May 18, 2051 – Quinn
Quinn watched President Everett speak through the big screen posted in the town square as it was not possible to attend it in person. She didn’t mind; she didn’t even remember when the epidemic took place. Quinn was not even born yet when the United States and the rest of the world underwent the worst plague known in history. The photos she had seen were burned into her mind, though. Gaunt faces looking out with terrified, vacant eyes. Tired and worn-out nurses and doctors with hazmat suits on. There was one picture that she could never forget, one that haunted her specifically: a little boy who had died from the virus; he was maybe all of ten years old. She felt most badly about it when she thought about his small feet sticking up on the edge of his coffin. The crematorium he was taken to had run out of longer coffins. They only had a small one, for babies or tiny kids. So, they placed this little guy in his too-small coffin and just propped his feet up on the bottom edge of it.
Quinn supposed she shouldn’t be too judgmental about it; the crematorium only used the coffins for funeral purposes anyhow. The Lombardi Plague victims were placed in their coffins behind a thick, triple-layer glass wall for the remaining family to file by and say their goodbyes. Mortuaries did not take any chances. Cadavers, along with their coffins, were incinerated directly following the funeral. Remotely vacuumed ashes became trapped inside double-thick steel urns. In this way, no toxins or particles from the diseased victims could escape into the air. They took every precaution to contain the pestilence.
Quinn learned all this at school. They had a mandatory class in second grade about it all. Back then, she reminded herself that she loved President Everett. She had thought of him as a hip fatherly type, kind, and of service to the people. Quinn now watched President Everett with cautious admiration, almost because he seemed too good, too perfect. It was like staring at something you didn’t want to see. It reminded her of a movie she had seen in one of her school classes. The film showed hungry citizens lined up against cold looking brick walls, waiting for food handouts from the government. Some were falling against the walls, barely able to stand up. It made her sick to look at it, but she also couldn’t help but look at it. She had some kind of fascination with it, even though she hated to admit that. She couldn’t help but wonder if staring long enough would reveal the demons in President Everett’s eyes. Everybody must have one or two, she thought. There was no way she could say it in public, but she didn’t always like President Everett anymore, even though there was quite a bit that seemed likable. He looked friendly and sounded intelligent and warm. Previously, when listening to his speeches, it gave her a good, safe feeling in the pit of her stomach. Now, that feeling had begun to grow into a twisted knot of fear and anxiety every time she heard him speak. While at one time she had been proud to call herself a loyal resident of the United State, she now had questions. One of the main reasons for her new-found questioning was the compulsory event she had to attend tonight.
When a girl turned fifteen, they were considered a young lady, and they also came of age for purposes of work and as a marriage prospect. Quinn had just turned fifteen, and while not an unattractive girl, she was a bit scrawny, with a tiny body: breasts, hips, waist, and even neck and wrists; she was just a wisp of a girl. She had her mousy brown hair in the standard short bob-length hair everyone else had, but her round face wasn’t flattered by it as she wished. Her best feature was her beautiful brown eyes. But eligible men did not care about the eyes. They cared about women who had hips wide enough that it looked like they could repopulate the world on their own. That had been the number one mandate President Everett had given the citizens—to procreate until the United State had millions of citizens again. Admittedly, they were getting there.
A girl couldn’t marry until she was sixteen, but at fifteen, girls needed to attend mandatory events hosted by the government to be seen by eligible husbands. Well, “eligible” was decided by the government. These were all men who were higher in the government or business establishments. If Quinn had the bad luck, like her friend Adams, who fell in love with a farmer, chances were, she’d never get to marry them. Men that worked in fields or with machinery married the “leftover” women, those who were not matched by twenty. Quinn struggled with the fact she may have to marry someone she did not love. Events for the “leftovers” were far more casual; you even got to wear your regular tunic and pants. For the fancy Courting Event, girls had to wear a dress. The only time they could do so. A brown, tan, or dark cream dress checked out from the Pods. She hated wearing a dress, but she was required to wear one. These events were obligatory, and if she got caught skipping it, there would be trouble for her. Quinn walked into the ample, open space. By day, a local high school gym, by evening, an overwrought dating ritual.
