“What is this place, Hinchcliffe?”
“The solution to a couple of problems,” he replies, giving little away.
“What problems?”
“Regardless of what they turn out to be, we need people to keep having kids. Also, people need food and they have a need to procreate. So here they can fuck and be fucked for food. Sounds like some kind of screwed-up charity drive, eh?”
I’m so taken aback by what I’m hearing that I don’t realize I’ve followed him into the building until we’ve already passed Chandra at the door and gone right inside. The air indoors smells stale. It’s quiet, and Hinchcliffe’s voice echoes off the walls.
“Like it or not, my friend, kids are going to become a valuable commodity. I’m just trying to cover all the bases and keep control of the stock. All that most people are interested in today is staying alive, and they’ll do whatever it takes to achieve that. The women I’ve got here are willing to get pregnant for food, the men are more than willing to try to get them pregnant.”
“So which is it? A brothel or a sperm bank?”
“Both, I suppose!” He laughs, filling the building with his noise. “It’s hardly the love boat, if that’s what you mean, but it does the trick.”
“There are no lines at the door. You’d have thought—”
“Times have changed, mate. We’ve changed. Romance and relationships have gone right out of fashion since we all started killing each other, but people still need to fuck.”
“But where is everyone?”
“I’m being selective. You didn’t know about this place until now, and I tell you more than I tell most people. You have to detach yourself from what used to matter now, Danny. These are business decisions. Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy your work, though!”
“How far have we fallen if sex has just become a business decision?” I ask as we climb a twisting staircase that smells damp. Thin curtains have been draped over the windows, and the faint yellow light comes from infrequently spaced oil lamps.
“Oh come on, don’t get all soft on me,” he groans. “People have been selling sex since year one. You have to face facts, we all do. This is how things have to be for now, and that’s why I’ve been selective with the people I’ve allowed to get involved in this so far. Better that a woman gets pregnant by someone who can still fight than by one of the losers drifting around out there outside the compound. If I started advertising this place there’d be a line of underclass men outside the door twenty-four/seven, desperate to sow their pathetic seed for a quick thrill and a half-decent meal. It’s tough and it’s not fair, but for now this is how it has to be.”
“I don’t think it’s right.”
“To be honest, pal,” he says, stopping at the end of a gloomy landing, “I don’t care. I didn’t bring you here because I wanted your blessing.”
“So why did you bring me?”
“Christ, why do you think?”
“I don’t know … I…”
“You’re not the strongest, Danny, but you’ve got brains, and I know you can fight when you have to. You’ve already fathered one kid like us.”
He grabs my arm and pulls me farther down the corridor.
“But I—”
“You can come here anytime you want,” he tells me, pushing me toward an open door. Light spills across the landing. “The women leave their doors open when they’re ready. Everyone’s a winner here, you know. I give them double rations if they get pregnant, or I would if any of the useless cows had actually managed it.”
My brain’s spinning, struggling to catch up with what’s happening, and my body is numb and unresponsive. I just stand there, staring into the hotel room, remembering the last time I was in a place like this. I remember looking for Lizzie, and I wish she was here today. The memory of her face fills me with pain. Despite everything that happened between us and what we both became, there’s a part of me that still clings to what we used to have and the family we made together. Hinchcliffe shoves me forward again, and I make a desperate, instinctive grab for either side of the door frame, not wanting to go through.
“I’ll see you later, Danny,” he says, taking a few steps back, then standing and watching me. “Enjoy yourself, son.”
I know I’ve got no choice but to do what he says, and I step into the light.
18
INSIDE THE ROOM THERE’S a woman sitting on a double bed with her back to me. I’m fucking terrified. I’d turn and run if it wasn’t for the fact Hinchcliffe’s bound to be waiting around outside. He’ll want to be sure I’ve done what he told me to do.
I can’t do this. I can’t remember the last time I had a sexual thought or desire or felt anything even remotely erotic. I can’t remember masturbating since the war began, or even wanting to. Apart from the occasional, infrequent, involuntary early morning hard-on, the last time I had an erection was probably when I last shared a bed with Liz, just before the Change split us. Does everyone feel like this, or is it just me? I don’t want to share my body with anyone now, much less with someone I don’t know. I don’t want to do this …
The woman on the bed wearily looks back over her shoulder. How many times has she already done this today? Am I the first or the twenty-first?
“You coming in?” she grunts, her voice flat and unemotional. I take another hesitant step forward. “Shut the frigging door, then.”
“Sorry,” I mumble as I turn and push it closed. I lean my head against the door and try to relax or at least hide my nerves. When I finally turn back around I see that the woman has stood up. What does she look like? It’s just an unexpected, instinctive thought. Does it matter? The light’s behind her and I can’t actually see her face from here, can’t make out any details at all, and maybe that’s for the best. I sense her looking me up and down. What’s she thinking? Is she deciding whether or not I’m good enough stock? I start hoping she’s going to reject me, suddenly acutely aware of how I must look to her. Like most people, I rarely wash anymore. I hack at my hair and my beard with scissors and blunt razor blades when I have to. Can’t remember the last time I brushed my teeth … No matter, this isn’t a mating ritual. Like Hinchcliffe said, this is purely functional, and how I look and feel is unimportant—but I still don’t know if I can go through with it …
This horrible, silent standoff continues for what feels like forever, and I’m on the brink of backing out and running when she finally speaks.
“You healthy?”
“Pretty much.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
What should I tell her? That I cough my guts up first thing every morning? That the skin on my back and neck is burned from the bombs? That sometimes there’s blood when I piss? I want to go into graphic detail and do all I can to put her off me, but I don’t.
“I’m okay.”
“You had kids before?”
“Three. You?”
“This isn’t a date. Your kids, what were they?”
“Two boys and a girl.”
“No, what were they?”
“My girl was like us,” I answer, realizing what she was actually asking and forcing myself to block out the faces of my dead children. “The boys were Unchanged.”
She nods and thinks carefully about what I’ve just told her, as if it’s going to make a difference. Then, with a weary sigh of resignation, she undoes the zipper of her baggy trousers and lets them drop down to her ankles in an incredibly unfeminine and asexual movement. She kicks them away, then lies back down on the bed, psyching herself up. The fine detail of her face is still hidden by the shadows, but I can see her a little more clearly now. She seems strangely expressionless, and it’s hard to place her age. Her limbs are bony and long, her muscles taut. Her skin is covered in scratches, cuts, and bruises, and I think for a second about how long Liz used to spend pampering herself each day to look good—using countless creams and lotions, waxing her legs, hunting down every rogue hair with tweezers, razors, or wax … My eyes are involuntarily drawn to the top of this woman’s legs and her unkempt bush of wiry pubic hair. Since everything changed, everybody—male and female, young and old—has become strangely sexless. How we look is unimportant; keeping warm and staying alive is all that matters. Everything’s different now. Back then, before all of this happened, men and women had frustratingly different sexual drives and desires that rarely coincided. Now no one’s bothered. I sense this is as much an ordeal for this woman as it is for me.