Life, I Suppose

“Get up, Calliope.”

My mother’s voice in my ear is soft and soothing, but it does nothing to calm the anxiety that rises in my chest. I feel her pull away from the side of the bed as she moves to prepare breakfast. I don’t open my eyes, not yet. I am convinced I can keep the day at bay if I just keep my eyes closed a little longer.

It doesn’t work.

The smell of gently frying potatoes makes my stomach growl incessantly and I can’t delay the inevitable any longer.

When I sit down at our rickety table for breakfast, I know that it may be my last. My hunger grows an edge, partway between ravenous because I don’t know when I’ll eat again after today and nauseated because… I don’t know when I’ll eat again.

Today is my testing day.

All girls of Anora must pass the test to become a defender of our precious city. We train for it our entire lives until our class is deemed ready. It’s like a graduation of sorts, into womanhood in a post-apocalyptic hellscape. Boys aren’t allowed to complete the test; we’ve lost too many men already.

My mother makes me eat, watches me carefully as I shovel food into my mouth.

“You’ll need your strength, Callie.” I nod but don’t catch her gaze. She can tell I’m nervous either way and as I sit back, unable to stuff another bite of food into my mouth, she sits down next to me and takes my hands in her own.

She smiles wide, though crooked because of the scar that runs along the length of her face, from temple to jawline and down her chest, a souvenir from her own testing day. I smile back, squeezing her hands even as anxiety rolls over me like a wave.

“You’re going to be brilliant, Calliope.” She says, still smiling at me.

“I’m going to try,” I reply, my eyes flitting away from hers.

“I know you are going to do well.” She leans back a little, dropping my hands.

I look up just as she unhooks the heart-shaped locket from her neck and slips it around mine. I look down at the heart as it settles against my chest, warm from her own skin, now sharing heat with mine.

She brushes her hand over my chin as she looks at me, taking in my face hungrily. She knows I might not be the same when I return, and when she walks me to the square later, she holds my hand tightly one last time.

“Warriors of Anora!” The barking voice commands a roar from the crowd.

Vera. She commands attention just by standing over us, examining the girls in a line with a critical eye. Her deep mahogany skin glows beneath the fading sun, rich and warm against her obsidian curls that she’d slicked back into a utilitarian bun.

I stand in a straight line down in the square with the other girls, each of us trying to be as fearsome as possible. I don’t even check who is to my left or my right. I am too focused on the gate ahead.

Vera peers at us, eyeing us carefully as we try our best to look brave and fierce. I hope my fear doesn’t bleed onto my face.

The air is electrified, all our nerves are bundled together, and she smiles as if she can sense our anxiety as well as our excitement. I long to reach up and brush my fingers over the heart-shaped locket where sits in the hollow of my throat, just to calm myself down but I don’t move. Stock still, I and my fellows wait patiently.

“Your trial is here. Your fight is here. Now is the time to prove yourselves worthy of the title of defender.” Vera’s voice booms over across the hushed crowd.

I have been preparing for this moment for years and still, the breath steals out of me as she speaks. Failure usually results in death; you don’t come back. Unlike any other girl alongside me, I come from a failed warrior. My mother came running back, wounded and weeping, empty-handed.

I am my mother’s child, and her legacy breathes doubt and shame over my shoulder.

Vera stomps her foot on the rampart and the other women join in. Soon, a beat is stomped out along the walls, and the entire crowd joins in around us. Women begin an undulating cry, one that echoes through my bones. Everyone chants and stomps and I start to breathe along with the rhythm.

Vera raises her hand, and the noise heightens to a frantic pace. The gates open slowly and beside me, and each of us jostles for position. We are runners at the gate, and we are ready to prove ourselves.

I brush my fingers over the locket at my neck. It is still warm, and it feels as though it has a heartbeat of its own. My fingers wrap around it and squeeze for strength as Vera lowers her hand, and we take off.

All the frantic, frenetic sound of our tight-knit colony fades as we are thrust into no man’s land. Beyond the walls of our sanctuary, the land is wild and dangerous.

Greeted by rusted-out cars, abandoned buildings, all overrun with sand dunes for as far as the eye can see. Dotted with scrubby bushes and the occasional broken road sign or billboard, far off in the distance, the empty land stretches endlessly.

We run in different directions, scattering into the wind. I think how much easier it would be to accomplish this task if we worked together, even as I peel off on my own, headed straight down the road.

