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  "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."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  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..."

&nb
sp; 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."