Swallow it Down

by Addison Cain

  It was like she carried an infection and something even worse—doubt.

  The women always came back, he’d said. But she couldn’t do that, even if she’d caught herself walking toward the boat more than once. Seeing him with the others, the very women she’d driven him to time and time again, would kill her. It would kill her more quickly than Level 9 ever might.

  Joan had been right. Eugenia was in love—unsure who she hated more for it, Aaron or herself.

  Had Joan not come to her first, after that long, sleepless night on the couch, Eugenia would have fallen at his feet and begged just like he had begged her in dark corners for months. Keep me. Accept me as fucked-up as I am. Love me back, even when I hate you.

  He’d outplayed her every move, crumbled her flagging resistance to powder. All the while, she’d tormented him in every way she could imagine. Took from his physical release despite his tricks. Participated when he’d moved inside her. Enthusiastically accepted his caress after a taste of pleasure, knowing after the first time that it would end with him spilling where he should not.

  He’d take care of Brooke as long as Brooke might live. He’d take care of all of them. That had to be enough.

  He’d also still force women who didn’t want to have babies to reproduce for his vision of humanity’s second chance.

  Her best friend. Her arch nemesis.

  Maybe she’d really left her beloved textbooks for him, so he wouldn’t forget her. Because seeing them would kill him little by little. He’d hold them; he’d smell her on them. He’d still fuck the other women too hard from behind, and he’d still not be able to look them in the eye as they serviced their captain.

  Brooke bore horrific scars, ugly ones everyone could see. Aaron bore the same, with only Eugenia knowing they sat right under his skin.

  Just as he knew all about her secret wounds, having inflicted many of them himself.

  Yet with each deep cut, she’d had someone to stitch the wound closed. The scar was still there, but tended, softened, even accepted. They only pulled a little when she breathed, could almost be ignored.

  Eugenia would survive them. Aaron would survive his.

  Neither of them would ever truly live.

  It wasn’t the cold or the hunger that birthed her misery in freedom. They wouldn’t kill her, just as her growing fever wouldn’t kill her. It was the loss.

  Rain had blessed her passage from the ship with drinkable water. More had been collected in her empty cola bottles. She could pass from the rotting woods into the next nightmare far differently than she’d come to this land.

  But the dead wood felt like home. So she built her own hovel out of mud and sticks like all other vagrants breathing air, eating bugs, and surviving on fumes she’d come across over the years. Eugenia’s own cove near the water, far from the ship. Far from the captain’s farmlands.

  So she might work through a backlog of buried thought and feeling, yet occasionally wander far enough north in the night to see the ship’s lights at a distance.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Her beautiful Li Wei, his memory was with her, toasting marshmallows over a campfire she didn’t have. Like he sat at her side on the muddy banks of the massive river that fed a lake that housed a cruise ship that should have never made it so far inland.

  The Mississippi wasn’t pretty.

  Its inlets stank.

  But so did she… in that stupid blue dress.

  A dress she was going to keep until the day she died. Because she missed another man more than the ghost at her side. She missed all the ugly moments they shared punctuated by blue cotton.

  Because she was sick.

  Because she was broken.

  Because all the women went back and she never would.

  When the dogs finally ate her, she’d be wearing that dress.

  Because the fact that Aaron might have been right about everything was too terrible to swallow down.

  This, she told Li Wei; she told him everything. Sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, always horrendously honest. How much she missed him and the life they should have had. How angry she was that he left her as if he stood a chance at finding his parents. How much she envied him for loving so hard that he knew she would live without his help, but his Māmā and Bàba would not.

  Sometimes, she railed as if the imagined phantom might reply, screaming out hateful things. How could he have left her? Didn’t he love her enough to stay?

  Of course he had. He loved her as much as any man had ever loved.

  Even as much as Aaron loved her.

  And Li Wei would have married her, and they would have been happy. But…

  The world died, and men like Aaron lived.

  Li Wei was too good; he would have been slaughtered protecting his wife. Aaron would have killed anything and everything that might even approach her.

  Like Neil.

  “I miss you.” There had been a great deal of honesty in solitude, but that she had never dared mutter aloud.

  Her new phantom answered back, “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  Fever had grown worse by the day. A diet of bugs and weeds, of raw vermin and the occasional slow bird tended to do that.

  Fallen log supporting her weight, Eugenia plopped down and stared as the world’s ugliest river flowed past. “The bigger question is which it you mean. The slavery? The manipulations? Level 9? Fucking Jessica?”

  “Jessica.”

  What was there to do but shrug then frown. “She’s popular for a reason.”

  “I went to her room, traded her one-hundred thousand tickets.”

  Impressive when Eugenia thought about it—it even deserved a low whistle. “Wow, that’s a lot more than I was ever offered…”

  “I paid her to tell everyone I fucked her all night.” The man took a deep breath, one so unlike the composed captain. “Instead, I got drunk on her balcony and passed out on her floor.”

  Standing on shaky legs, Eugenia approached the water’s edge to pick up a flat rock and skip it over the tide. Eight skips before it sank.

  “Eugenia. Did you hear what I said?”

