Page 9 of Resistant

“So, I’ll have a pimp.”

“Mrs. Evans, I suggest you watch how you choose to associate with me. I have the power to make your transition very easy or very difficult.” She pauses waiting for a response.

I inwardly cringe and determine that I will give her nothing.

“Very well, Mrs. Evans. I will be contacting you soon to get resources allocated to you. And you’ll be starting your new work in the next month or so. I have added credits to your account in the meantime to tide you over until your new work begins. Your children will be under your care until they reach the age of the draft, which varies by child. I’ll need you to fill out these forms and have them ready for my visit next week. If you have any questions, have them ready for us to discuss on my next visit. Your scheduled appointments with me are Wednesdays at 2 pm.”

She sees herself out. After a few moments of shock, I peer out the window and watch as she approaches my neighbor’s house.

Well, at least I have someone to talk to about all this later this evening. I’ll have to be careful, not to get caught out past curfew, but it might be overlooked out here where there is no law enforcement to watch our every move.

I sustain myself and my family on autopilot. I’m unable to accept this new life being forced on us. I remind myself that no decision is still a decision and if I am going to do something drastic,now is the time.

Mrs. Enlightener comes back the following week to collect my forms. She gives me a cell phone and a charger and tells me this phone is protected from EMP pulses. She doesn’t stay long, but she is kind to my sons and promises to return. It will be months before I see her again, and in the meantime, my boys and I will suffer greatly.

I stare at my government-issued phone. Corporate cell towers were appropriated by the New Reform more than a year ago, and my cell phone hasn’t worked since the first EMP pulses.

Only government employees have cell phones with access to those towers. My work app is called “The Mercantile.” A little red dot shows 57 messages over the app button on the home screen. I also have a help app that explains many of the new positions, and resources I could obtain as a Trades Worker. Each worker has the opportunity to advance in the ranks, and as my ratings and credits grow, my rank will rise also.

Bile rises rapidly to my throat, and I suppress the urge to vomit. My best friend, sarcasm, gloats.Oh gee, I have the opportunity to become the ultimate slut as opposed to an ordinary slut.

I don’t open the app messages, but I look around the app. I resolve that this app is a New Reform version of mandatory tinder.

It seems that my profile has already been created, with a picture and general information about my height, weight, hair, and eye color.

I don’t recognize the picture. It’s taken from behind, showing some of my face in profile. I’m wearing jeans and a sleeveless top. It was taken outside, I can see green grass and yellow sunlight reflecting off my hair.When and where the fuck did this picture came from?

As I look further, I have the option to enhance my profile with different photos and can hire a mercantile photographer for anungodlynumber of credits to boost my profile ratings and popularity.

I will be rated by clients, and I will be rated by how many people I can attract to follow my profile. I open a map feature and I see a green dot that shows my location, and blue dots in the region, that show potential client locations. I click on a blue dot and a profile opens on the screen.

So, if I take my family on vacation, I can earn bonus fuck credits from the guy at the gas station in case my burger was too expensive.

I feel sweat break out on my forehead and my stomach revolts. This is beyond deplorable.I can’t do this.

I close the app. My fingers shake as I stare at the red dot and watch as the number of messages climbs from 57 to 70.

I don’t know if those are all new messages or multiple messages from a few individuals. I am too mortified to look.

I retrieve Mrs. Enlightener’s card from my drawer. I have handled it so much that the corners are dog-eared and dirty. Should I call her and pledge my allegiance to the New Reform? What positions could I get if I changed camps? Could I live with myself if I work for the enemy? I need to decide soon, otherwise, we will starve.

I need to talk to my children, especially Nathan. He needs to understand more about how our world is changing and the decision I am about to make.

I wake the next morning with the intent of talking to my neighbors, to see if I can get more information. The news is blaring from the ancient tv that we have moved to the den, and I shout to the boys to turn it down.

“Mama, come here! You need to see this.”

I stare at the TV as people in gas masks are running through cities and trying to escape destruction. A ticker at the bottom of the screen displays warnings for surrounding counties to evacuate.

The radiation plumes are spreading.Have more weapons been detonated by the New Reform?With the unreliable news, I have no idea if any detonations are still happening. We could all get sick in a matter of days.

After the announcement, I live every day with the expectation of fallout coming and having no way to escape it.

I get a message from Mrs. Enlightener saying that all programs have been suspended for at least a month, and everyone should shelter in place.Fucking perfect.

That night I lay in bed hugging my youngest child David to my chest, Lily laying over my feet.Will we wake up tomorrow with radiation poisoning, peeling, bloody and blistering skin as portrayed in old science fiction movies?

The next morning, no one has red skin, and no one is vomiting. I think about my new job, and vomiting sounds like an appropriate thing to do today.

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