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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Varian Krylov
After © 2008 Varian Krylov
eXcessica publishing
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After
By Varian Krylov
PART I: EVA
~
YEAR THREE
CHAPTER ONE
They have been waiting, and she is the first.
Wary, creeping closer. A girl or young woman. Something catches her eye. Furtive, she looks around. Then slow, cautious, she approaches a fruit tree. Out of place among the dense stand of cedars and maples until a wider view reveals a poorly kept old orchard.
Fat apples sag the branches of the smallish tree. Skittish, the girl looks about her once more, then reaches up and plucks one heavy green fruit. Mouth stretched wide, her teeth puncture the bright, specked skin, tear into pale flesh, release clear juice. Devouring the crunchy flesh she has taken into her mouth, she raises the maimed fruit to her nose and draws in the sweet-sharp scent. In seconds there is nothing in her hand but a whittled core, already browning. She tosses it down in the sparse, tall grass and tugs another apple from its branch and begins devouring it with the same fierce relish. By the time she hears a rustle of grass, the crunch of earth, it's too late.
Men. Three men in military fatigues. She runs, dropping the half-eaten apple. But she is slow, and they are fast. The one who catches her smiles as his fingers lock around her arms. He touched her first, so he gets her first. They worked this out long ago, hoping but not believing that eventually they would see a woman again. His smile fades. Its birth, life, and death pass in the span of a second.
He throws her to the ground and is on her. She screams. An animal howl, terrifying and loud. She hits him hard in the face. He hits her back. A second man is there, now, pinning her arms, eager to help so his turn will come sooner. The one on top of her rips open her jacket. The sound of thread snapping. Hands yank up her shirt and bra.
“Get him,” the one on top of her growls.
The other lets go of her wrists, boots thumping over hard earth. Seconds later he is back, the muzzle of his gun nuzzled into the neck of the third.
“You're staying here with us, kid,” the one on top of her says. “And you're taking your turn, when it comes.”
The one with the gun makes the runaway take his place, holding her wrists. The one on top of her is pulling down her pants, tugging at her underwear. She is sobbing. Convulsing with sobs.
Then a horrible dull impact sound. And again. Something is wrong with the one on top of her. Blood runs in a stream over the stubble, down his temple, dripping in a sticky warm rivulet onto her face. Then a boot flashes into and out of her frame of vision and the man on top of her arcs backward. He is off of her. They are all off of her.
A shadow passes over her, and a figure looms between her and the sun-smeared sky.
He stands over her, panting, face fierce, body rigid. Her eyes follow wide shoulders out to thick arms down to large hands, one closed in a fist, the other clutching a blackjack, the end gory with blood and hair.
She tugs at her sweater, covering herself, scrambles to her feet. She does not take her eyes off him as her trembling hands struggle to do up her pants, then as she crosses her buttonless jacket and then her arms defensively over her chest. He watches her, then scans the men littered about them. One is unconscious, another is hunched over, cradling his bleeding head. The third—the unscathed runaway—is watching. The man with the blackjack is considering something.
He steps toward her, reaches for her. She makes a hopeless little noise and turns, runs from him with all her strength. But it isn’t much strength. He catches up and catches her, a big forearm clamping down across her waist, trapping her against him. She thrashes. It's futile. He lets her struggle and beat at him until her tiny store of strength and hope is spent and she gives up, sobbing. He grips one of her thin biceps in his huge hand and begins dragging her off somewhere, the eyes of the two conscious men following them.
She seems resigned until the walls of a compound come into view, and then a gate. The sight of a destination renews her terror, and she begins struggling once more, fighting to wrest her arm free. He tightens his grip. They are almost to the gate. She will no longer walk, so he drags her. Her struggle is tiring him. He stops and looks down at her. He speaks in a low, stoic voice.
“If you won’t walk along cooperatively I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you in.”
She lets him march her through the gate.
Soldiers are posted inside the gate, and others stop working in a field near the path up to a large building looming ahead. None speaks or leaves his post, but they look at her like a fabled creature whose reality is not to be believed.
The big man takes the girl into a squat, square building. Dim light from the small windows is unaided by electric lights. Their steps echo down a long corridor. At a door the man halts and knocks. A voice says enter. He turns the knob, draws her through the door, and closes it behind them.
Behind a big metal desk, a man rises from his seat. He is tall, slim, and something in his look and his bearing suggests the eagle. He shows no sign of shock. A cool smile that barely curves appears. The girl is stood before the desk, her captor’s hands rest possessively on her shoulders.
“I’m Major Smith,” the eagle says, his tone cool. Polite.
She goes on, trembling in silence. Major Smith looks to her captor.
“Who’s your friend, John?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did she come to be in your company?”
“Riggs and his men had her out by the old orchard.”
“They didn’t…hurt her?”
“Looks like one of them punched her pretty hard.”
“John.”
“Rape her you mean?”
Smith gives John a challenging look. John is silent.
“Did they?”
“No. But if I hadn’t come—”
“All three of them?”
“Yes.”
The eagle’s fair face darkens. He turns from John to the girl.
“I’m sorry for how my men have treated you. I assure you they’ll be severely disciplined. What is your name?”
After a long pause she answers. “Eva.”
For some reason the eagle looks pleased.
“That’s a lovely name.” Then, after a wistful pause, “Are you hungry? You look like you’ve had it rough for a while out there. I’ll have some food brought in.”
He picks up a phone and tersely orders a meal brought to his office.
“Which direction have you come from, Eva?”
“From the north.”
“How long since you’ve seen anyone?”
“Months.”
“How have you been surviving?’
Eva shrugs her shoulders.