  How much she’d missed hearing the way Aaron said her name. As if there was no one else in the world but them. As if he really knew her… which he did. “I feel sorry for Jessica. She’s been in love with Maxwell for years. He’s been in love with her. But to hide it from you, they are always with other people.”

  “I know.”

  A sorry snort, and she started looking for a new rock to skip. “If you knew, both of them would be dead.”

  The specter’s voice came nearer. “I know all of it, Eugenia. And I turn a blind eye when I can.”

  “That’s… almost sweet.” The real Aaron wasn’t sweet. He was aggressive, relentless, unscrupulous, generous, beautiful, loving, and twisted.

  “Going to Jessica was the cheap trick of a desperate man. One who knew you’d get off the boat one way or another. A man who’d tried everything he could think of to manipulate you into surrender. I left the room that night, because I needed you to be jealous, to be anything if you couldn’t love me. Because I was jealous of everything you fought for. I’m jealous of the fucking ground you walk on.”

  This just might have been the most fulfilling fever dream she’d had yet.

  Sane enough to remember that auditory hallucinations were a terrible sign, Eugenia looked down at the mud-stained, ugly blue cotton under her crusty furs. She’d lost weight. “I thought I’d die in a nicer dress, wearing the pearls my daddy gave me. I had never taken them off until the day I traded them for scraps, because it was that or pussy. God only knows where they are now.”

  “Honey, please look at me…”

  Another perfectly shaped rock skipped over chilly waters, Eugenia smiling to beat her record. “Shouldn’t it be lamb? Lamb to the slaughter? Lamb on a spit? You called Brooke lamb.”

  Pain, there was so much pain from her ghost’s confession. “I could have told her about Fresh Wat
er, and I didn’t. I needed a living example to open your eyes.”

  The tear that fell was warm on her cheek. “I know… but it wouldn’t have mattered which way she went. There is no happy ending anywhere.”

  “Eugenia… please.”

  Closing her eyes to the sound of a stalwart man begging, she sighed.

  But the phantom was relentless. “I would be happy to just be able to see you”—and the voice came closer—“even if you never let me touch you again.”

  “If we’d met in some bar before the bombs, if you’d approached with your swagger, your good looks, and your unbearable pretentiousness... I would have thrown my drink in your face.”

  There was amusement in the specter’s reply. “I just bet you would have.”

  “Do you? Because I’ve thought about it to an unhealthy degree, and I’m not sure why.”

  The amused lilt, she’d missed the sound of it. “Because I scare you. Because I’m brazen. Because I’m all the things you want but would never admit.”

  “Those things are true, but I think it’s because with just one look, I would have seen exactly what you were capable of. Men like you ended the world.” A deep breath, the hard work of peeling her eyelids open accomplished, she prepared to turn and found nothing there. Cutting a glance to the side, she found his boots… badly in need of a polish. Running her eyes over dirty jeans, a flannel, a man in a coat, until she found the new beard growth on his face. “I know who you are, Kingston.”

  Was that relief in his eye? “I know you do.”

  “But we’ve never talked about it, not really.” God, she was a mess, covered in dirt, hair all snarls. Running a hand down her tangled mane as if she might knock the dust out, she said, “It’s the eyes, the cheekbones. You’ve got Joan’s good looks, but deep down, you’re all Daddy.”

  “Joan would be proud to hear that; it was her one job. Be pretty and raise an heir.” Settling into his stance like a trained politician, the captain added, “Did she ever tell you she was runner-up to Miss America? Born and raised to be a politician's wife.”

  “And though Granddaddy might have been Governor, your father—”

  “Was a senator.” And the phantom didn’t even have the nerve to look embarrassed.

  “Not just any senator. An avid supporter of the crispy, dead president’s untrained private police. The army he marched into cities to murder, arrest, and terrify the people rising up against his regime. A supporter of the war America started. Evil like you.”

  “I’m not my father…”

  “Keep telling yourself that.”

  There was the familiar, irritated squint. “I’m not my father, because I would never settle for the senate when I could have had the oval office.”

  Which deserved mockery, considering. “What shape is your office on the ship?”

  “Rectangular.”

  “Hmm.” That was a little funny. “Your mom is afraid for you. What does it feel like to have a mom who is still alive and able to be afraid for their child? I miss mine. I miss her in a way I don’t know how to describe. Not just because she was hard on me, but because she was great.”

  And Eugenia had meant great in the way that artists were great. The way countries were great. Her mom had been a juggernaut that had changed the world for the better. All that surgical knowledge gone forever, thanks to Aaron’s father.

  The phantom took a cautious step closer. “Eugenia, what did Joan say to you?”

  “She only told me the truth. You can’t have me and keep peace on the ship. And you know it too.” Since this was final confessions and all, she tacked on, “And though I do hate you, I couldn’t see your work fail just because the pair of us were…”

  “In love?”

  “Call it whatever you want. It doesn’t matter.”

  Breathless, he looked torn apart. “It matters to me.”

  How many times did she have to tell him? “You don’t get to be happy!”

  “Why?”

  A sob caught in her throat. “Because I am afraid of Level 9. What it means for the world. What it would do to me to allow it.”