Quinn, being fifteen, was recently done with school and waiting for a work assignment. Jobs varied depending on if someone was selected to marry and, if she was, to whom. The rumor by men went that most women got assigned to “cushy” jobs in offices. Fetching the inexplicable four-ounce coffee, limited to one a day and sans sugar or cream—that the executives were allowed every day. They set up the VidCom for oh-so-important meetings. In reality, the real job was babysitter/ego-inflator/confidence booster, and sometimes paramour.
Getting her game face on, she looked around the gym when she walked in. Light infiltrated the space, which very much looked like sunlight despite it being evening. The walls were a creamy ivory color but somehow escaped a scuff or even a particle of dust. The decorations, the tablecloths, and cutouts of stars dangling from the ceiling were all black. A beautiful gold ribbon that looked spun from real gold framed and held each star and the remaining ribbon hung down past the bottom of the stars. Adorning the bottom part of the ribbon were several smaller cascading gold stars that sparkled in the light. Beautiful golden birds gracefully circled and lightly chirped overhead. They had long golden tails—similar to a peacock’s tail but all golden and wispier and more delicate. They must have been computer-generated because Quinn never saw anything remotely like that in the wild, zoos, or even books she had read about animals. A sleek redwood floor would be their dance floor for the evening. She almost choked when she saw the cardboard cutout you could take a picture with—a victorious looking President Everett holding a syringe filled with shining Marigold Injection elixir.
That was a very much unneeded addition to the party, she thought.
Quinn didn’t love the events, to say the least, especially when this particular older man, Namaguchi, would look or rather, it seemed, leer at her. She had only attended one Courting Event before this one. Her first one had yielded no Inquiries of Interest, the official form a man would submit when he was interested in meeting a young lady. In effect, it was a proposal. For high ranking officials, once they turned in an Inquiry of Interest, it went directly to President Everett himself for the stamp of approval. For lesser ranking officials, Security Patrol Guards, and business people, the local officials gave them yay or nay. A no was rarely given to any man on his Inquiry form unless there was a specific reason to give. For instance, when Baxter wanted to marry Olson, he was given a “no”. It was because Baxter’s father went directly to the city officials and said he wanted to marry Olson himself and that his son had gone above his head. So, the Inquiry was changed, and the comely Ms. Olson became the bride to the elder Baxter, twenty-eight years her senior, and the husband to seven other wives. As more men had perished in the Lombardi Plague, women outnumbered men as much as ten to one in some areas, so men were allowed to take more than one wife.
After the “yes” stamp was on an Inquiry of Interest, the form went to the parents or guardian of the young lady. Then, along with her parents or guardian, the girl would go to the resident Pod counselor. Everyone would discuss with the girl how lucky she was that she had been selected and by whom. The girl would also hear the top three job assignments under consideration for her. She then had twenty-four hour
s to discuss with anyone she wished if this was a marriage she wanted to enter. But, as Quinn understood, it was a decision in name only. Multiple stories floated around about women who turned down proposals. They went missing or ended up going from a prospective job of an office assistant to someplace like the garbage fields. Even if they somehow managed to acquire a good job, their families and friends would most likely shun them. It was an honor to receive Inquiries and to have them approved by officials. Turning it down was almost tantamount to treason. Quinn knew all of this. She also knew it was early on in her debut, and sometimes it took a few events to get acquainted with the men, especially after the Baxter Olson Debacle, as it was known. Still, she shuddered at the idea of being inquired about by the likes of someone like Namaguchi.