“Well, you’ll be well looked after here. We’re most of us army, what's left of the soldiers stationed here. But John here is civilian, and so is Jake. You’ll meet him in just a bit. There’s plenty of food and water here. Don’t worry, we won’t induct you,” Smith says with a teasing smile, “we just have a strict set of rules that everyone must comply with, to ensure order and everyone’s safety. But we can go over all of that a little later.”
A knock at the door. A man enters with a tray of food.
“Well here’s Jake now, one of your fellow civilians. Just leave the tray on my desk. Jake, this is Eva.”
Jake wilts, all of the air let out as he stares at her. “Hello, Eva,” he finally says, just audibly.
“Thank you Jake. You may go.”
Jake wrenches his gaze from her and leaves the room.
“Don’t be shy, Eva. Eat up. We’ve already had our lunch.”
With the look of a dog expecting a kick she begins devouring the food before her. When she finishes the major speaks.
“I’ll have a room made up for you, Eva. In the meantime, you can use my room to shower and have a rest. I imagine it’s been a long time since you’ve slept on a proper bed. You can go, John. I’ll get her settled myself.”
John does not move, but stands statue-like just where he has been all this time, right behind Eva. Unable to see John, she watches the eagle. His expression calcifies.
“You’re dismissed, John.”
John quietly leaves. Eva’s whole body seems to soften slightly.
“Come along, Eva. I’ll show you to my room.”
And like that, the softness is gone. Rising, the major, goes to the door and opens it, gesturing for her to step into the hall. She looks apprehensive, but she stands and steps out the door. Together they go down the corridor, her arms tense and ready for battle, he with his hands clasped leisurely behind his back. They leave the office and the cluster of austere military buildings and cross the campus to another building. It looks like an old mansion on a southern plantation—a strange and stark contrast to the squat and square buildings adjacent. They pass through a formally appointed foyer to a wide staircase. At the top are several doors. The major opens one, revealing a large, sparsely furnished room. He enters. She follows, staying close to the door.
“I'll get out of your way in just a moment, so you can get cleaned up and have a rest.” Smith is using a quiet, careful voice, miles away from the voice he has used with John and with Jake. “Before I go, though, I need to ask you a few questions. About what happened this afternoon. It will help me in deciding on disciplinary measures.”
She nods. He gives her a reserved but reassuring smile. He asks things, she answers, her body stiff, her answers terse. No tears. No talk of fear or anger. Just information. Naked facts. Three men. One taking the lead, giving orders. One who ran, came back at the point of a gun, held her down. The other's gun holstered. John's blackjack and jackboots.
While he deposes her, Smith pokes and prods at her statements with due interest, but it's her that has him curious; it's obvious in the way he cocks his head slightly, the way his sharp eyes focus on her hands, hanging at her sides but kept still with visible effort. On her eyes that constantly seek his, never evading his gaze.
When the eagle runs out of questions he thanks Eva for her testimony. Then, his gentle tone giving way to a cold staccato. “You’ve been outside for a long time, Eva, so I know you understand how dangerous it is out there. John arrived here almost seven months ago. Then there was no one until about two months ago when Jake arrived. Then no one until today, when you arrived. You say you’ve seen no one in months. For all we know, then, there’s no one else left. But the danger is still there. Here it’s safe. But only as long as everyone does their share and follows the rules. John and Jake have learned to follow the rules, and I’m sure you will, too.
“The first rule is obvious. No one goes outside the compound. The only exception is the orchard detail, but that won’t be your duty.
“The second rule is strict food rationing. We have the orchard, and we have planted crops on the grounds here in the campus, but most of them aren’t producing yet. One of the bittersweet consequences of what's happened—there were over three hundred soldiers stationed at this facility, and now we're only eighteen, nineteen, now that you're here—we have about a three year supply of grains and canned goods, but that’s assuming no additions to our group, and no spoiled food.
“Third. I’m in charge. Any order I give must be obeyed without question. Most of my men knew me a long time before all this happened, and have learned to trust me and my decisions. It’s harder for you civilians, who don’t understand military authority and haven’t known me as long. But the rule applies to you just as it does to the men. Anyone who disobeys an order goes into solitary for a week, and has their rations cut. The second time someone disobeys an order, they’re turned out. To the outside. Do you understand these rules?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He smiles, his military stiffness slipping away. “Well. Please, just make yourself comfortable. The bathroom is right through there. You can have a shower. Actually, if you don’t mind my saying so, I’d prefer that you did, before you use my bed.”
His smile is amiable. She is filthy.
“There’s a robe on the back of the door you can use. Just put your clothes outside in the hallway, and I’ll have someone collect them and launder them for you. You can have a nice long nap. Help yourself if you see anything you’d like to read. I must get back to work. Is there anything you need? Fine, I’ll send someone round in an hour to collect your laundry.”
“Major,” Eva blurts as he's about to leave. He halts, gives her his steady attention. “You said before, nineteen, counting me.”
“Yes.”
“And,” she keeps her hands still, keeps her head erect, her gaze steady, but her voice chokes and warbles, “how many are women?”
“Only you, Eva,” he answers, his voice solemn.
He leaves, locking the door behind him. Her rigidity seems to soften slightly. She goes into the bathroom, and locks that door. There is a beige flannel robe on a hook. When she catches sight of herself in the mirror she goes still. Stares with curious awe similar to how the men had looked at her as John marched her through the compound. She goes on staring, astonished, as she gets her clothes off, and after. Runs thin fingers over protruding collar bones, the corrugations of her ribs, her hollow belly.
She showers, taking a long time just to shampoo, rinse, and shampoo her hair again, working her fingers into the tangle of thick black curls, scrubbing her itchy scalp. The hot water is pounding her back, and she sways for long minutes, moving the jets back and forth over her skin before taking her time with the soap, massaging and rinsing and doing it all over again and again.
