women it’s twenty. We are all dropping like flies.
Seventy years ago science perfected the art of children. There were complete cures for an epidemic known as cancer, a disease that could affect any part of the body and that used to claim millions of lives. Immune system boosts given to the new-generation children eradicated allergies and seasonal ailments, and even protected against sexually contracted viruses. Flawed natural children ceased to be conceived in favor of this new technology. A generation of perfectly engineered embryos assured a healthy, successful population. Most of that generation is still alive, approaching old age gracefully. They are the fearless first generation, practically immortal.
No one could ever have anticipated the horrible aftermath of such a sturdy generation of children. While the first generation did, and still does, thrive, something went wrong with their children, and their children’s children. We, the new generations, are born healthy and strong, perhaps healthier than our parents, but our life span stops at twenty-five for males and twenty for females. For fifty years the world has been in a panic as its children die. The wealthier households refuse to accept defeat. Gatherers make a living collecting potential brides and selling them off to breed new children. The children born into these marriages are experiments. At least that’s what my brother says, and always with disgust in his voice. There was a time when he wanted to learn more about the virus that’s killing us; he would pester our parents with questions nobody could answer. But our parents’ death broke his sense of wonder. My left-brained brother, who once had dreams of saving the world, now laughs at anyone who tries.
But neither of us ever knew for certain what happens after the initial gathering.
Now, it seems, I will find out.
For hours I pace the bedroom in this lacy nightgown. The room is fully furnished, as though it’s been waiting for my arrival. There’s a walk-in closet full of clothes, but I’m only in there long enough to check for an attic door, like my parents’ closet has, though there isn’t one. The dark, polished wood of the dresser matches the dressing table and ottoman; on the wall are generic paintings—a sunset, a beachside picnic. The wallpaper is made up of vertical vines budding roses, and they remind me of the bars of a prison cell. I avoid my reflection in the dressing table mirror, afraid I’ll lose my mind if I see myself in this place.
I try opening the window, but when that proves futile, I take in the view. The sun is just beginning to set in yellows and pinks, and there’s a myriad of flowers in the garden. There are trickling fountains. The grass is mowed into strips of green and deeper green. Closer to the house a hedge sections off an area with an inground pool, unnaturally cerulean. This, I think, is the botanical heaven my mother imagined when she planted lilies in the yard. They would grow healthy and vibrant, thriving despite the wasteland of dirt and dust. The only time flowers bloomed in our neighborhood was when she was alive. Other than my mother’s flowers, there are those wilting carnations that shopkeepers sell in the city, dyed pink and red for Valentine’s Day, along with red roses that always look rubbery or parched in the windows. They, like humanity, are chemical replicas of what they should be.
The boy who brought my lunch mentioned that one of the other girls was taking a walk in the garden, and I wonder if the House Governor is merciful enough to let us go outside freely. I don’t know much about them at all except that they’re all either younger than twenty-five or approaching seventy—the latter being from the first generation, and they’re a rarity. By now, much of the first generation has watched enough of its children die prematurely, and they are unwilling to experiment on yet another generation. They even join the protest rallies, violent riots that leave irreparable damage.
My brother. He would have known immediately that something was wrong when I didn’t come home from work. And I’ve been gone for three days. No doubt he’s beside himself; he warned me about those ominous gray vans that roll slowly through city streets at all hours. But it wasn’t one of those vans that took me at all. I could never have seen this coming.
It’s the thought of my brother, alone in that empty house, that forces me to stop pitying myself. It’s counterproductive. Think. There must be some way to escape. The window clearly isn’t opening. The closet leads to only more clothes. The chute where the boy threw the dirty dishrag is only inches wide. Maybe, if I can win the House Governor’s favor, I’ll be trusted enough to wander the garden alone. From my window the garden looks endless. But there has to be an end somewhere. Maybe I can find an exit by squeezing through a hedge or scaling a fence. Maybe I’ll be one of the public brides, flaunted at televised parties, and there will be an opportunity to slip quietly into the crowd. I have seen so many reluctant brides on television, and I’ve always wondered why the girls don’t run. Maybe the cameras neglect to show the security system that keeps them trapped.
Now, though, I worry that I may never even have a chance to make it to one of those parties. For all I know, it will take years to earn a House Governor’s trust. And in four years, when I turn twenty, I’ll be dead.
I try the doorknob, and to my surprise it isn’t locked. The door creaks open, revealing the hallway.
Somewhere a clock is ticking. There are a few doors lining the walls, mostly closed, with dead bolts. There’s a dead bolt on my door as well, but it’s open.
I tread slowly, my bare feet giving me an advantage because on this rich green carpet I’m practically silent. I pass the doors, listening for sound, signs of life. But the only sound comes from the door at the end of the hallway that’s slightly ajar. There are moans, gasps.
I freeze where I stand. If the House Governor is with one of his wives trying to impregnate her, it would only make things worse for me if I walked in on it. I don’t know what would happen—I’d either be executed or asked to join, probably, and I can’t imagine which would be worse.
But no, the sounds are strictly female, and she’s alone. Cautiously I peek through the slit in the door, then push the door open.
“Who’s there?” the woman murmurs, and this throws her into a rage of coughs.
I step into the room and find that she’s alone on a satin bed. But this room is far more decorated than mine, with pictures of children on the walls, and an open window with a billowing curtain. This room looks lived in, comfortable, and nothing like a prison.
On her nightstand there are pills, vials with droppers, empty and near-empty glasses of colored fluids. She props herself on her elbows and stares at me. Her hair is blond, like mine, but its shade is subdued by her sallow skin. Her eyes are wild. “Who are you?”
“Rhine,” I give my name quietly, because I’m too unnerved to be anything but honest.
“Such a beautiful place,” she says. “Have you seen the pictures?”
She must be delirious, because I don’t understand what she’s saying. “No,” is all I say.
“You didn’t bring me my medicine,” she says, and drifts gracefully back to her sea of pillows with a sigh.
“No,” I say. “Should I get something?” Now it’s clear that she is delirious, and if I can make up an excuse to leave, maybe I can return to my room and she’ll forget I was even here.
“Stay,” she says, and pats the edge of her bed. “I’m so tired of these remedies. Can’t they just let me die?”
Is