the old movies they watched—and not one of the “good” kids. But she knew better. Erin was good, and she was the odd one. Everyone wanted to have sex these days, and th
ere wasn’t much reason not to, as long as you were safe; it was one of the few physical outlets people enjoyed. Erin was a good friend. Molly didn’t know what she’d do if they didn’t have each other.

  “Meh. No biggie,” she said with a sigh. “Drew and I will manage. It’s not like it’s the end of the world or anything. Talk to you later.”

  “Later, girlie.”

  Molly tried not to think about Drew pressuring her for sex as she headed up the basement stairs and into the main house—and then she tried not to think of the differences between her family and everyone else’s. Erin’s family wasn’t rich by any stretch, but they had all the latest gadgets: the refrigerator that reminded you which groceries you needed, the music system that sensed who was in the living room and adjusted its music accordingly. Of course, Molly didn’t have an iChip like everyone else and so it remained on “Sounds of the Twenties” classic electronica that had been all the rage in Erin’s parents’ generation as she passed through. It had no idea of her secret love for music from the 1980s…which was perhaps for the best. Hearing “I Want Your Sex” would have just depressed her.

  Walking out the front door, she squinted into the bright afternoon light and gazed around Monroeville, their suburban South Carolina subdivision. The sun was high in the sky and a slight breeze was the only relief from its heat. Still, life could be worse and she knew it. She had friends and a boyfriend. She was liked at school. Her grades were good. There were people much worse off than her, and all she had to do was look in the news to see them. She should be thanking her lucky stars every day.

  She headed down the street, passing Chris Griffin’s house and wondering if he was still playing virtual basketball in that sim or if he’d quit when she exited the game. His silly crush was getting very annoying. She’d have to talk IRL to him sometime soon. In Real Life talks were important. Everything in real life was important, her dad was always reminding her, which was another of the reasons he was so down on sims. She knew he was right. She would have to face Chris eventually. He just wasn’t getting the hint, kept insisting they were meant to be together. But they weren’t. After all, she had Drew. He was just going to have to accept it.

  She arrived home to find her mother sitting at the table looking through some mail.

  “Hey, Ashley,” she said with a wink. “What’s going on?”

  Her mother looked up. “Not much, sweetie,” she replied. “Just answering some party invitations. The Nixons are having a huge bash this year. But they waited forever to send out the notes. I’m going to have to go shopping this nanosecond to find something to wear.”

  Molly smiled. For as long as she could remember, her mother had always been a social butterfly, flitting from party to party, happiest when she was around people. That was how she and Ian met, many years ago, when he was still a dashing government employee and she was the child of a state senator. Molly’s grandmother had been ecstatic that her socialite daughter had snared such a great man and a patriot. She’d become less than pleased since.

  But Ashley Anderson was a woman who stood by her man. During the rough times, during the prison sentence…even afterward, as the years went by and Ian became stranger and more antisocial, Molly’s mom continually defended Ian to friends and family. It was hard on her, Molly knew, to have the neighbors whisper about the crackpot she’d married. He’d stopped going to parties with her and eventually withdrawn from society altogether, spending his days down in the basement with his weird experiments, but Molly respected her mother’s stubborn sense of loyalty. Ashley had time and again rejected her parents’ pleas to just walk away from the marriage altogether. That was why Molly loved her mother and father equally and intensely, no matter their individual flaws.

  Molly looked down at the invitation. “Sounds fun,” she said. “Can I come?” She didn’t really have a strong desire to go, but she hated to see her mom attend alone.

  “Of course. If it doesn’t interfere with your training schedule,” Ashley said, reaching over to brush a lock of hair from her daughter’s eyes. “You know how your dad is about that.”

  “Yeah,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. “Believe me, I know. If I bring it up, he’ll probably tell me that I shouldn’t bother to buy a dress. ‘No, no!’ he’ll say, ‘The End of Days is right around the corner, and there won’t be any parties ever again!’”

  Her mother smiled and rose from the table. “Yes,” she said. “He probably would. But I’ll tell you what, sweetie.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on Molly’s head. “Come with me. If the world does end, I want you dancing by my side. I’m not going to die alone.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Molly stepped from her family’s underground bunker, she was immediately struck with wonder at the outside world. She’d forgotten how vast it was, how beautiful. There was the sky, a vibrant blue sprinkled with puffy cotton-like clouds. Wildflowers tumbled across sagging porches and poked defiantly through cracked pavement. Her favorite oak tree was still standing, strong and majestic in the center of their front yard, its branches stretching up to worship the heavens.