Turning the water off she towels dry and pulls the robe down from the hook. She smells it. Then she presses her whole face into it and draws in a long breath. Then she puts it on, stroking her arms through the soft flannel, enveloped in it. She finds a comb and, after examining the red welt over her cheekbone ringed in blues and yellows where the soldier hit her, begins the painful struggle of unknotting her hair. Half an hour later she has won, and she goes to the eagle's bed, collapses upon it, and falls asleep, not even getting under the covers.
Hours later, as evening falls, the eagle knocks softly at the door. She is awake, having slept all afternoon. As he unlocks the door and enters, she quickly backs away from him. He sits down in an armchair and motions for her to sit down opposite him on the bed.
“Feeling rested?”
“Yes.” she replies warily. Then, “Thank you.”
With visible effort she manages a kind of smile. The eagle is looking at her intently. She looks away.
“Forgive me staring. It's just...Eva, may I ask how old you are?”
“Sixteen,” she answers after hesitating a moment.
“So young,” the eagle comments, almost wistfully. Then a faint, mirthless laugh. “I didn't see it before, under all that dirt.”
He looks like he's thinking something over. Then he returns. Becomes present.
“I know you've been through a terrible ordeal, out there. And today. And there will be times when it's very hard for you, here. But I promise you, I am looking out for you.”
Eva produces another smile and says, “Thank you.”
The eagle rises and turns his back to her, saying, “You're underage. But that hardly seems to matter, under the circumstances.” He opens a cabinet at the base of the built-in shelves housing his small library, and brings out a bottle and two glasses. “You've survived all on your own for the last eighteen months. It doesn't seem you should be treated like a child.”
“No.” There's a cynical edge to her voice.
She rises as he uncorks the bottle and fills the glasses. The eagle turns and hands her one.
“Cheers, Eva. To you,” he says, and they clink glasses.
Eva takes a tentative sip. Then another. And another. The eagle takes in her eager drinking, but doesn't make a comment. She notices him watching her, and she meets his gaze. And a few seconds later her eyes fill up with tears.
“Eva?”
“I'm sorry,” she says, smiling, but when she blinks the tears escape down her cheeks. “It's just, I've been by myself for so long. I didn't know if I'd ever see anyone again. And now I'm here, washed and rested. Drinking wine.” And then she adds, “With you.”
And then she presses herself against him and wraps an arm—the one not holding the wine—around him. The eagle is taken aback, but after a few seconds he sets his glass down and puts his arms around her, tentatively, at first, then pulls her close against him. He strokes her hair for a moment. Then he gently sets her away from him. She seems confused. Almost unsettled. But she gives him a smile, then begins diligently sipping from her glass again.
But then she sets it down, only half empty. Smith looks from the glass to her, dismayed. But he says nothing. He takes two steps toward her. She stiffens, but doesn't back away. And then a few seconds later she touches the palm of her hand to his chest. She's swaying a little where she stands. Her pupils are huge.
“Eva,” he says in a low, gentle voice, “would you do something for me?”
Smith picks up the bag he'd left by the door, and brings forth some beige cloth. When he rotates his wrist the piece of cloth unfurls toward the floor and becomes a delicate, translucent nightgown.
“Would you put this on for me?”
Watching her face, he looks surprised when, after just a brief hesitation, she nods and comes to take the garment. She teeters into the bathroom and swings the door closed. Just seconds later she comes back out.
“Does it look all right?” she asks in a quiet voice either full or void of artifice.
“You look lovely.”
His words are incongruous with the sad tone of his delivery. Her look of apprehension escalates to restrained alarm.
“Here,” he proffers her abandoned wine glass.
Her hand is shaking as she takes three big swallows, like it's water or medicine. Smith finishes off the contents of his own glass, then watches as she does the same.
“Good girl.” He takes her empty glass from her slack grip and sets it on a shelf. “Now, come and lie down,” he says, coaxing her down onto the bed. Her breathing has quickened and her eyes are glued to him as he leans down to help her get settled. “Try and rest a little more. I've got a bit more work to do yet. I'll see you soon.”
Her eyes go wide and her hand clamps onto his wrist. She's starting to cry a little.
“Please, stay here. Stay with me.” Her voice is shrill. Panicky.
“Shhhh. Try to rest,” he whispers, gently prying her fingers from around his wrist.
“Wait!”
Smith's hand slips from the doorknob. He turns. Faces her. She is sitting up, swaying slightly like a rooted water plant in a gentle current.
“Please.” She gestures for him to come back to her. After a long hesitation Smith moves closer, sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes lock on his, anchor her swaying body there. Slowly but perceptibly, Smith hardens.
“Don't do it,” she says, plainly trying not to cry but failing, obviously trying to be hard, but shaking. “You don't have to. And it's not right.”
“Don't do what, Eva?” His voice is low. It has a choked sound it hasn't had before.
She reaches for his hand. She's off by a little, like she's having trouble focusing. But then she finds his hand with hers.
“Please,” she says, her voice tear-choked, her mouth straining to smile. “You stay. I won't fight you. I'll try. I don't know how, but I'll try to be good.”
“Eva. What do you think is going to happen?”
“You drugged me.”
“Yes.”
“You drugged me. You dressed me in this thing. And you're leaving.” Smith is still and silent. “You're—“ Her angry accusation withers. Fades to a terrified prophesy. “You're giving me to them.”
She is breaking apart.
“Ssshhh, Eva.”
Smith pulls her to him, puts his arms around her, rocks her slowly, back and forth, like a frightened child.
