Folsom (End of Men, #1)(3)
The Red Region swallows up Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina—all shadows of their former selves, a quivering collection of reformed territory. We land among the solid red flags, which are whipping angrily in the wind. I remember what Jackal said before I left. He was paranoid. Probably overthinking everything since it was his first Region. There is a fleet of cars waiting when I walk down the gangplank and onto the tarmac—all black with dark windows. The Red Region representatives greet me, five women with long grey hair, their clothes the same deep crimson as the flags. They grasp my hands like they’re truly grateful to have me here. Once a woman is past her childbearing age, she is forced to wear her hair grey, and those with white hair must dye it. It signifies a stage in life when their service to repopulate is over, and their service to the government begins. These women may have a career, and in general, seem much more relaxed than their younger counterparts, who are conditioned to want only one thing from the moment they first bleed. After the introductions, I’m led to an armored car, where my driver nods politely before she opens the door and I slide into silence.
My ride is a peaceful one, even Robin is taken to another car, and I am able to study the landscape without her monotone briefing. I relax, stretching my legs out in front of me. The houses all bear the same red tile roofs, and the colors of their doors vary depending on what branch of service they work in. This is the same for all of the Regions: yellow doors for anyone who works in medicine, blue for the politicians, green for the service workers, white for the elite. We drive down Governor Street in the heart of the city where the people stand crammed on the sidewalk to welcome me and watch the parade. The parade floats—both in front of my car and behind—are phallic in nature, one so tall that five women are suspended from its shaft, wearing nude leotards and waving into the crowd. They throw something at the people, but I can’t tell what. I hear a loud boom and red smoke erupts from the tip of the penis. The people go wild with applause while I flinch in the backseat, a disturbing piece of imagery for any man. The music starts up and I roll my window down so they can see me. Protocol is the same everywhere I go. Let them see you, let them celebrate. Dancers join the parade, flanking both sides of the car. They are naked except for the body paint. When the parade is over, we drive to the End Men compound, a smaller version of what I left this morning. The car pulls up to a security station and the driver shows the guard my papers. She motions for her to roll down the back window and eyes me accordingly, her cheeks turning a bright pink when I stare back. No doubt she wanted to catch a glimpse of me to tell her people later. We are waved through the gate, and the car stops outside of a building with marble arches. My home for the next year.
“Welcome to the Red Region, Folsom.” The governor greets me as I step out of the car. Her name is Pandora Petite, though she is anything but. She is as tall as me, and her shoulders are broad, stretching out the suit she’s wearing. Her grey hair is arranged in an impressive series of arches that rise above her head and look like a crown. I take her outstretched hand and shake, clutching her dry lizard skin against mine.
“Always dry,” she apologizes. “I have a rare skin disorder. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.”
I hadn’t assumed it was. Her excitement as she leads me into the compound is palatable, my staff trailing behind. I give male children; therefore, I am desired, good for a Region. I can see the hope in her eyes, possibly the greed as well. The Regions who produce the most male children are given priority by the Statehouse: more food, more resources, more money. The Red Region is rich in resources and low in luck in producing males from its pregnancies.
A line of women stand behind her smiling politely, clutching their Silverbooks like good worker bees. I ignore them, focusing my attention on Governor Petite.
“We’re excited to have you, Folsom. Your reputation precedes you…” She pauses a moment to take me in, her eyes traveling the distance of my body. Most governors call on me after my sexual duty to the Region is done. It is a running joke among the men that you can’t leave a Region without fucking the governor first: political pussy. Governor Petite will ask for it from behind; she’ll want it hard and fast and will moan like a cow giving birth. I feel myself getting hard as I follow her into the building. Good, that’s good. I need to be ready to fuck. This is a job, one that I’m good at. I touch myself through my pants, running a palm across my erection. My parlor tricks—part of the facade of Folsom is to be enamored with my own fucking dick. They love it. The women we pass look on in fascination. Most of them are of the working class; they’ll never be with a man. Unless they win the lottery. For every week I spend in a Region, two lottery winners are randomly chosen. Two years ago in the Yellow Region, a lottery winner got pregnant from our night together and gave birth to a boy. She is a celebrity now, the face of hope among the common. Governor Petite leads me through a courtyard lined with brightly blooming cherry trees. An elaborate fountain sprays water in the center of the courtyard. When I peer through the spray, I see a man and woman entangled in an embrace, his hand in her hair and her face tilted up toward him. They’re naked. Surprise, surprise. She sees me looking and smirks.
“We like to encourage a general attitude of…”
“Sex?” I offer.
“Productivity.” She smiles.
I shake my head not bothering to conceal my smirk. It is the same everywhere I go.