I keep running until I hit a landmark, just before the sun sets. The rusted facade of the old gas station peels from itself as paint and concrete chip away. Weeds grow rampant along the sides and front. The roof sags, its metal frame still somehow holding up against the encroaching nature.

Graffiti mars the outside, dreary, weathered color against the drab and dirty exterior of the building. The boards covering the windows swell with age and wear. Dry, brittle vines and shrubs clog the long-emptied pumps. I cautiously make my way into the main store.

The ring of a bell strung above an entryway makes me pause. I glance up, narrowing my gaze as I shut the door quietly behind him, causing the bell to softly jingle again.

I’ve never been inside a gas station that I can remember. Ivy, grass, and dirt cover the shelves. Where there must have been food and other items, plant life thrives, though bits of plastic, metal, and debris from the crumbling building remains as a testament to mankind’s existence.

I walk gingerly, surveying the area with a keen eye. As I pass by a shelf, I reach out to graze a finger along a dirty, dusty tin can. The label blares in blue and yellow: “TUNA”. I have no clue what it is, beyond food. So, I pocket it.

I know I can’t stay here. I don’t trust it not to be crawling with ravagers at some point. Plus, this is too obvious of a place. What we seek wouldn’t be hidden here anyway.

Ravagers are vile, vicious creatures. They take what they want, and they don’t care what they must do to get it. We’ve lost many people to their attacks in the dead of night. They are barely humans. They are what remains of lost civilizations. Some even say they’re cannibals.

A jingle at the doorway startles me, but I duck down to a crouch, thankful for the alert bell. I sneak quietly along the shelf at the back of the store.

What I see sends a shockwave through me.

A woman, wild, bloodied, and dirty, slumps to the ground. I sneak closer, hearing her let out a low, guttural groan. I am fascinated by her massive, pregnant belly.

Her legs splay open and her hands curl into fists at her side. She is a grey, sweaty mess. She lets out a loud scream and I approach her swiftly, unwilling to let her put me in danger, but I also don’t want to see her in pain.

But what can I do? She pants, out of breath and weary. She opens her mouth to speak but no words come. Her bedraggled dress pulls up around her waist and she curls around another contraction, a gush of blood before I realize that she’s in labor.

Nausea steals over me, and I sit back on my heels, wholly unprepared. I look around for something, anything to help her but as the pool of blood grows around her legs, I know there’s nothing I can do.

Suddenly, her eyes are locked on mine. She reaches up, hand searching for mine. Mouthing wordlessly. She doesn’t need to speak for me to understand.

Warm, wet blood stains my hands as I push her knees apart. Our eyes meet again as she groans at another contraction. More bloody fluid gushes out from her.

“It’s okay.”

It’s all I can muster before she sits halfway up and screams.

Her baby slides from her limp, floppy, so bloody and blue. I barely manage to catch the silent little thing but it—she slides into my hands soundlessly. The woman falls backward, gasping for air and muttering nonsensical words. I look down at the baby, frozen.

I’ve seen babies born before in the village. I wipe at her face and nose as my breath comes in hitching gasps. The more I wipe, the more fluid comes away from her nose and mouth.

The woman still murmurs deliriously on the floor. Thinking instinctively, I rub the baby’s chest gently at first and then harder. The baby twitches and makes a soft mewling sound and I can’s stifle the gasp that comes from my lips. I coax life from her lungs and suddenly, brilliantly, the baby wails.

A sudden gush of blood soaks my knees, warm and too much. I know it is too much. The woman groans as a torrent of blood flows.

I fall back, wailing baby clutched to my chest. I look down at her baby, this little girl so new and pinking up now.

I scoot over to her mother’s chest and place her gently there. Her mother’s lips move wordlessly, but I place her arms around her baby and they stay there. The baby nuzzles into her.

“What do I do?” I ask the woman who cannot respond.

Tears sting my eyes, and I know this isn’t what was supposed to happen. The darkness envelopes us as she mutters to me. I shake my head and her hand flutters. I lean in close, trying to listen to her whispered words.

“Marlene.”

I meet her eyes long enough to understand before her eyes roll back into her head and I watch her slump, lifeless.

I close my eyes, grounding myself. I take a deep breath and stand up, crouching only to pull the baby to my chest. I rip her mother’s dress to make a makeshift sling.

A haunting cry tears through the darkness outside and I flick my gaze towards the outside of the store.

------------------------------------------------------

When I arrive back at the village, I cradle Marlene to me.

“What have you brought back?” Vera demands of me. Wearily, I hold out the baby.

“Life, I suppose.”