“Nothing so awful. I promise,” he soothes. “Listen to me, Eva.” He sets her a little away from him, his eagle's gaze trying to pierce the fog of her buzz. “For two years now, every effort of mine, every thought, has been for the men. Keeping them alive. Keeping them safe. Keeping them from going crazy with fear. Trying to give them hope. That we're not the only ones left. That we're not going to grow old and die, trapped here, never even knowing if anyone else is alive out there. And I will still do that. Look after the men. But Eva, now that you're here, nothing, nothing is more important than keeping you safe. I am not going to throw you to the men like a scrap of meat for them to fight over.”
In her eyes, there's a change. Like an explosion resolving to billowing smoke, silent and slow.
“What's happening, then?” She seems to be teetering at the edge, clinging to hope, struggling not to drop into the abyss of her terror.
“Eva.”
She doesn't speak or move, really. There's just a faint change, like she's braced herself. He tells her, in a voice almost as soft as a whisper. Maybe he thinks it will scare her less, hurt her less, if he says it quietly.
Not saying anything, Eva just shakes her head, slowly, for a long time. Her look of horror, her tears, the no, no, no turning of her head back and forth doesn't stop him. When he is done, for a minute Eva is mute, just shaking and crying but trying to hold herself together, erect.
“Smith. Smith, please. “ She is trying to be calm. Rational. To carve the terror and anger from her voice. “There's another way. There is. We just have to think.”
“I've had two years to think this through, knowing there was a chance someone, you, might turn up here one day. I've had months and months of seeing what the men are becoming to realize what sort of crisis we're facing.”
“You keep saying...what are the men becoming?”
* * * *
The hall guard tells Smith John is waiting for him in his office, then listens to the low murmur of Smith's voice, and the raised, angry voice of his visitor. The low and raised voices parry for a number of minutes, then the door opens. Smith emerges, calmly issues an order, then walks off toward the mess hall.
Twenty minutes later the company is convened—eleven men, not lined up in rows on the benches at the tables, but sitting in a broken, irregular circle on benches ringing the room. Eva's attackers are present, sitting apart, wrists bound in plastic handcuffs. One—Riggs, the leader—has a big bandage on his head.
One bench in the circle is empty and Smith repeatedly looks up from the papers on the table in front of him to eye that empty space. Some minutes later John enters the room and takes the empty seat, and the line at the edge of Smith's mouth smooths. Another minute later the final two soldiers enter, with Eva between them. She's wearing the nightgown and shaking visibly, and except for Smith's, all eyes in the room lock onto her. There are no shouts or whistles or laughter.
Her eyes drift over face after face, all so young, so hard. Complexions of boys, eyes of weary men. Hungry men. They look as though they are devouring her life with their stares.
“Jake.”
Jake steps before the eagle. The major hands him a large ceramic jar. Jake takes the jar and stands before the first man in the circle. The man drops something metal into the jar. Jake moves around the circle, every man dropping something into the jar when he stops before them. John looks at her as he opens his fist over the jar and his token plinks down among the others. When Jake stands before the man with the bandage, the eagle speaks.
“Not him, Jake. Riggs and his men have forfeited their participation.”
The man grabs the lip of the jar with both cuffed hands and opens his mouth to protest. But he does not speak, and after a moment he releases his hold, letting Jake move on around the circle. When all the tokens have been collected, he returns to the eagle, proffering the jar. The major puts in no token, but takes the jar from the man's hands. He shakes it hard a few times, stirring the metal tabs around inside.
“Aaron Velden!” The major’s voice rings out like a sentence. Irrefutable. “That’s John’s tag.”
A din rises as the men begin talking and shouting angrily, not daring to challenge the eagle, but bickering and complaining to the air.
John—jaw clenched, chest heaving—locks eyes with Smith. They are gripped in a contest of wills while the rest of the room erupts in a frenetic swarm. The men are bickering and joking nervously as they rearrange tables and chairs and jostle the three handcuffed men into the center of a knot of soldiers. Eyes still locked on Smith, John stands, and the other seems to be daring him, with a look, to defy his will.
Eva, clutched firmly between the two soldiers who walked her in, is trying to focus, now on Smith, now on John, now on Smith again. John turns and strides toward Eva or toward the exit, and for just a moment there's a crack in Smith's calm. His expression settles back into willed serenity, though, as John, his face gray and damp, his eyes red and wild, takes hold of Eva's arm and pulls her from between the two soldiers.
“No!” she screams, trying to jerk her arm free of John's grip, trying to make eye contact with Smith.
“No!” she screams again, swinging her fist at John's face, thrashing against his grip as she tries to kick him, to knee him, to wrench herself free. Somehow she slips out of his grip, slips past the soldiers, and flings herself against Smith, who rises and catches her in a tight embrace. The soldiers that delivered her to John leap at her, trying to pry her from Smith.
“Stand down!” he barks, startling them with his uncharacteristic heat. “Ssshhh,” he coos in her ear, holding her, petting her, rocking her. “It'll only be John. Just John. After tonight, he'll be your...like a husband. This part will be over soon. Soon.”
Smith's face is a stoic mask, but his eyes are wild and his voice wavers. “John.”
John steps up and helps Smith peel Eva free. Like he dragged her through the orchard up to the gates of the compound John drags her now. Her desperate struggle hardly slows him. Soon he has her at the center of the room, beside two tables that have been pushed together, with a thin, narrow mattress thrown on top. And just as she'd suddenly panicked at the site of the fort, when she looks down and sees the mattress and the way the men are closing their circle around her, Eva's strength seems to triple. She convulses and lurches and even wrenches her arms free of John's hands once, twice. But he seizes her again, more and more brutally, and finally pushes her down onto the mattress and pins her wrists down by her shoulders.
