by G. C. Julien
“Ten,” I say.
Freyda stares at me. “Ten what?”
“When winter comes, you can pick ten women in Eden to train.”
Eve – Flashback
“You! Get over here! Help me!”
I freeze. I don’t know what to do. I’m terrified, but I know I have to be the big sister Mila needs me to be. I need to find my mom. I didn’t expect things to be this bad. Or, perhaps I did, but I wasn’t ready to step foot inside the chaos.
This suddenly feels like a mistake. Maybe leaving the house wasn’t the best idea. Mom would find her way back to us. Why go looking for her?
But then I remember Mila’s glossy eyes and her quivering bottom lip. She begged me to let her go downtown—to look for Mom after we heard about the explosion on the news. She kept repeating, “She could be hurt.”
Even though she wanted to leave the house, I wouldn’t let her. I put all my weight against the front door until finally, I agreed to look for Mom if Mila promised to stay indoors. She was reluctant at first, but she agreed. And now here I am, standing under a flickering streetlight, surrounded by the sound of war.
People scream, glass shatters, gunshots ricochet through alleyways, and the persistent and nasally sound of a car alarm echoes in the distance. Farther ahead, blue and red lights bounce off apartment windows and across the wet asphalt and cobblestone.
It only stopped raining when I got off the bus. Fortunately, the bus driver agreed to drop people off on the border of downtown but refused to drive his regular route into the downtown core.
I don’t blame him. But where am I even supposed to start looking? My mom could be anywhere. And what if she was injured? What if she’s transported to a hospital? What if they’re not even treating the injured because they’re rioters?
I want to cry.
I want to scream.
“Are you listening?” the voice shouts again.
There’s a woman crouched low to the ground, and my mind immediately shifts when I see a little girl’s body in her arms.
“Please!” she shouts.
There’s no one around. All I hear are people screaming and rioting a few streets away. More glass shatters, and then a loud bang goes off. I rush to the woman’s side.
“What’s wrong with you?” the woman snaps. “I need help!”
“Wh… who is…” I try, but something catches my attention. A few meters away, beside an overfilled garbage dump, is a woman lying on the sidewalk, her eyes wide open. Her entire torso is drenched in blood, and her skin is as white as the collar of her shirt.
I throw a hand over my mouth.
“Do you want this little girl ending up like her mother?” the woman shouts.
The girl she’s holding must be four or five years old. She’s pale as a ghost, and her skin looks cold and clammy. Her hair is so light it almost looks transparent, and it’s sticking to her sweaty forehead. I can’t tell if she’s hot or cold.
“Wh… what can I do?” I ask.
What am I supposed to do? I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what happened. All I did was decide to cross this road to get away from a group of women with firelit T-shirts attached at the ends of street signs.
I notice the woman’s hand pressed firmly on the little girl’s neck. There’s dark blood spilling through the cracks of her fingers, and it’s clear that she’s doing everything in her power to stop the bleeding.
“Give me your shirt,” the woman orders. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” she says softly. She kisses the little girl’s forehead, but the girl is barely responsive. Her lips are parted open, and her jaw is loose.
I don’t put any thought into it. A little girl is on the verge of dying. I’d remove all my clothes if I had to.
I tear off my shirt—a plain white T-shirt I habitually wear—and hand it to the woman. Her hands are shaking, and she quickly wraps my shirt around the girl’s fragile neck. The little girl’s body bounces like a ragdoll as the woman fastens the material around the wound, and her little arm falls to the side.
The woman starts applying pressure when a long breath—a perturbing sound almost capable of stopping time itself—comes out of the little girl’s lungs.
CHAPTER 17 – GABRIEL
Gabriel – Present Day
Adam’s leaned back against a 2027 Chevy pickup truck. It’s rusted red, although right now, it looks black under the moonlight. He’s wearing a baseball cap over his eyes, and his mouth is parted open. He’s been out for about an hour or so, but he’s still holding on to his rifle like it’s attached to him.
The other men are lying around the campfire, which is nothing but red cinder now, and the sound of snoring almost blocks out the crickets singing around us.
I look at Castor, who’s standing stiffly against the back of the truck, his arms crossed over his chest. His head keeps nodding forward because he’s fighting so hard to stay awake. It’s his turn to stand watch tonight.
I gaze out into the open field, and I wonder how far I’d have to run before finding shelter or before getting myself killed. The longer I stay with these men, the more disgusted I am with myself. I know there’s strength in numbers, but these men have no morals.
The idea of being alone in this world right now is suddenly more appealing than the idea of staying here with them. If Adam catches me running, he’ll shoot. Then again, he’s a terrible shot. I’d probably be fine.
I gaze up at the stars and think of my mother. What would she want me to do? She’d likely pull my ear and tell me how ashamed she is of me for associating with such animals. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s done that. When I was thirteen, I made friends with a guy named Romelio, who introduced me to pot. When my mom found out, she dragged me across the house by the ear, threw me into the bathtub with my clothes on, and turned on the shower.
