Page 3 of Brood (After the End #5)

For the next two days, I go about my normal schedule and hide my distress.

Everyone acts like I’ve scored a huge victory.

Marrying a council chief is nearly unheard of.

If they’re breeders, people marry in their early twenties, and if they’re not, they don’t marry at all.

Thirty-five is the youngest anyone can be chosen for the council.

All my friends and acquaintances assume I should be awed and gratified.

I really do try to appreciate the decision and the sudden rise in status it will afford me.

But Will is sixteen years older than me and a stranger.

Danny is crushed and angry—I try to calm him down so he doesn’t do something stupid and get in trouble—and I can’t help but resent the fact that my long-expected future has been ripped away from me.

Due to nothing more than an ill-timed heart attack.

Three more days, and I would have been safely married to Danny.

On Friday, I work my morning shift, dreading the spousal ceremony scheduled for after lunch. I haven’t spoken a word to Chief Will since the council called me in. I haven’t even seen him except for a few brief glimpses across the room at dinner.

It would have been nice if he’d made an effort to ease the strangeness of the situation by getting to know me, but he doesn’t. And because he makes no attempts to communicate, I’m not comfortable initiating it myself.

After I finish my morning shift, I complete my scheduled hour in the workout room and then go back to my quarters to shower and put on clean clothes. I always change after exercising, and this morning I spilled tomato sauce on my pants, so it’s more necessary than normal.

I brush out my hair and pull it back in the same loose braid I always wear.

There’s nothing else I can do to improve my appearance.

Loose hair isn’t approved of, since it gets in the way and can be a safety hazard.

Everyone—regardless of gender—wears the same soft, loose white trousers and button-up tops.

It’s been that way from the beginning in the Refuge.

These uniform clothes promote cleanliness and equality and help prevent focus on the superficial.

Except in pre-War photos or films, I’ve never seen anyone wear any clothes other than these.

I don’t know why I’m concerned about looking my best anyway. It’s not like Chief Will chose me for his spouse. The only reason his finding me attractive will matter is to expedite arousal, which will aid intercourse so I can get pregnant as soon as possible.

He’s waiting in the council room when I arrive. He doesn’t smile and doesn’t speak, so I don’t either.

The ceremony itself takes no more than five minutes. He and I stand in front of the council. We are asked four questions.

Will you commit to a lifelong partnership?

Will you be physically intimate only with each other?

Will you prioritize having children over all other obligations?

Will you work together for the common good?

We both say yes to all four, and then we sign the official marriage document. And that’s it. The deed is done.

Chief Will acts calm and natural—not nearly as nervous and jittery as me—but he doesn’t look me in the eyes the entire time.

It doesn’t bode well for what’s to come.

* * *

We finish the ceremony with plenty of time for me to make it back to the kitchen at four for my late-afternoon shift. Everyone congratulates me. Acts like I should be thrilled.

I’m afraid I might vomit.

I skip dinner because the sight of any more food will push me over the edge.

Instead, I return to my quarters and pack my meager belongings into a small crate.

I sit on the edge of the bed that’s been mine since I was thirteen and left the school bunk room.

Breathe for several minutes to dispel the nausea.

It will be fine.

Fine.

Life in the Refuge passes in stages. Babies live in the communal nursery, cared for by trained staff.

Children live in the bunk room while they’re in school.

Workers, starting at age thirteen, get their own small rooms unless they’re chosen for a spousal ceremony. This is simply the next stage for me.

It won’t be the same as marrying Danny, but it doesn’t have to be terrible. If Chief Will and I are a better genetic match, then there’s a higher probably of having healthy offspring. That’s what I’ve always wanted, and that life is still available to me.

Surely Chief Will won’t always be as silent and intimidating as he’s been this week.

After all, he probably got thrown into this marriage as abruptly and reluctantly as I did. Plus, he lost Vanessa only a few days ago.

Maybe he’s sad. The Refuge has always discouraged mourning, just like any other excessive emotional expression, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt to lose a spouse.

The idea that he’s grieving helps. Humanizes him. He might not be mean and cold. He might simply be sad. It’s not his fault our genes match better than mine with Danny’s.