  The scent of honeysuckle tickled her nose and Molly sucked in a large breath, delighting in the fresh, clean air that was so much sweeter than the stale re-circulated stuff she’d been breathing for the last six years. Strange. Back in the shelter, she’d always imagined the outside world to be a gray wasteland with stormy clouds that would mirror the death of humanity below. She’d expected a graveyard, a desolate landscape, a world with acrid winds and a sepia palette. But it seemed nature didn’t mourn man’s destruction after all. If anything, it appeared to be relishing its freedom from gardeners and landscaping, this once tamed suburbia becoming a feral forest full of magical emerald life. Or maybe she was overdoing it in her excitement.

  She stuck out her arms, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin for the first time in six years. She wanted to skip down the street, dance, cartwheel. Run for ten miles without stopping. Enjoy a world without boundaries after years in a cage.

  After doing a little shimmy of joy on the front porch, she stopped herself, looking around, self-conscious, even though she knew there was no one to see her. That thought sobered her a bit. This beautiful world would be empty. Or practically so. How many would have survived? Not many, according to her father. A new emotion gripped her heart: sadness, the beauty of the world fading as reality sank in. Though she’d mourned her world for six years, it was different to suddenly experience its loss firsthand. Back in the shelter this reality had seemed unreal, distant. Like something in a film. Actually stepping out into the world and seeing the empty, debris-filled streets, the houses crumbling from years of abandonment, made the whole situation a lot more real and a lot harder to swallow.

  It was the silence that felt eeriest. Not that her middle-class suburb had ever been a bustling metropolis, but there had been sounds all the same: the droning of lawnmowers pushed by banker or doctor dads on their days off, the screams and laughter of kids playing wild games of tag, cars streaming down the nearby interstate and beeping away their road rage. Normal, everyday, take-them-for-granted sounds. All were now swept clear by an overwhelming, almost suffocating silence. There wasn’t even birdsong.

  A realization she had half-suppressed for too long rose up and choked Molly. Everyone and everything she knew and loved was gone. Her friends, her teachers—now even her mother had succumbed. Only her father was left. Out there. Waiting for her. Waiting for her assistance in rebuilding the world he’d known would fail.

  She focused on her dilemma. How was she going to get to where Ian was? His destination had been far, hundreds of miles away, and she truly doubted she could get the rusted old car in their driveway to start. Not that she had any idea how to drive; after the Highway Congestion Act of ’24 you had to be eighteen to take drivers education in South Carolina, and she’d been way too young when they’d gone into the bunker. Besides, with no working gas stations and the streets filled with debris, as she could
clearly see they were, it was probably better not to depend on cars. Maybe she could find a bike or something.

  First things first, though. She should find supplies. And while it was tempting to just hit a few of the nearby houses to see what they had in their pantries, it was also too morbid an errand for her to face. She didn’t want to see the remnants of her former neighbors tucked into beds or lying sprawled on the floor, thank you very much. She’d try to find a store instead.

  Steeling herself, she stepped from her porch and set off. Something in the middle of the pavement a short distance away made her pause. A small figure, more than half decayed, lay in the street, its skeletal hands clutching something shredded and pink. It was…a teddy bear. Molly fell to her knees, bent over and threw up.

  “God, Molly, get a grip,” she muttered to herself a moment later, wiping her mouth, embarrassed by her weakness. She’d known it was going to be like this, after all. That she’d have to be strong and push all the horrors to the back of her mind. She didn’t have time to mourn humanity. She couldn’t be distracted by the past. What was done was done, and it didn’t do any good to cry about it. After all, a Razor Girl didn’t cry. When they were sad, they spit.

  Molly did exactly that. She felt a little bit better, wiped her mouth again, this time with her sleeve.

  A voice cut through the dead air, surprising her where she crouched on the ground. A human voice. She looked up, mouth agape. Was she hearing things? Was it only the wind? Was it some old holo broadcast?

  She heard it again.

  “Dude! Where’d you go?” the voice cried. “Hey!”

  People? Real-life people? Had her father been wrong? Had humanity survived, or at least more of it than expected? Considering the shout sounded like it had come from someone her age, or at least someone who shared her way of speaking, she felt a surge of hope. Were these people who could help her? Kids, like her—or like she’d once been? Or would they be savages, brigands and people generally unworthy of her trust? It was difficult to know what to expect when the entire world had changed and she’d been locked underground for it.