Folsom (End of Men, #1)(2)

“You can leave!” she calls before shutting the door.

My life is fucking weird.

Women are not stupid. That’s why they outlasted us. While men destroyed each other with hydrogen bombs and wars, Mother Nature took care of the rest, sterilizing what was left of the already dwindling male population. The women who had to bury husbands, and fathers, and sons were already rebuilding, looking for solutions. Already superior in their physical design, their bodies build life with two key ingredients. One they need from us, but give them time and I’m sure they’ll find another way. I live in their world now: the age of women.





TWO





FOLSOM


I get ready to leave the End Men compound, a place they keep us before we’re moved on to a new Region, new women, new pussy. The only other man here is Jackal, and he leaves tomorrow for the west side, an area known as the Green Region—what used to be the Pacific Northwest.

“You out?” he asks, eyeing the duffel at my feet. He’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, holding his dick up while using a razor to shave his balls.

“Yeah,” I say. “You’re going to nick your shit one of these days and bleed to death.”

“Always so negative,” he says without looking at me. “I like to fuck, smooth.”

Jackal is one of the guys who likes this job. Probably the best-looking of the twelve of us, he’s known to hold orgies instead of the one-on-ones most of us prefer. He once got three women pregnant in one night—all female births—he’s yet to father a boy, which despite his looks makes him less in demand than some of us. He suddenly puts down his razor and turns to look at me, an unusually serious expression on his face.

“You’re going to the Red Region?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He nods, still holding his dick, but he looks less cocky now. “Be careful there, man. That place is…” He shakes his head while he searches for the word. “The women are different there.”

My curiosity piques. I haven’t been to Red in seven years. As the oldest of the End Men I consider myself an expert on women, and so far I’ve yet to visit a Region where I’d call them “different.” Most of the women are the same: grateful, horny, accommodating…

“In what way?” I ask.

“I don’t know, man.” He runs his hand through his hair, making it stand up. He won’t look me in the eyes.

“It was my first Region. Maybe I was just too new to know better. They’re cunning there. It’s not just about…sex.”

I zip up my bag and throw it over my shoulder. “What’s it about?”

“Control.”

Our eyes meet for a second before I put on my sunglasses. We are already controlled, it doesn’t matter which Region we go to. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I say. “Good luck.”

He watches me go; I can feel his eyes on my back as I make my way to the elevator. Jackal is a drama queen. We consider it part of his charm.

“Lobby,” I say once the doors are closed. The walls of the elevator are glass, and I watch the ground approach as I run my fingers across the stubble on my cheeks. They keep us high up, the thirty-sixth floor of a skyscraper; we have more security than the President—who is a woman.

“Morning.” Robin meets me in the lobby, Silverbook in hand. We’ve worked together for the last year, though I know very little about her. I suppose she could say the same about me. She’s allowed a government job now that she’s post-menopause. She told me once that there could be a million men in the Regions and she’d still rather fuck a woman. I like that she’s not trying to fuck me. I also like that she keeps her grey hair short when every other woman on the continent has it long. She touches the screen and we look over my schedule together as it hangs in the air in front of us.

“This is the time you should arrive,” she says. “They have a parade to greet you. Do me a favor this time and try to look grateful for it.”

I grunt.

“Tomorrow you have your first two appointments, then a party at the Region’s capital building hosted by the governor, where you will have to select your first two lottery winners.” She pauses to make sure I’m taking all of this in.

“Appointments,” I say, glancing at her. “I wish you’d stop calling them that. I fuck women in their bedrooms.”

She smiles briefly. “Right, well whatever you want to call them—your copulations start at 8 a.m. sharp. You have your pills?”

I pat my bag and my giant bottle of pills rattles.

“I have a supply of them too,” she says. “If you run out, let me know, we can’t have you going limp on the job.” I grimace and she pats me sympathetically on the back. “Ready?”

A car takes us to the airstrip where I board my private jet. My crew is waiting on board: a doctor, a stylist, a massage therapist, a nutritionist, personal security, and Robin. We are given things like private jets and a full staff. The Statehouse is very accommodating for the last virile men on the planet. My jet is black—since I was the first, I got to choose. The other guys are bitter about it; two of them have said they’re waiting for me to die so they can have my color.

“Your coffee.” Robin hands me a cup as I buckle in. I click and sip at the same time. It’s just the way I like it. I’m so bored with that. What does a man have to do to get a bad cup of coffee? Everything is perfect, my whole life orchestrated, spoiled, controlled. I am not this man they’re forcing me to be. In my dreams, I own a cabin in the woods. I fish, and hunt, and everyone leaves me the fuck alone. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at their faces, expectant, waiting for their next instruction. I fall asleep before we take off.