Perhaps, Namaguchi had been handsome when he was younger, but it was hard for Quinn to imagine. She didn’t know how old he was, but she figured he was older than her grandparents. All she knew was he intimidated and scared her. He was likely once tall, probably 5’11” if Quinn were to guess. But he was now quite stooped over with a cane to help him walk. His hair was wispy and snow-white, a hoary thin cobweb that always seemed out of sorts. Large, tired-looking bags collected under his expressionless brown eyes. He wore the standard men’s uniform, a brown tunic that went slightly past his waist, a slim-legged brown khaki pant, and brown boots, the laced-up tops covering his pants’ cuff. Namaguchi was part of President Everett’s team and, being so, already had ten wives. Quinn would never trust him with anything. Since she had to attend the dance, she secretly hoped that she would find a suitable and nice husband—or did she? She was never quite sure what she wanted on that front. It was fun to think that there might be a husband of her dreams out there. But she also felt like she wasn’t quite ready to get married and start having babies. Quinn tried to stuff it in the back of her mind. Typically, she would socialize with girls around her age at any event or gathering. But, considering what was expected of her tonight, she was in a sour mood, feeling tired and overwhelmed. For some reason, she felt a deep sense of foreboding. So, when she entered the dance floor’s central area, she quickly surveyed the room and saw a black and gold decorative curtain held out about five feet from the back wall. Quinn went behind the curtain with a chair that she found on the way, putting it back there as quickly as possible, and then lowered herself into it, making herself as little as she possibly could.
Quinn was deep in thought, so deep that she didn’t see the shadow that lurked behind her. She didn’t notice until the body moved directly behind her into the little available light that was there and a weathered, veiny hand with knobby knuckles was on her shoulder.
Oh no, she thought, how could I be so stupid!
Looking back at her was Namaguchi. Quickly, he pulled his hand back from her shoulder. In his other hand, he was holding out a cup of the so-called “party punch” served at these events. It wasn’t like the punch in the history of food books she had read in school. That history told of all the evil things President Everett had removed from the world. One improvement President Everett touted he had made was eliminating almost all artificial ingredients, refined sugars and carbohydrates, and excessive salt from the food supply. Artificial flavorings and colors, along with tons of sugar, no longer tainted all the food. The “party punch” was water with fruit in it, the only fruit you could consume in the United State. And, there Namaguchi was with the cup. Quinn took the cup and focused on the punch for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts and find a way to escape. It was too late, though. The next thing she heard was Namaguchi in his croaky, old-man voice saying, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
August 18, 2056 – Quinn
Oh damn, thought Quinn, not again; she felt herself rising in the air about three inches, and she moved her fingers slowly before they became immobilized. The soft tingling of the pale blue light beams she was in gave her goosebumps, but that was the only sensation she had. Quinn immediately cleared her mind of her original thoughts. She had become an expert at thinking of nothing in particular, exactly what one had to do when being scanned. It didn’t matter what she replaced her hatred of President Everett with; it only mattered that she got rid of those thoughts. The Drone Scanner held her in its beam, checking her for negative thoughts on President Everett. Reading her brain, taking her pulse—was she lying? Its job was to discover anything that might be something. She decided to think about the President Everett museum, a Palace dedicated to teaching people how amazing their President was—yes, that was an excellent thought to sink into her mind. The outstanding accomplishments of President Everett. Luckily it worked, and next, she was slowly being lowered to the ground, the beam loosening its grip. Her state-issued brown slip-on canvas shoes she wore touched the ground. Taking a deep breath, she slowly stood up as the scanner moved on. Running her fingers through her short brown hair and straightening out her brown tunic that went to her mid-thigh, Quinn could not believe it was five years since she had been in the city and slept in a Pod. She took it in. Everything was brown or gray. Plain. Modest. Government-issued. She looked around for a minute. Everything was drab. Even the trees looked brown and dry. She shook her head, then started to move; she had to get to a Pod before they closed.
