Page 11 of Trade
All the while, Meghan was pregnant with his baby—in these times, a true miracle, a gift from God—and she wants to raise the baby in a traditional two-parent family, so I’m out of the quarters I’ve lived in my whole life and in this herd of women.
We’re so valuable that we’re currency.
We’re so worthless, we can be chucked outside.
The men cannot make up their minds what we are. You can see it in the guards. They hold us back, but respectfully.
Amy crowds in beside me, and my heart lifts a little to see a friendly face.
“You panicking?” she asks.
“If you pass out, they just carry you,” Sheila from the Bursar’s Office offers helpfully. She’s crowded at my back.
“Do you want some of this?” Peg Struthers whispers, nodding down at the brownie wrapped in brown paper she’s holding low between us. Despite all the bodies pressed around me, I can smell the marijuana. “It should kick in before they shove you out the doors.”
“Hey, pass me some,” Amy says.
“Hook me up, too,” Sheila whispers.
“Over here.” Dana from Recreation snaps and holds open her palm.
The brownie disappears in a matter of seconds.
“Last chance,” Peg mutters to me. I shake my head.
I’ve never ingested marijuana. How did she even get it? Our yields are rigorously accounted for. Medical needs it for palliative care, and when I trade it, it’s always for materials AP can’t do without.
“Relax, boss lady,” Patsy, one of my techs, says, bumping my shoulder with hers. “For the next half hour or so, the rules don’t apply to you. Punch a guard. Kick him in the balls. Call the Head Administrator a fascist motherfucker. You can do whatever you want, and after the lottery, if you make it back inside, you’ll have a clean slate.”
“Rations and a half for life, too,” Dana says.
“Ifyou make it back,” Peg adds.
Dana frowns at her. “Almost everybody comes back.”
The group falls silent, except for an occasional cough or sob. As we wait, the sharp stench of fear thickens in the air.
“What are we waiting for?” I finally break and ask.
“The Commander has to run his mouth a while, doesn’t he?” Patsy answers.
Oh, yeah. They don’t bring the unmarried women in until after Neil has spoken. Somehow, it’s never the same speech twice, even though he goes on longer and longer every time and always says the same thing.
The people of the bunker were chosen, spared from annihilation, and now it’s our solemn and sacred duty to ensure the continuity of government and the future of mankind. We all must play our part, and no one is more essential to our survival than those called to make the highest act of dedication, our unmarried women whose sacrifice ensures that our children go to bed with full bellies and humanity lives on despite the end of the world.
That’s the cue for the side door to open and for the unmarried women to file into their designated rows at the front of the Assembly Hall, right beneath the dais where the Administration sits.
The cue is different on this side of things. There’s no dénouement, no appeal to save the children. Instead, a red light flashes and an alarm blares three staccato bursts. The door opens. Half of the guards troop through, clearing the way forward. The others flank us on both sides, circling to the back to cut off our escape.
The women draw a collective breath and shuffle forward. As each one passes through the door, they raise a hand and touch the frame for luck. The gray paint has been rubbed away, the metal worn to a shine.
I pass into the Assembly Hall and immediately feel smaller than I’ve ever felt before. The mezzanine rises behind us with its tiers for the different departments and balconies for mothers, specialized occupations like dentists and mainframe repair, and retired bigwigs.
In front of us, on a dais so high we have to crane our necks to see from our wooden flip seats, the heads of department sit with their partners on either side of Neil and Rhonda Jackson.
Meghan sits beside Bennett. Inmyseat. She looks straight ahead into the dusty yellow air that fills the space.
She’s soyoung. She’s clearly trying to act cool and collected, but she has a kid’s nervous tics. She fidgets with her hair or her coverall zipper, then catches herself and tucks her hands under her thighs before her attention drifts and her fingers wander again. She rubs at a spot on the floor with the toe of her sneaker.
