by D. L. Orton
“Okay,” I say. “Where’s Dr. Nadales?”
“She’ll be meeting us in the OR.”
I nod, still trying to clear the cobwebs from my tired brain.
Ten minutes later, I’m wheeled into an operating room, and the doctor puts a mask over my face.
I push the mask away. “What happened to Dr. Nadales?” I ask, feeling like a broken record.
“She couldn’t be here this morning, but there’s no reason to be worried, we’ll take good care of you.”
“Yeah.”
“Haven’t lost one yet,” he says and places the mask back over my face.
Before I can say anything else, the world fades to black.
I wake up in some sort of recovery room, feeling sore and queasy.
A male nurse checks my vitals and asks if I need some anti-nausea medication. A moment after I shake my head no, I vomit yellow bile into the basin he’s holding out.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling disoriented.
“Happens all the time,” he says. “Change your mind about the meds?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He adds something to my IV, and I fall gratefully back asleep.
Sometime later, I wake up with excruciating pain in my lower back, and the nurse gives me more pain meds. Between that and the anti-nausea stuff, I’m in the recovery room for the rest of the day, tripping in and out of painful consciousness.
Christ, this sucks.
When I finally come to—and realize the pain is mostly gone—it’s after eight. Nurse Sweet meets me in the recovery room and insists that I use a wheelchair.
Not this again.
“I’m not going anywhere in that,” I say. “I can walk just fine.”
She gives me a disapproving look but doesn’t argue. “Mr. Kirk wants you in the communications room as soon as possible. He said it’s important. Would you like me to bring your dinner over there?”
“No, thanks. I’ll eat when I get back.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’ll let Mr. Kirk know you’re on your way.” She hesitates. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about this whole thing—what with you missing dinner last night, and Dr. Nadales canceling, and all that nausea… ”
“It’s fine,” I say and squeeze her arm. “All’s well that ends well.”
12
All the World’s a Stage
Shannon
When I startle awake, I can’t remember where I am. The windowless room is dimly lit and the air smells stale. And then I remember. I’m stuck inside a broken-down biodome, force-married to a skinny acne farm with a wife-murderer for a father, and expected to pop out a soccer team before I’m twenty-five.
I pull the covers up to my chin and look around. A pillow and blanket are crumpled in one corner, but the covers next to me are untouched.
I’m so hungry I could eat a hen.
“Peter?” I say, afraid that he’s here—and afraid that he’s not.
The door to the bathroom opens a crack, and my pretend husband peers out.
“Hi,” I say when he finally spies me hiding under the covers.
“Hi.” He inches around the door, his hair damp but combed. “They’ll be coming for us soon. You might want to get ready—assuming you want breakfast.”
“Yes,” I say, my stomach growling.
“Okay,” he says, relaxing a little. “I found some clothes for you in one of the drawers. They’re probably not what you’re used to but…”
“Thank you.”
He nods. “I left them on the counter. While you’re changing, I’ll take care of the evidence.”
“The evidence?”
“Yeah. We have to make them think we… you know, did it last night.”
“Oh, right!” I wait for him to move away from the door. “Shut your eyes.”
He does, and I hop out and scurry into the bathroom. I repeat my actions from the night before and then put on the clothes—a blue and silver outfit like the woman from I Dream of Jeannie wore. They’re a bit baggy but a lot less revealing than the nightie. I rebraid my hair and step back into the dimly lit room.
Peter has put his pillow and blanket back on the bed, and he’s in the process of messing up the covers.
“What are you doing?” I ask, wondering why he isn’t making up the bed, and then I notice the blood on the sheets—and the cut on his arm. “Oh my God, what happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m making it look like…” He swallows. “If my father finds out I didn’t actually force you to—”
“Thank you,” I say, finally getting it. “Although bleeding after the first time is just an old wives’ tale.”
He gives me a funny look.
“That’s what my friend Mindy says.” I can feel my face getting warm. “She considers herself an expert on sex and men because she reads a lot of books.”
“We don’t have any books here—’cept the Bible.”
“Oh.” I plop down on the end of the bed. “Thanks for fixing up the… evidence.”
He sits down next to me, his eyes averted. “Shannon, when the others are around, you need to act like you’re my wife, or they’ll send you to Rehabilitation.”
“Like I’m broken and need fixing?”
“Yeah.” He glances up at me. “That’s where they sent my mother after she refused to obey my father. I didn’t see her again until I found her body hanging in the chapel.”
“Oh God, that’s horrible.” His words bring up an image that I can’t get out of my head.
Is that what’s going to happen to me?
He exhales. “And we should act like, you know, we did it.” He drops his gaze again. “So you should pretend to be really sore.”
“Sore?”
“Yeah. Down there.” He glances sideways at my lap.
“But Mindy says—”
He looks over at me, his eyes pleading.
“Ah. Okay.”
“And you should act cross. Like you hate me for what I did to you.”
I nod, feeling too embarrassed to speak.
He stands back up. “But not too… rebelling.”
“Rebellious?”