She then said, with her thick Spanish accent, “Gabriel, if you touch poisonous leaves, what happens to you? You itch. You hurt. That boy Romelio is poison, and he will make you hurt. And if he doesn’t, I will make you hurt!”
I smile at the memory. Mama was always strict, yet I always had such respect for her. I stopped talking to Romelio after that. He thought I was a coward for not standing up to my mom, but I thought he was an asshole for talking about my mom like she was a monster when she was the best thing in my life.
So, what now? What do I do? Adam suddenly slaps himself on the chin, shooing away a loud buzz around his head, but he dozes off again.
Would it be better if I ran back toward the school we came from? But then I remember the rotting bodies in the school cafeteria and the foul stench floating through the corridors, and I feel sick to my stomach. I’d rather be anywhere but there.
I just need to get out of here. I’ll figure out the rest later.
Castor nods off again, so I quietly get up and make my way over to him. He looks like a kid who doesn’t want to get in trouble. He keeps nervously shifting his weight and his eyes are rolling around in every direction.
“You look tired,” I whisper.
He nods.
“Get some rest, I’ll cover you,” I say.
His eyebrows come together. “Why?”
I don’t blame him for being paranoid. No one in this group of men ever offers to help someone just because. Especially me. I keep to myself, and I like it that way.
“I’m trying to be nice,” I say.
He’s not buying it. He’s staring at me with that same stupid look he always has—the kind that makes me wonder if he’s actually thinking, or if his brain has stopped working.
“Castor,” I say, hopeful that my honesty won’t be the death of me, “I’m out of here.”
He stares at me and opens his big mouth, but nothing comes out.
“If I leave while you’re on watch duty, you’ll be blamed for it,” I say.
Someone grunts and rolls over, and I slip around the other side of the truck to hide. When the silence returns, I lean against the cab of
the truck and whisper, “If I take over watch duty, you won’t be blamed.”
“So, you’re gonna take off?” Castor hisses, his bearded face wrinkling so much he looks like a chow chow.
Why is he upset? What does he have to be so angry about? His untrimmed eyebrows are nearly touching, and his half-toothed mouth is open. If there’s one person I hoped would understand me wanting to get the hell out of here, it was Castor, but now I’m beginning to think I made a mistake trusting him.
“Is that a problem?” I ask, careful to remain calm. If I wanted, I could knock him out without making a peep. But I don’t want any trouble, and I especially don’t want to hurt Castor unless I have to.
“Yeah, it is,” he says.
I grind my teeth. Why is he making this so difficult?
“What’s the problem?” I ask slowly.
He shoots another glance toward the group of men sleeping like babies and throws his chin out at them. “I’m coming with you, but my bag’s over there”—he points—“beside McGaver.”
Gabriel – Flashback
“What is this?” I ask, twirling my spoon in the bowl of beige mush in front of me.
“Cream of Wheat,” says one of the men sitting across the table.
He looks like the rest of us—a gray uniform, a shaved head, and a posture so straight you’d think he has a piece of wood holding him up.
I look around the cafeteria. Men in black stand at each entrance, their rifles in hand, their eyes on all of us. What is this, anyway? Prison? I thought we were soldiers. Why are they treating us like cattle?
“Scooch.”
James is suddenly standing behind me, and he squishes his way in between me and Alex, my bunkmate.
“First big day,” he says, plopping his bowl of mush in front of him.
No one says anything.
“What’s the matter, boys? Not what you expected?” he asks.
I look up and make eye contact with the guy in front of me, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing—wondering what the hell we’re doing in this place.
James leans forward on his elbows. “This place is all about standards and discipline. Might feel a little weird right now, but you’ll see. They’ll make something out of us.”
“You!” shouts one of the guards, loosely pointing his AK-47 at James. He jerks his head sideways as if to say, “Stop talking,” and James pulls back in his chair with a crooked smirk on his face.
He takes a spoonful of Cream of Wheat, swallows hard, then says in a whisper, “You’ll see.”
So apparently, there’s no talking, either. When breakfast is over, the guards split us into small groups and lead us into separate rooms. The moment I walk in, I’m overwhelmed by a calming sense of relief. The ceiling above us is made of glass, revealing a beautiful cloudless blue sky, and the walls are covered in art—paintings of the ocean, a jungle, mountains. There’s even a fountain at the back of the room with water trickling into a massive bowl made of glass.
What the heck is this place?
“Welcome,” someone says. A man stands at the front of the room, or the class. He has golden-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and a fancy suit like the rest of the men in charge around here.
“Have a seat,” he says gently, extending his arm out toward the chairs in front of him.
There are about twenty of us in this group, and I don’t know a single person. Both James and my new roommate, Alex, were sent to different groups. I sit at the front of the class, observing the man with the ponytail as he paces back and forth, smiling at everyone.
He looks like a genuine guy—the type who’d hold a door open for a lady or who’d stop on the side of the highway to help someone with a flat tire.
“You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here,” he says. “What these so-called ‘Information Sessions’ are all about.”