“Eva,” he pants against her cheek, his chest swelling against hers with every breath. “Stop. Stop fighting me. Us struggling, it's just getting them more riled up.”
She squints her lids closed over her dilated eyes. The frenetic din of male voices booms and echoes throughout the hall, built to seat two or three hundred.
“Not Nichols!” Smith's voice cannons into the throng. One of the handcuffed men is dragged from the fray, shoved aside at the edge of the room.
“It'll go faster, easier, if you just let it happen.” Johns voice is cold. Matter-of-fact.
But his eyes are sparking. He wrestles her the rest of the way onto the mattress and in one quick gesture flings the hem of her gown up. She is not wearing anything underneath.
And as if he's severed some connection to her brain she goes soft. No more screams. Pathetic little whimpering noises squeak out of her now. As John mounts the makeshift bed and plants his knees between hers, unzipping his fly, getting out his stiff cock, Eva focuses her bleary gaze on him.
“Please,” she sobs, to just him now, and not the whole room. Not to Smith. “Don't do this. Please don't.”
John catches her two wrists in one hand and pins them over her head, then takes hold of his cock and moves into position.
“No!” she shouts, starting to flail again. “Don't! Don't!” she screams one last time before he clamps his hand over her mouth and thrusts between her thighs.
Her eyes go wide. Tears pool at the edges of bloodshot whites and golden irises and cavernous pupils, then drain away down her temples, then pool up again. He thrusts again. She just sobs quietly into his palm, now, as his hips pump between her legs.
The men are ringed all around them, watching from a few feet away. Some bark at John, “Tits! We wanna see her tits!,” and “Feed her your cock! Make her suck it!” The two prisoners are snagged in a pulling, tearing, gripping mesh of soldiers bending their prey over, kicking them to their knees, ripping at their belts and pants.
John thrusts faster. More urgently. Eva cries quietly under his palm. She's soft and static, now. He grunts, his pumping frenzied, then groans, long and loud, and his body slumps over hers. He keeps his grip on her wrists, keeps his hand clamped down on her mouth while he pants oxygen into his taxed blood stream, then as he lifts himself and locks eyes with her. Then he lets go. Gets off.
Eva just lies there, eyes fixed on the empty space where John was a moment earlier, not trying to cover up. The insides of her thighs are shiny and smeared. She turns her head toward the cluster of ass and mouth raping, and that pathetic whimpering noise starts leaking out of her again. John tugs the hem of her gown down, then, when he's done zipping and buckling up, he scoops her off the mattress and carries her past Smith, whose gaze doesn't shift a single millimeter from the bed, and out of the hall.
Still, quiet, she sags in his arms as he carries her into a building, up some stairs, and into a room. She stays still and quiet as he lays her on a bed, and as he walks away. He comes back with a small towel and sits on the edge of the bed and she stays still.
“I'm just going to get you cleaned up,” he says quietly.
She doesn't move or say anything as he lifts the hem of her gown, or as he parts her legs, or as he wipes the slick mess from her thighs. When he rubs the cloth against her sex she just moans softly. John rises from the bed and rinses out the towel before throwing it into the hamper. Then he returns, tucks her into bed, and gets in beside her. She's pliant as he curls up behind her, spooning her, stroking her hair and murmuring quietly, “It's all right, Eva. You're all right. It's going to be all right.”
When Eva wakes the next morning, John is gone.
CHAPTER TWO
“You drugged her.”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
John is taut, vibrating, as if his rage is about to explode. Smith is lax. Except for his eyes, sharp, alert.
“A glass of wine laced with a bit of tranquilizer and a little mood elevator. Not enough to make her sleep through it, but enough to take the edge off, I hoped. Does she remember anything?”
“I don't know. She was asleep when I left.”
“I know you'll be careful of her, John. Try to help her...adjust.”
“You rigged the draw, too.”
“Yes,” Smith concedes after a few seconds' hesitation. “It was awful to do to you, when you so vehemently opposed this entire arrangement, but I'm sure you understand that I couldn't just let chance decide who'd get her.”
“You could have let Eva decide.”
“John, we've been through this. You know I value your opinion, and I've heard you on this. But this isn't a democracy. I have the dubious responsibility of ensuring that this little den of wolves doesn't tear itself apart. Especially now that she's here.
* * * *
A gentle rapping. Eva snaps to standing. White-knuckled fists clenched at her sides, she stares at the door. There's a sound of deadbolts sliding and clicking back, and the door opens. John stands in the aperture.
“May I come in?”
Her chest heaving, she lifts her chin in defiance. “No.”
For a moment he doesn't move or say anything. Then in a soft voice he says, “,” and shuts the door. The deadbolts slide and click back into place.
She stands there, shaking, staring at the door for a long time, like she can't believe he really accepted her refusal. But he doesn't come back. Not until the following day.
“May I come in?”
“No.”
Longer than the day before, he's quiet and still after her answer. But finally he steps back and starts to close the door.
Fists clenched by her sides, breathing hard, shaking, she says, “Wait.” Then, when he opens the door again and looks at her, she says, “Wait.” Then, “Come in.”
John steps inside and closes the door. When the guard outside locks it, she flinches a little at the click of each deadbolt. Taut and trembling she watches him come nearer, then pull a chair back from the little table by the window.
“Is it all right if I sit down?”
She nods and he sits. She seems to be stretched a little less tightly.
“I came,” he begins, his voice soft, his look direct, “because I have things to tell you. But first, if you have anything—“
“What's going to happen to me?”
Still holding her gaze he pulls in a deep breath and lets it go.
“The other night. You remember the lottery?”
“Why wouldn't I?” she accuses.
