savages

Savages

I had an insipid throb in my head, the one that makes its appearance just before the full onset of the inevitable hangover. My senses were dulled by the thought of the impending nausea and the regurgitations that would have to be crossed before I could turn the corner toward the promised land of sensory equilibrium. I could picture the yellow-green bile in my head and the vision served only to hasten the reflux.

“Never again”, I mumbled as I walked, nay stumbled, naked toward to the toilet. The reassuring cold of the porcelain made for an unlikely ally in the battle that raged inside me. It, and the tiles, cooled my sweats and gave me hope that I would recover; that this was just a drunkard's phase, and that by evening I 'd be ready to do it all again. The reality check came in the form of half digested curry and some nameless foodstuffs that I have no recollection of having eaten anyway. Perhaps more pertinently, I had no desire to recall how they came to be in my stomach which by this stage was spinning like the waltzers that had once adorned the garishly lighted funfairs of the last century.

The curry couldn't have caused this, could it? It was made with the best cuts of meat; only the breast and thigh had been used, De la Croix had assured me of this. It was he who encouraged me, saying that the rewards far outweighed the risks. “You' ll feel amazing,” he told me with great certainty. His Gallic countenance had persuaded me to try again. So I did. De la Croix didn't so much request as order, even if he did make you think that it was your choice; all part of his vicious charm.

The last time had been just over a year ago and the memory of the cold sweats from then rushed back like a runaway train. Despite The Cook's obvious talent, the bottom-line was that meat in this part of the world had a distinctive toughness to it and no manner of spice or herb could cure this coarseness.

You must understand for someone of my ilk, this was a salvation that I had to attempt. The trigger-happy goons of the Greater War had created nuclear fallout from their indiscriminate bombings that had left Europe pockmarked and lifeless. The residue of the bombings had wasted no time in traversing the Atlantic before covering the East coast with an angry cloud of radiation, the impact of which resulted in the New Order decreeing a no-one out policy with only one exception: pregnant women. The world to the West was being rebuilt, the rumours had spread to us that there were new buildings, government, law and order and family life. On the East coast things were different, things were how we were told they were to be. It was a lawless and hellish world. I longed for a life in the West and the only way out was to get pregnant and get to a New Order command post and prove I was with child.

The slight complication that greeted this want and opportunity for personal emancipation was that the radiation cloud created by the leaders of this once great nation had left almost all who slumber under her infertile, and for all I knew, that included me.

What I did know was that De la Croix was already getting bored with me. He controlled this irradiated, corner of New Jersey. It was his. We were his. He already had a new plaything in tow and I could see him fawning over her the way he did with me in the early days. Back in my pomp I was gorgeous and whilst I was still pretty, I was ageing and more importantly the alarm on my biological clock was not far from sounding. The differences between how she looked and how she came into his court and favour, versus my arrival, were as stark as they were worrying. I remember only too well the fate that befell my predecessor and it seemed I was heading toward the perishable goods category in double-quick time.

De la Croix was an opportunist and by luck had arrived here just prior to the onset of the conflict that had left half the planet lifeless and uninhabitable. He had escaped death by fleeing Europe and had found his fiefdom waiting. He was as unstable as he was merciless. Nothing stood in his way as he set about taking control of most of the land between Atlantic City and Cape May. As if to prove his implacability to any who would dare challenge his authority he would order the severed heads of his enemies' children to be taken on a continual tour of his territory. This chilling demonstration of his rancour served to make potential antagonists think long and hard before taking action. His ruthlessness earned him the justified respect of all in the region. He wanted for nothing, almost.

He craved a child more than anything – his European heritage gave him the desire to create a monarchical legacy here. Despite his French name and lineage, he claimed a direct link to the Habsburgs who had once ruled vast tracts of Southern and Eastern Europe, and he pledged to rebuild their empire, starting in New Jersey. Me? I wanted a child to escape. We had the same needs but wished for different outcomes – and with medical knowledge scarce on the ground it was impossible to do fertility tests. This left De la Croix looking for alternative means to increase his chances of fathering an heir. The alternative came in the form of The Cook, a Jamaican witch doctor who had grown from lowly chef to De la Croix's right hand man.

The curry was meant to work for us, The Cook was sure of it. I couldn't even recall having sex last night and that was not a good omen. I do recall drinking as much brew as I could before going down for dinner, though. It was clear The Cook's curry was a piece of black magic borne of no real substance. There was no way dining on this concoction was going to magic my ovaries into life. In addition, if De la Croix hadn't killed the last competent doctor in this region, then he may have been able to sire an heir. The doctor had been murdered for daring to suggest De la Croix's chances of fathering a child were slim. It was after this act that he started listening to The Cook's stories of the magic of the Caribbean. I had offended The Cook last year by japing his wonder stories of automatic pregnancy based on food, and most likely I was at it again at the sitting last night. With no De la Croix in my room this morning it was a sensible assumption that I had come home alone.

Despite my place in his court, it was a sham existence. I never wanted to be here, I just was. I never wanted him, circumstance pushed me into his arms, a trade between territorial rivals had priced me at one-hundred acres. A red button pressed in a bomb shelter in some mountain complex out West had put invisible walls around my life and restricted me to one where my body and mind existed in entirely different worlds. I was free to think what I wanted. But in the end, I was only free to do what De la Croix demanded.

I had ruminated all day as to what the mistakes of last night may have been. Then, a knock, his knock, one long tap and two short taps, came gently at my door. I glanced out of the bay window in my room which overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. The sea's brilliant blue hue belied the fact that its vast expanse carried no fish, no plankton, no cetaceans or any other animal activity for that matter. The waves crashing ashore were lifeless, yet still awe-inspiring. The serenity of the view was destroyed by the grim reality of the situation. For a second time a knock came at my door, the same rhythm as before only more insistent. I could feel the affection beyond the door but it was outweighed by the distance in the taps, those three gentle taps on oak. I opened the door and standing there, silhouetted against the candles burning in the hallway, were three figures. It was De la Croix, his New Toy and The Cook complete with a malevolent toothy smile that reflected off of his knives. I knew I'd be at dinner again tonight, but would not be dining.