I’ve always adapted to the changing requirements of life here. At five I left the nursery to start school. At thirteen I graduated and began a worker’s life. Now I’ll marry. Hopefully get pregnant. Maybe even more than once.

It’s a good life down here. We’re safe and healthy and peaceful when the surface world is not.

I can do this too.

I will do it.

It’s not going to be as awful as I fear.

Chief Will never would have been promoted to the Council of Chiefs if he were a bad man. He must have spent his thirty-seven years following the rules and working hard. Just like me.

Squaring my shoulders, I stand up. Pick up my crate. Leave my small private quarters for the final time.

I walk through three long hallways and turn into the far west wing that houses the council chiefs. His suite is numbered 1010. I stand in front of the control panel until the camera reads my face. The door slides open with a mechanized hiss.

I’m holding my breath as I step inside, but he’s not in the room yet.

These quarters are much larger than mine.

There’s a living area with a couple of lounges and a small table with chairs.

The ceilings are much higher than in regular sleeping quarters.

An archway directly ahead leads into a bedroom with two beds against opposite walls, each neatly made up with crisp white sheets and coverlets.

There’s a white nightstand with three small drawers for personal belongings next to each bed.

A closet to hang up clothes. And the most significant privilege is another door leading to a private bathroom.

He’s got the lighting set to soft white, so I switch it to gold, which makes my hair look closer to blond.

It takes no time at all to unpack my stuff from the crate.

The nightstand on the right is empty, so I stow most of my personal stuff there.

I hang up my pants and shirts in the closet and put my underwear and camisoles in a large empty drawer in the bathroom.

I set the crate on the floor next to my bed.

Then change my mind and put it on top of my nightstand.

Then change my mind again and leave the suite to walk it back to Provisions.

When I return, I jerk to an abrupt stop at the sight of Chief Will across the quarters. He’s standing in between the beds, staring down at the tablet I laid on mine.

“Since that nightstand was empty, I assumed that’s the side I should take. I’m happy to swap if you prefer.”

“No. I’m used to the left side.” His voice is soft. Deep.

“Okay.” I step out of the doorway and let the door slide shut.

Now we’re alone in absolute silence.

We stare at each other across the length of the living area until I rediscover my ability to move. I walk into the bedroom so I’m closer to him.

“Do you need help with more of your stuff?” he finally asks.

“No. I got it all.” I swallow hard, dropping my eyes. “Thank you.”

He makes a wordless grunt that must substitute for a real response.

I can’t seem to stand still. My hands keep moving, clasping together and then clenching at my sides and then clasping again. I don’t like to appear so insecure, so I sit down on the side of my bed.

Without a word, he goes to the bathroom for a few minutes and then returns smelling like soap. He sits down like I am.

Now we stare at each other from our respective beds.

“I’m ready for sex anytime,” I finally blurt out.

His brows lower slightly, and there’s a slight pause before he says gruffly, “Okay.”

Relieved that we can at least get intercourse over with, I start unbuttoning my shirt.

He does the same. He’s not wearing anything under his shirt, so I get a look at his bare chest. It’s a good one. He’s not a huge man, but he’s got broad shoulders and well-developed muscles. There’s dark hair on his chest, a flat belly above the waistband of his white trousers.

I’m wearing a simple white camisole under my shirt, and I keep it on. I stand so I can slide off my pants. Wearing only my camisole and underwear, I lean over to grab my pants from the floor and drape them neatly on top of my shirt on my bed.

When I turn around, he’s watching me. His eyes move up and down my body. My hair is still braided, but a few strands have slipped out. I tuck them behind my ears, hoping I don’t look too sloppy.

I’m taller than most of the other women on this level and quite a few of the men.

My arms and legs are long. My breasts and hips aren’t impressive.

I’ve always been told that curvier is better for having and nursing babies, and last year they increased my allotted daily calories because they thought I was too skinny.

At last month’s physical exam, Dr. Cameron told me I’ve filled out nicely and should be in good shape for pregnancy and breastfeeding.

I’m deeply self-conscious about my body as Chief Will stares, intently focused on me for the first time.

“Take off the top too,” he says.