“Because Smith drugged you.”
“Why?” Now, on the strength of a single syllable, she sounds enraged. Exasperated.
“To make it easier on you,” he tells her in a flat voice.
Tears are sliding down her cheeks. She seems to be out of questions for the moment.
“We...” He is still meeting her eyes, but the matter-of-fact voice is hitting bumps, now. “We drew lots. For you. Remember?”
She nods, shaking. “Sort of.”
“And I...my tag was drawn. That's why I...” Her jaw muscles flex and her breathing speeds. “It was all decided ahead of time. Long before you turned up. Before I came here. How it would go, if there was ever a woman. Whoever...whatever tag was drawn, that's what the man was supposed to do. I would have spared you that if—”
“What's going to happen to me?” She sounds impatient of his extenuating circumstances.
“You live. Here. With me.”
Pacing back and forth, keeping the little table between them, she breathes hard through a few long minutes of near silence.
“What?” she finally forces through clenched teeth. “Like your concubine?”
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“No one but me is allowed to touch you.”
“So that's the price I pay. For getting to stay here. To live. I'm your whore for the rest of my life?”
“Even if you wanted to leave, to try surviving out there, on your own, Smith, the men, they wouldn't let you go.”
“Why? Why should they keep me here, just for you?”
“None of this is 'for me.'” For the first time in her presence, he sounds angry. He smooths his voice out and goes on with, “I was compelled to take part, the other night, against my wishes. And the only reason I went through with it to the extent that I did was because I...” He takes a deep breath. “Riggs and his boys. Out in the orchard. They aren't the worst here. Not by a lot.”
“If only you get to fuck me, what do they care if I stay or go?”
“Because,” he says, looking seasick, “of the spectacles. Like the other night. And because, if anything happens to me, they'll have another lottery, and someone else will get you.”
Like he might say something more, his mouth opens, but it closes on silence.
Arms crossed over her chest so they rise and fall with her frantic breathing, she stares out the window, across the expanse of compound, toward the perimeter wall beyond which gray sky and the forest treetops are visible. After a long while she turns back to John. He is sitting, very still, hands folded on the table, looking at her. Keeping her eyes on him she pulls back the empty chair. He stays still. She sits down.
“The other night, when you...” her eyes are tearing up and she bites her lip. Tries again. “when you had me pinned down. You didn't. Did you?”
“No.”
“I don't remember much of that night. But the next morning it didn't seem...feel like you had. But it was...my thighs were sticky,” she comes back, her voice full of suspicion.
“I did the least I could. But I had to make the men think it was real. So I,” his eyes shift away and he forces them back to face her. “I rubbed against you until I came. If I'd walked out of there with a hard-on, they would have known. I tried to get you washed up,” he says and she blushes fiercely.
“Why?” she asks, crying now. “Why'd you fake it?”
“Because. I'm not a rapist.”
”And for what you did the other night you risked what?”
“Banishment.”
“Death.”
“Yes.”
“So, what? If I tell you to piss off, you'll just go away and leave me alone?”
“Yes.” She glares at him, challenging him. He says, “But then there'll be another lottery.”
“Not if we lie. Pretend. Like the other night.” Her voice is like an instrument, a probe, to gage him.
“Maybe. We could try. But it'll be hard.”
He looks up toward the ceiling, drawing her gaze up and around the room. There is a camera mounted in each of the four corners.
“The orgy in the mess hall,” he says with palpable distaste, “was a one-time thing. Smith's idea of an emergency pressure release. But we're expected, we'll be forced to provide the men with entertainment.”
Even after everything, this insult seems to stun Eva, and she is shaking.
“That's what I wanted to discuss with you. It's horrible. I know,” he says in a careful voice. “I've argued and argued with Smith—even before you got here. But he's unmovable. I've thought all through this. There are options, but none of them are very savory. We fake it and take the very real chance of getting caught, which for me means exile—so death, probably—and for you means being handed off to one of the other men. And I'm about certain that any other of the men would take full advantage. Except Smith. But he won't take you.
“You’d defy Smith and risk that? Exile?”
“Yes.”
She's gone quiet.
“We could try to get out of here,” he says, “but I expect that would end with me shot and you back in the same situation. Even if we get out, it would seem our chances of survival are about nil. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” she answers in a small, defeated voice.
“Or we can do as we're expected to do, and try to stay human through it all, somehow.” He is looking at her. “If you have an idea I haven't thought of, I'd like to hear it.”
He sounds earnest. She shakes her head. No.
“It's a lot, I know. To take in. Deal with. I'll leave you alone, come back later, and we can talk some more.
"Why did you come? Now I mean? To talk to me?
"You deserve to know. To have a chance to think. To decide. I can't, I mean, I wouldn't decide for you. I did it the other day, when I brought you here. And part of me is sorry I did that. I won't do it again." He sounds more determined than apologetic.
She regards him with cold stoicism.
“I should go,” he says.
“Wait.”
He waits.
Visibly bracing herself, she says, “After the lottery. While you had me...while I was on the table. And after. I think I saw. The two who tried to rape me in the orchard. What was happening to them?” she finally gets it all out.
“It's the punishment now, for rape. Or attempted rape.”
“Smith let the men...”
“Ordered them to.”
She looks like she might vomit. “Did you?”
“No. Not me. Not Jake.”
“You said 'now.'”
“What happened with you, in the orchard. That wasn't the first time.”
“Oh.” Her voice is small, broken.
"I'm sorry,” he says. “I have to get back to work. If I'm late, the others will have to work late with me tonight."
She is wearing another sheer negligee. These garments, left behind by the dead wife of a dead general, are all she has been given; there are no other clothes in the room. John has a bag. He hands it to her. Inside are military-issue pants, a t-shirt, and underwear.