  “I know,” he said with such feeling, with so much love in those hazel eyes. “Which is why I am removing your ability to choose. There won’t be guilt because I’m stealing you from the world. Because from this moment forward, I own you. And I’ll remind you of it every day.”

  Was he crying? Phantoms didn’t cry. This… this couldn’t be real. “Aaron?”

  Gesturing to the dead wood at his back, he waved forward. “Boys, tie her up.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  How different it was from the first time she’d seen those welcoming lights, their enticing sparkle suckering in wayward strangers. With her head cradled on Aaron’s lap, the vantage was not a tempting glint of civilization from a crumbling stone bridge. She didn’t need to squint to see what was hidden behind the trees.

  Eugenia saw the ship clear as day, growing larger as the dinghy that carried her home was oared by strong men.

  There was no John running to the shore, abandoning his pack and diving into murky waters.

  There was only Aaron, stroking her hair all the hours it took the men to row upstream. There was only fever and raw wrists from fighting rope that bound her weak limbs.

  But the ship looked the way she remembered from that first awful encounter.

  Pretty, jovial, a beckoning finger in a world of rotting corpses.

  A bad place.

  Or was it a good place where bad things happened?

  It was more than the men on the gangplank. The decks were full. Cheering abounded.

  She heard her name shouted in homecoming. As if she belonged. As if she’d been missed.

  “Hush now.” Taking her chin, the captain turned her head so she might meet his eyes. So she would see his intention, his smirk… his victory. “You don’t have a choice, remember?”

  She didn’t have a choice... so it was okay if she allowed a tiny pang of relief to bang against her heart.

  That so long as she fought the ropes binding her wrists and ankles—so long as Aaron carried her over the threshold—boarding the ship might be okay.

  Met with cheers, with triumphant waves, one would think the captain was bringing home his bride. Not some vagrant in a crusty dress that reeked of body odor and sickness. Cradled to his chest, marching them straight up that red carpet as if returning victorious from war, he brought home a woman they all knew.

  One he wasn’t going to share. To a crew and the Level 15 ladies that cheered anyway.

  Dictators didn’t ask if they could have what they wanted; they took it. And the regime didn’t question.

  Not when they were fed. Not when they had tickets to earn and ladies to entertain them.

  Not when they could buy a cycle and potentially father a child.

  Was it really so different than how it had been before society fell apart?

  Powerful men’s wives had been chosen from a myriad of pretty contestants backstage at the Miss America pageant. Now they were plucked from rancid lakes, trotted about in naughty catholic schoolgirl outfits, and made to stand still as men dumped their uneaten food on their heads. So really, pretty much the exact same thing.

  The captain had put a ring on her finger once his men had tied her up, slipping it on after she’d quickly grown tired from struggling and ultimately lost.

  And as her hands were bound before her, she could see the setting sun glinting off the gold.

  It couldn’t have been Joan’s; it was too plain. Joan would have owned a monstrous diamond.

  Plain suited Eugenia; the fucking band even fit, mashed between her fluttering fingers. As if he’d planned it all, the more she struggled, the more she felt it.

  Aaron had called her his wife.

  Solid muscle, holding her close, he whispered his vows on the muddy banks of the Mississippi. Gagged, she could do nothing but glare as he promised to keep her forever.

  To chase her down
if she ever got it in her head again that she belonged anywhere other than at his side.

  To love her.

  To see her fed and their children cared for.

  Eugenia gave no promises in return. That wasn’t how his world worked.

  She could have promised to cut his heart out, and he would have still smiled, still kissed her forehead, still planted her on the waiting dinghy.

  Because she didn’t have a choice.

  She didn’t have a choice in the following examination once she’d been returned to the ship. She didn’t have a choice when he cut off her dress, when he scrubbed her in a bath of cool water, or the clean sheets he laid her upon when she was too tired to fight back.

  A man Eugenia recognized as a frequent of Table #2—the one who traded three beers for a win at chess—poked and prodded while Aaron held her still.

  He even introduced himself. Dr. Herbert, who had sat at her table every single time he made it upstairs.

  Three days of fever, the captain manning the bucket while she purged whatever she’d poisoned herself with while scrounging through the wood. Holding back her hair, telling her over and over that she was beautiful and strong. That she would get better. That everything would be okay.

  Bedrest was followed by careful walks around the deck. Constant attention. Private dinners with candlelight. Quiet moments for her to settle in.

  An utter lack of arguments. There was very little talking at all.

  Eugenia didn’t know what to say. For once, the captain didn’t push.

  No sex took place on his massive bed, only soft caresses in the dark. Sleep-tangled bodies and lazy mornings.

  Her period came, Eugenia ignoring the cramps to face her captor and announce, “I win!”

  He didn’t mind the mess, pulling her to his chest to stroke her hair. “You do, honey.”

  The blood was right there. Right there on the sheet. And then it hit her, and the words sounded sad. “There’s no baby.”

  “We can try again.” Arms tightened, a firm body holding her still. “Don’t cry.”

  But she did. She fell to pieces, and she didn’t know why.