“Yeah, like, you should keep your head down and not look any men in the eyes. And if I tell you to do something, you need to do it. But you can look mad about it—I mean, if you want to.”
I don’t respond.
“I know it’s not how you treat someone you care about,” he says, “ordering them around and stuff, but it’s what I have to do to keep you safe.”
“Okay,” I whisper, fear stealing my breath.
“And the other women are going to be mean to you—say cruel things to you—but they won’t hurt you as long as you belong to me. Pretend you don’t hear them.”
“Why would they be mean to me?” I ask, glancing over at him. “I haven’t done anything to hurt them.”
“I can’t really explain it, Shannon. It’s the way things are here. In any case, when we’re alone, you can do whatever you want. You don’t have to follow orders or anything, and I won’t… do anything to you.” He looks over at me, his eyes pleading. “But in front of the others, especially my father, you need to act like you’re an obedient wife. Okay?”
Before I can answer, there’s pounding on the door.
“Please?” he whispers, and I nod.
He unlocks the door and opens it.
A gaggle of men are standing outside, looking like they’re ready to storm the castle.
Peter’s father pushes through them and steps in, his gaze darting around the room before landing on me. I step backward, feeling awkward in the genie costume, but grateful it’s not the nightie. He strides over to the bed, yanks back the blankets, and grunts. “Cover yourself,” he says and tosses a folded red bundle at my feet.
It’s some sort of tattered Red Riding Hood cloak—hood and all.
I put it on, wrapping the scratchy fabric around myself and pulling the hood up, all the while trying to act l
ike I’m sore down there—which isn’t hard considering how much my stomach hurts.
Peter steps in front of me, and I bow my head, avoiding his eyes. “After the Forty Days of Procreation,” he says, his voice too loud, “you may wear women’s clothing. Until that time, no one may look upon your flesh.”
I nod, not meeting his eyes.
He grabs the front of my robe and pulls me closer. “Do you hear me, wife?”
I gasp and look up at him. “Yes,” I say, not needing to fake my fear.
“When you address me, you will call me ‘sire.’ If you forget again, I will punish you.”
“Yes, sire,” I say and drop my gaze.
He releases me and walks out the door.
“Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” Peter’s father gives an approving grunt. “What do you know, boys? He just needed a ripe virgin to bring out the man in him.”
“Do your legs not work?” Peter says from beside his father. “Or do you wish me to provide a horse and carriage?”
There’s male laughter out in the hallway.
“That’s more like it.” The man gives his son a hearty pat on the back, and Peter walks away.
I scuttle after him, trying not to step on the hem of the long, red cloak.
When we round the corner, I smell food cooking, and my mouth waters. It’s been a whole day since I last ate, and I’m so hungry I’m feeling weak. I follow Peter through a set of double doors and risk a quick glance up. The cafeteria is full of adult men.
“Slut.”
I turn toward the sound—and lock eyes with a woman dressed as if she just stepped out of Little House on the Prairie, bonnet and all. There’s a scar across her face, and one of her eyes doesn’t focus right.
“You don’t belong here,” she says through clenched teeth, “and you’ll bring nothing but evil upon us.” She’s carrying a tray of food, and her hands are red and chapped. She shuffles past me. “The whole world lieth in wickedness!”
I look away and hurry after Peter—who stops unexpectedly, causing me to crash into his back. “Sorry!” I blurt out.
I hear the collective taking in of breath and belatedly add, “Sir. I mean, sire, sir.” I bow my head. “Sorry, sire.”
There are mumbled comments that include the words retard and halfwit, and I hear someone say, “What did you expect from a dumb blond?”
Someone else adds, “Might be stupid, but I’ll bet she’s a good rut.”
I’m not sure what rut means—and I don’t think I want to know.
Peter turns around, and I risk a quick glance up, trying to apologize with my eyes for being so forgetful, but his face is blank.
“Have you not seen real food before?” Peter says. “Are the other places so wretched that they cannot afford to feed a clumsy girl?” He grabs me by the arm and yanks me around to face the back of the room.
“You’re hurting me!” I say and pull away, frightened by his rough treatment.
A woman—the one with the bad eye—calls out, “Lock her up,” and the others take up the chant.
I rub my arm and look around in horror at the leering faces. I can’t do this.
Peter lifts his hand, silencing the room. “What did you say, wife?”
I drop to my knees, my head bowed. “Nothing, sire.”
He walks away. “Women eat at the last table,” he says over his shoulder. “But only after the men are sated.”
I count the rows, realizing that there is one woman for every twenty men here.
They’ve lost ninety-five percent of the female population?
Peter sits down, leaving me kneeling there in the Red Riding Hood getup. He glances over his shoulder, and our eyes meet. “Get my break” —his voice falters— “fast.” He clears his throat. “And be quick about it.”
I blink, his gaze still on me, and he motions with his head for me to get up.
But I can’t stop thinking about how many women they’ve killed.
More than a hundred.
I stare at Peter, frozen by fear and my own rising panic.