* * * *
Toward the end of the morning shift, as he hacks into stubborn earth with his spade, John stops and straightens as Smith's aid comes toward him.
"Smith wants to speak with you." Quenlin speaks curtly to the man panting, sweating, towering over him.
"Sure." John sounds guarded. "I'll see him before dinner."
"He wants you now."
John stares a moment at the clerk before finally answering. "All right."
They go together. Smith is sitting at his desk, and coolly regards John as he enters.
“Sit down, John.” To the aid, “Shut my door, Quenlin.” Then, in a quiet voice, “What are you playing at, John?”
John sits silently, his voice and face quiet.
“We had an agreement. I thought you understood the risk I was taking for the sake of my magnanimous impulse.”
Smith leans across his desk, and whispers, “I rigged that lottery so you would get her, because I was convinced that leaving her fate to chance, condemning her to the clutches of any one of those brutes, was inhuman. And it eased my conscience to think that I could maintain order here without completely sacrificing the girl, knowing that you would treat her decently. But you know, you know damn well that if the men realize you haven’t consummated your union…”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t fuck me around, John.”
“What makes you think I didn’t do it?”
Smith brings forth a small cassette. “From the security system,” he says, then pops the tape into a player on the credenza behind his desk and hits a button. There's a small clicking sound as the internal mechanisms go into motion, then a faint hiss of tape noise.
Then, “The other night, when you...when you had me pinned down. You didn't. Did you?”
“No.”
John's and Eva's voices squeak and hiss into the room on ancient media.
“I did the least I could. But I had to make the men think it was real...”
Smith taps the button again and the clicking and hissing and unintended confessions end.
“You said the cameras were off. That you're not spying on her every fucking second.”
“Yes, well. I meant it. But after we spoke, it occurred to me I'd better keep the room monitored. Not for prurient reasons, but to ensure neither of you do anything foolish, putting yourselves, or each other, in unnecessary danger.”
“Smith, you are a master of rationalization. Your self delusion—“
“What if she tries to kill herself?”
John is silent.
“Now listen to me, John. I was happy with the arrangement we’d made. I still think it can work. Of everyone here, after me, the men fear and trust you. She’s safer with you than with anyone, and her safety is the safety, the future of the community. But the men have to believe. We can’t jeopardize everything because you’re afraid to pop some girl’s cherry.”
“Don’t trivialize it. I caught that poor girl out in the woods and dragged her in here like some fucking POW. What I’m afraid of is raping her.” John’s chest is heaving. “I’m a fucking coward. I should have just let her go while I had the chance.”
“John, she would have died out there. Who knows how she survived for so long, but you saw how weak she was with exhaustion and hunger.”
“Maybe she’d have been better off.”
“It’s for the survival of the group, John. Maybe even the survival of the species.”
“Smith, all I’m asking for is time. Time to let her know me. Like me a little. Fear me less.”
“No. It’s too big a risk. Now listen carefully. The poor girl has been through hell. And despite my precautions, and yours, I'm sure the other night was traumatic. So I'll give her a little time. But the night after tomorrow I intend to give the men a show, via the cameras. If you don’t do it, really do it, I’ll make a new arrangement.”
John is glaring. His fury is a frightening sight. Smith is cool and firm.
“When the monitors come on, I want her stripped naked; I want the men to see your hands on her, your mouth on her. I want them to see penetration. You understand? Give them the real thing, not the R rated version.”
CHAPTER THREE
By now Eva understands that 'her room' is a prison cell. Locked and guarded. The glass removed from the windows, replaced with heavy wire screening. When it's cold she has to close the shutters. Opening closets and cupboards and drawers, she has failed to turn up anything sharp, or even a glass that could be shattered. Nothing she could use to defend herself. Or hurt herself.
As he has before, when John comes to Eva, he asks permission before he enters. The same guard gives John the same look as he knocks. He hesitates before putting key to lock and slowly opening the door. He steps through and closes the door softly behind him and the deadbolts slide into their locks.
“In the orchard,” is how she greets him, “when you beat those men off of me, I watched you look at me, look at them. I saw that you were considering something. At the time,” her voice goes hard, “I thought you were about to rape me, that them watching stopped you. But that wasn’t it. What were you deciding?”
“Whether I could let you go.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“It was just a few seconds. A lot of thoughts went through my head. I don’t know what made me decide. I thought you would die out there if I let you go. I thought if the men saw me let you go that I’d be turned out. And I thought…I thought…”
“What?”
“That maybe you were the last chance for a new beginning.” The implications of that statement echo off the walls. “I promise you, Eva, I won't ever do that again. Choose for you.”
“I think I know. What I want to do.” She draws a breath. “When...”
“Night after tomorrow.”
“If I...if we...I’m scared. I don't want to get pregnant. Is there something we can do? Do you have anything?” John stays silent. Eva looks at him. He still doesn't say anything. “What?” she presses.
“Smith didn't tell you.”
”What?”
John takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a huff. Then he speaks very softly, very gravely. “We have six months. If you’re not pregnant in six months, Smith will hold another lottery.”
Pale, silent, shaking, she hovers there, just looking at him. Finally she speaks.
“Next, I suppose, someone will tell me you’ve all decided to harvest my organs. That it’s for the good of the community.”
“I’ll go along with you, Eva, if you want to avoid it. I can manage it, I think. But I’d like you to listen to the reasoning.”
“An excerpt from Smith’s manifesto on post-apocalyptic communal living?”
“I know his zealotry is hard to take. But if he weren’t here the men would become a mob. At least this way there’s hope.”
“Hope for what?”