No one responds, and it’s obvious by the heavy silence in the room that we’re all curious about this place.
“I’m Mr. Sinclair,” he says, pressing a firm hand on his chest. “But that’s not important, because tomorrow, you won’t be here.”
Everyone shifts in their seats. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Mr. Sinclair lets out a lighthearted laugh.
“You won’t be in my classroom tomorrow,” he clarifies. “These sessions are rotational. Every day, you’ll be placed in a new environment. It’s a learning strategy. So tomorrow, you’ll be entering a different environment altogether.” He looks up at the glass ceiling and breathes in. “Some will be peaceful, like this one, and others, frightening.”
He makes eye contact with me, and I look away.
He claps his hands together, then extends both arms on either side of his body. “So why are we here today?”
Silence.
“Anyone?”
Someone clears their throat. “To learn about our mission.”
Mr. Sinclair searches the back of the room with almond-shaped eyes, and the man who spoke raises his hand.
“Ah! Stand up, please,” Mr. Sinclair says. “What’s your name, son?”
“Brian.”
“Brian!” Mr. Sinclair says. “In time, you will most definitely be learning about your mission”—he turns on his heels and walks across the room—“but before that happens, we’re here to prepare you for your mission.”
“So, you aren’t going to tell us what we’re doing here?” Brian asks.
Mr. Sinclair lets out a chuckle—an arrogant sneer, almost. “What you’re doing here is simple, Brian. You’re here to serve your country. That’s what being a marine is all about. Now I know you didn’t accidentally fall onto our doorstep. You have experience, and you were handpicked to be a part of something bigger. Over the next few weeks, you’ll all be challenged in different ways. Some of you will succeed, while others will be sent home. Only once we have our remaining men will you be assigned your mission.”
Sent home? That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. But as I watch Mr. Sinclair go on about how they need to ensure they have the right men for the job, I can’t help shake this nasty feeling in my stomach. He says that those who fail will be sent home.
The problem is, I don’t believe him. There’s something off about this place, and if I were to take a wild guess, I’d say no one ever actually gets to leave—alive.
CHAPTER 18 – LUCY
Lucy – Present Day
I breeze through the pages of Magical Herbs, by Fiona Lynch, completely oblivious to the people walking by my room. Perula handed it to me at the end of the day and told me to get started by reading up on all the different herbs, what they look like, and what they do.
“Lucy!” I hear.
It’s Emily, a girl I used to go to class with. I wouldn’t exactly call her my friend, but I guess she’s the closest thing I have to one. She holds a math binder under her elbow and it’s pressed up against her chest. She’s leaning on the iron bars of my room.
I don’t invite her in, but she comes in anyway and sits down at the foot of my bed. She’s smiling ear to ear under that button nose of hers, and her long honey-brown locks are all wavy now because of the humidity in here. If I had one word to describe Emily, it would be, porcelain doll. Okay, that’s two words. Looking at her, you would think she was the sweetest girl you’ve ever seen. Her skin always looks as white as cream, and her dark eyebrows are shaped into perfect little half-moons. She’s pretty much always smiling, and if she isn’t, it’s because she’s working on her homework. In the old world, she’d probably have turned out to be a model.
“Do you like it?” she asks. “Healer?”
I look out toward the corridor of Division Five to make sure no one’s around, like being a Healer is some big secret or something. I can’t tell her how much I’m enjoying it. Emily’s fourteen and she’s graduating in two years. The last thing I need is to be blamed for encouraging someone else to take on this position.
“It’s okay,” I lie. “There isn’t
much to do, though. Perula and Mavis do all the work. I probably shouldn’t have chosen Healer, because now, there’s too many of us.”
She squeezes her binder harder against her chest and shrugs. “That’s too bad. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay,” I say. I force a smile and show her the cover of my newly gifted book. “At least I get to read a lot.”
She giggles. “Then I wouldn’t like it. I hate reading.”
A weight lifts off my shoulders when she says that.
“So, what’re you gonna pick?” I ask. “What do you want to be?”
She rubs her sticky forehead and shakes her head. “I don’t know. I can’t decide.”
“Why don’t you talk to Mrs. Greensmith? She’s nice. Maybe she can help you make a decision.”
Mrs. Greensmith is our English teacher, and she’s the oldest teacher in all of Eden. Her last birthday, which was a few months ago, had candles with the number “68” on them. She’s always been my favorite teacher. She’s so sweet and patient with all her students, and I’ve never seen her get upset. Even though she has a hard time walking because of a knee problem in her left leg, she still takes students around all of Eden to show them each job available.
Emily nods slowly. “Yeah, I guess I could do that.”
Something’s up. It’s like she doesn’t want to leave my room, even though there’s nothing left to say.
I gently tap her shoe with mine. “What’s wrong?”
She shrugs.
“Emily, you can tell me.”
She shrugs again, but this time, she parts her lips and lets out a short breath. “I miss my dad.”
My heart skips a beat and I sit up straight, watching the entrance to my room. “Emily…”
“I know, I know,” she whispers. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