“Please,” he mouths and then turns away.
Pretend you’re in a play, Shannon. Act the part. Find a way to stay alive.
I manage to get to my feet and stumble toward the kitchen, lurching out of the way every time a woman scurries past me carrying a tray of food and calling out under her breath.
“Halfwit.”
“Demon.”
“Whore.”
13
Flying Pigs
Diego
Fifteen minutes after leaving the recovery room, I shuffle into the communications building, feeling pretty shitty.
Should have used that damn wheelchair.
Ted, the radio operator, motions for me to sit down.
Dave is talking on the radio in the glass-walled room next to us, gesturing wildly and pacing around.
Ted finishes speaking with someone via headphones, writes down some notes, and turns to me.
“We’re expecting a call from DC any moment.”
“DC?” I ask. “What’s up?”
Apparently, Kirk sent some men to Washington DC to see if they could find anything on the Magic Kingdom, and they discovered a room full of boxes marked Top Secret. One of those boxes had the word TARDIS on it.
Just as Ted finishes filling me in, the receive light comes back on.
“That’s probably DC now,” Ted says and gestures at Dave—who acknowledges. Ted switches the radio over to the speakers. “Press the button on the mic to talk.”
I nod.
“DC, this is C-Bay,” Ted says. “We are standing by. Over.”
“Armstrong here. Where is Mr. Kirk?”
“On the other line,” Ted says. “He’ll be here in a moment. What do you have for us?”
“We unpacked the box marked TARDIS,” Custer says.
Dave walks into the room, looking like he’s about to blow a gasket.
“It’s full of status reports on something called…” —we hear papers shift—“a ‘Trans-Temporal Viewing Device’.”
Mierda. That’s the Peeping Tom.
“We’re taking photos of everything now,” Custer says.
“Is that all you got, Armstrong?” Dave says.
“No, sir. There’s something on a ‘Hot Button’ too.”
Dave turns to me. “That mean anything to you?”
I nod. “It’s a thumb drive.”
“What about ‘Single Genotype, Broad-Spectrum-Immunity Biotech Device’?” Custer says. “Some sort of scientific paper?”
I can’t believe my ears. “Those are the instructions to build the biotech devices. Are they complete?”
“Stand by.” We can hear him speak to someone away from the mic. “No. I repeat: The cover sheet is all we have. Looks like whoever collected this stuff didn’t care much about the details.”
“Anything else?” Dave asks.
There’s some static on the line. “We do have the title page for a ‘One-Way Temporal Computing Device.’ The principal author’s name is Phillip something—the ink is smeared. The second author is listed as…” There’s a pause. “The second author is Matthew M. Hudson, PhD.”
The plans to build the time machine.
“Are there any maps or other information on where the research was being done?” Dave asks. “Anything on the location of the project?”
“We’re looking,” Custer says. “I’m sending photos of everything now.”
“We got ’em,” Ted says and nods at Dave. “I’ll print hard copies.”
“What else do you have for me?” Dave asks.
“That’s it, Mr. Kirk.”
“Okay,” Dave says. “I want that box in my office by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Custer says. “We’re packing it up now.”
“Safe travels,” Ted says. “Over and out.”
Bella, whom I haven’t seen since dinner a week ago, arrives as the prin
ter comes to life.
Dave fills her in on the news as the printer spits out paper.
Bella takes the first couple of sheets and starts reading. “This is definitely intriguing, and the summary states that the broad-spectrum immunity includes a wide variety of viruses, bacteria, and toxins.” She picks up the next page from the printer, and then starts shuffling through the ones underneath it. “Where is the rest of this ‘Biotech Device’ research paper?”
“That’s all they found,” Ted says. “Just the title page.”
“What? We need the rest of this. Where is it?”
“Probably inside a mountain somewhere in Colorado,” I say. “It was part of a secret government project started before Doomsday. If we can figure out where that hollowed-out mountain is, we might be able to find the rest of those instructions.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Kirk,” Ted says. “There are other messages for you.”
Kirk nods and runs his hand through his thinning hair. “Spit it out.”
“The Bub wants to know when you’ll have the repair parts out to them. And Kansas City called a half hour ago, asking for instructions. They have all the folks from the Lou, but they’re over capacity, and some of the refugees are seriously injured.”
“Tell the Bub I’m working on it,” Dave says. “And tell KC I’ll figure out a way to get the ones who need medical attention to C-Bay. We can spread the rest of them out across the other domes—have Population Control check on openings and requests. How many are injured?”
“Forty-three, give or take.”
“We don’t have enough hospital beds,” Bella says. “Where are we going to put all of them?”
“We’ll have to squeeze for now,” Dave says. “Can you handle it?”
“Of course, I can,” Bella says. “It’s my hospital.”
Everyone looks at Bella like she just said pigs can fly.
“Well,” she says, stepping closer to Dave, “don’t you think it’s about time I started pulling my weight?”
Dave turns back to Ted, his eyebrows still raised. “Let KC know.”
“Yes, sir. But there’s more.”