There were Pods spaced evenly over the county. Placed every hundred miles or so, they were large gray buildings that held thousands; in the front, large iron doors slammed shut precisely at nine in the evening to secure the inhabitants. The drawback was it also kept everyone out, whether they were a legitimate resident or not. You could take the transport busses that ran from workplaces to the Pods, but if someone was close to being late, there was no way a bus could get there on time. You just had to hope you were close enough to a Pod to run if need be or be prepared to spend the night outside. Usually, it was not too bad in what was previously known as California; it was often warm enough depending on your exact location. But, finding a secure place, away from wild animals and roaming Security Patrols, was another obstacle all together.
Security Patrols were groups of three to six men. Quinn once read a book about twentieth-century entertainment. People used to watch something called wrestling, and wrestlers, that’s what the Security Patrols looked like to her. Large, brawny men with tall and broad shoulders and big meaty hands that looked like they could rip right through your chest, pulling the beating heart from your chest. That was from a movie she remembered reading about from that same book. The only thing different from wrestlers was the outfits. The Security Patrols, of course, did not wear tight spandex outfits in loud colors. They wore the customary muddy brown of the United State, as everyone else did. However, also incorporated was a lighter shade brown that made a camouflage pattern on their bulletproof armor that covered them pretty much from top to bottom. They wore plasticky looking armor instead of the cotton tunics and pants everyone else had. You could see their faces; the plate on their brown bulletproof helmets was transparent; Quinn supposed it was so they could scowl at you. She didn’t understand why they had to be bulletproof, though. Nobody had any guns anymore except the government. Regardless, it was essential to avoid the Security Patrols because they asked few questions, and even when they did, they acknowledged your answer with the large guns they carried.
It was tricky because, technically, it was illegal to sleep on the streets. But the Pods didn’t open again until seven in the morning—even then, you couldn’t get in. That’s when the people who had stayed overnight got forced out to leave for their government-assigned job. If you had a day off from work or didn’t have a job due to being elderly, you had to spend your day in one of the city’s parks, museums, libraries, or the Everett Center. After the Pods were closed, crews came and cleaned the communal sleeping, showering, and eating areas. People could return between noon and two in the afternoon to get a midday serving of a government-administered nutrition biscuit. If your job was too far from the Pod to go and get your lunch, the work facility
had a government-ran luncheon room that provided your biscuit. Besides that, a biscuit at breakfast and dinner were the only food ever received; water was the only thing to drink. However, it wasn’t quite the well-oiled system the government claimed it was, Quinn figured. One of the problems was when you got to a Pod; it could already be full for the night. She knew this rarely happened as most people selected a Pod closest to their work and always stayed at that particular one for ease and a sense of routine. But if you went to visit family in another part of the country, or when groups of workers got reassigned, it could happen.
As Quinn passed the stationed Security Patrol outside the Pod, she had to admit everything was always spotless and sterile, very industrial. Nobody had anything different than what anyone else had. At least that was true for those who were able to stay in a Class One Pod. The Pods meant for Class Two or Three citizens were not as nice. At the other end of that spectrum were the Pods exclusively HE Citizens. She was sure those were plusher and comfortable, but she’d never been in one.
As disturbing as the Pods could be, Quinn had to admit they were the only place you could get some food, a shower, and a place to sleep. Personal homes, buildings, and businesses no longer existed as part of the new American order. Naturally, there were still jobs, and the expectation was that each person in the country would do their part. Farmers grew wheat, corn, and a variety of other vegetables for the nutrition biscuits. Factories created biscuits, and there were people needed to repair transport vehicles and Drone Scanners. Droves of people had to clean, sanitize, and keep the Pods running smoothly; there was no end to the work. Upper-class jobs were still available, of course, the government and those who worked at the President Everett Center and President Everett Museum; they had administrators, curators, and tour guides. Doctors and nurses were needed to keep the public up-to-date on inoculations and wellness checks. Business people still made deals, maybe not stock trading or selling anything, but creating computers, music equipment for the classrooms, and everything in between. Then they ran the logistics to get them from one place to another. Quinn knew less about that. She had left before she ever had a job assignment. So, she was aware these things existed, but she didn’t have an in-depth knowledge of it.
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