“That we’ll survive. And now that you’re here…”
“What? We can people the earth with a fresh strain of humanity, born here in this militarized Eden?”
“Don’t you want us to survive? As a species?”
“Why?”
“Why?” He sounds as though her question has hurt him. But then he comes back, his voice soft and quiet again. “If we do this thing, two nights from now, and after, it’s up to you. There aren’t any condoms—I’ve looked. But I can be careful not to,” he draws a breath with obvious effort, visibly steels himself, “not to come inside of you.”
A little tremor ripples over her. Her jaw flexes and her mouth goes tense.
“Come back tomorrow sometime. Not when you’ll have to be back to work.”
“All right.”
* * * *
She is standing by the escape-proof, suicide-proof window, almost in the same spot where he'd found her the previous afternoon. Now the evening sun paints her nightgown a dusky orange. She stiffens before his eyes, shaking visibly, her already red eyes glistening with fresh tears. Her symptoms seem to pass to him, his body begins to tremble, his eyes grow pink and shimmery.
Slowly, very slowly, he begins to move toward her. She doesn't step back, though maybe her rigid body stiffens even more, maybe her panicked breath quickens. He takes another tentative step or two, until he is near enough to whisper and be heard.
"You didn't have to wear that."
"I thought…" she tries and gives up on a smile, "…if I wore this, you wouldn't have to ask what I'd decided. This way, I don't have to say it." He gives her a sad smile. She looks away, out the window. “I don't know how to do this,” she says, looking out the window.
“How to do what?” he asks cautiously.
She looks at him. Her body is rigid.
“I can't say it.”
Her eyes are bright and wet and her chin is quivery.
“We have time,” he says in his low, soft voice. “For this evening, for tonight, we can just get used to each other. You can get used to me...getting close.” his statements come out as questions.
“I don't want...”
“What, Eva?”
“When they're all watching, I don't want it to be the first time.”
He comes close. She is still, for the most part, but flinches away a little when he moves his hand like he might touch her. “You're afraid of me.”
She doesn't deny it.
“I'll be gentle with you,” he says, then laughs. “God, what a line. I don't mean...that. I mean always. We encountered each other under some crazy circumstances. But, believe it or not, I'm basically a gentle person. I wasn't stomping around with a blackjack two years ago. And I don't enjoy doing it now. I don't expect you to trust me. The things I say. Or to deal fairly with you. Not until you've had time to see. To know me. For now, I'll just do my best to make this easier on you. And you can tell me, any time, the best way for me to do that.”
“I think...”
He waits patiently until she starts again.
“I can't get out of my head, for even a second, what's going to happen. So please, let's just start it.”
He reaches forward a few inches and touches her hand with just his index finger, and she sucks in her breath audibly.
“Have you had a lot of lovers?” she blurts out in a shaky voice.
“A few. Not so many,” he answers quietly.
“How old are you?” she asks next, putting off what she asked to begin. The tip of John's index finger is slowly exploring the contours of her hand.
“Twenty nine.” She nods her head. “You're sixteen,” he says, his voice a little sad. “Smith told me.”
”No,” she says after a few seconds. “I told him that, I thought maybe if he thought I was that young, he wouldn't... I'm eighteen.”
John nods, looking relieved. Grateful. “It's kind of you to tell me that.” She doesn't smile or say anything. “Can I ask you something, Eva? Something personal?”
“Okay.”
“Have you had sex before?”
“Please,” she says like he's the dumbest person alive. “I was in fucking tenth grade when the world dried up.”
Her chin dimples and her eyes go bright and wet. Tentatively he touches her shoulder, then draws her to him. Puts his arms around her. She stays stiff at first. Then she softens, presses herself against him. In the circle of his arms, her body heaves with silent sobs.
“I'm sorry. It's bad enough, the whole situation. But I'm sorry this is how your first time has to go.”
“It's not such a big deal,” she says with a forced smile he can't see, and a sour laugh. “Nothing adolescent girls haven't been going through for centuries, right? Being given to complete strangers. Just a little virgin bride syndrome.”
She lets him hold her for another minute or so, then breaks out of the circle of his arms. She wipes at her tears with the back of her hand.
“Really. John,” she tries using his name. “I can't take this. Chatting and hugging, knowing what has to happen. So I'll quit weeping. And you...”
He gives her a small smile of understanding. “All right, Eva.”
Then he moves closer.
"I know it's a small thing, compared with…everything else,” he says. “But…we can do this however you want."
She doesn't laugh. Or yell.
Very slowly he moves close to her, brings his hands lightly to her shoulders. He looks at her a moment, then leans in, kisses her hair, just above her ear. He pulls back, gazes at her before he places one soft kiss at her temple. Then her cheek. Then, just at the corner of her mouth. Then, one small, uncertain kiss on the lips.
"Would you rather I not kiss you?" he whispers at her ear, then draws back to hear or see her reply. She stays still. Quiet. He draws his hands in from her shoulders, to her neck, gently cradles her jaw. He gives her soft warm mouth a soft warm kiss. "I promise, I'm not assuming…but I can't guess what you want. I'll just…do it this way, my way, unless you tell me differently.”
“Okay,” she manages, sounding low on air.
Slow, slow, he moves in again, brings his mouth to hers, barely brushing his lips over hers, then pressing them more warmly, until she brings a hand up and curves it at the back of his arm, holding him near. Little by little he makes his kiss more ardent, touching her only innocently—trailing fingertips through hair, tracing her jaw with his thumb as he draws her bottom lip between his, lets it go, then sucks it gently in again, then finally, tentatively, lets the tip of his tongue gloss the pretty, curving underside of her top lip, then her bottom lip, then teases its way into her mouth.