Category: We’ve had enough

The three adolescents from City climbed with some difficulty on the fence and peered at the farmer weeding his garden with a long-handled tool. He paused for a long moment and then acknowledged them with a nod.

“What’s wrong with his face?” Cinda whispered to Teacher Mills, puffing a little.

“That’s sweat,” Teacher Mills said. “Remember the biology lesson? Humans used to have sweat glands that reacted to exertion and heat. Paul, please don’t poke at that thing.”

“This doesn’t feel like plastic,” Minnie said, rubbing the fence with her fingers.

Paul held out a finger. “It’s not, stupid. It’s wood. Look, here’s an insect.”

Minnie shrieked and fell off the fence into the grass. She rolled around a bit, playing up the drama for Paul’s benefit. She knew he had a smash on her. Finally when she’d milked it for all she could, she sat up and wiped her hands on her bulging plastic body suit. “Ew, is this . . . real grass? This place is disgusting.”

“What’s he doing now?” Cinda pointed at the farmer.

Teacher Mills looked up from her tablet. “Farmer Wilson is placing seeds into the ground.”

“Why is he doing that?”

Paul turned on Cinda. “Didn’t you read the lesson? That’s how they used to grow food in the pre-times. Seeds went into holes in the dirt. Then plants came out and people ate them.”

Minnie climbed back onto the fence next to Cinda. “Grossly disgusting,” Minnie murmured. “I hope I don’t end up working in Indigenous Mitigation. I really don’t care to learn about disgusting twenty-first century farming methods.”

“We go where Government puts us, Minnie,” said Teacher Mills. “Government knows best.” She put her tablet in her shoulder bag. “It’s time to walk back to the transport station, where Farmer Ames has a gift for each of you. Wave goodbye to Farmer Wilson.” The children waved to the farmer. He offered a half-wave, mainly for Teacher Mills, and resumed his work.

“Ungrateful indigenous hickster,” Minnie muttered. “His stupid farm would be a wasteland without our patronage.”

“Now, now, let’s remember our upbringing,” Teacher Mills said. “Not everyone is as privileged as you. Now, get walking, come on, move those arms and legs, that’s it, my little butterballs. Your ancestors used to travel by foot all the time. They didn’t have intercellular transport systems.”

“You mean, they . . . walked everywhere?” Cinda said in horror.

Paul pulled her hair fountain as he waddled past her. “We saw it on the vid screen. Thin people walking, looking like almost dead skeletons. And riding big animals with four legs.”

“Horses, those were called,” Teacher Mills said. “We still have some on the farm. Come on, keep moving. Deep breaths, take in the clean fresh country air. Doesn’t it smell sweet?”

Cinda coughed. “I smell something nasty.”

Teacher Mills laughed. “That would be manure from the dairy creatures. Cows, we call them.”

The children screamed and lumbered up the dirt road toward the safe haven of the silver-clad transport station. Teacher Mills followed, laughing. The farmer in the field leaned on his hoe, wiped sweat off his brow with a dirty hand, and watched her go.

The children stood in the transport room, inhaling the familiar chemical odors, panting from the climb up the road. Cinda pointed at a large container made of some strange wickery wood material on the counter. “What is that? That wasn’t there when we arrived.”

“You may each take one home as a souvenir of your field trip to the farm.”

Minnie bent over the container and peered at the round red objects inside. “Ew. Smells funny. What are these things?”

“They are called apples.”

Paul poked one object with a tentative finger. “They don’t look like any apples I’ve ever seen.”

“This is how food used to look, Paul, “Teacher Mills said. “Before it was processed and fed to you in hygienic packets.”

“How do you know all this disgusting information?” Minnie said, backing away from the basket of apples.

“I used to live on a farm,” Teacher Mills said. “I worked the land that belonged to my ancestors before I was conscripted to teach in City Gamma. You might not believe this, but your generation is not so far removed from the land. Only a few decades ago, your ancestors were able to bite into this skin and get at the sweet juicy pulp inside. Like this.” She flashed white teeth at them, hefted a shiny red apple, and bit into it.

Cinda swooned onto the floor. Minnie and Paul dragged her limp body into the transport. The door closed. The machine hummed. The children were gone.

Teacher Mills finished the apple and started another. After a short while, Farmer Wilson joined her. They sat on a bench, dropping apple cores on the tile floor, and discussed ways to destroy the silver gate.

By 2025, women had had enough. The word went out: We are marching on Washington. Buses queued up in cities nationwide. Women of all ages got on, some herding toddlers or carrying infants, some so massively pregnant they had to be helped up the steps by their fellow marchers. Nobody bothered to bring diaper bags. They didn’t expect to be in Washington for long.

The travelers disembarked at the Washington Mall, split into groups, and converged on the various government buildings. They chanted as they went, led by a tall woman with a megaphone. She shouted, and her voice went out over the milling crowds: “You wanted them, we didn’t, now they’re yours.”

Television crews were soon on the scene, weaving around police officers who stood along the fences and curbs, befuddled by so many women and children.

A man with long sideburns and a mustache thrust a microphone in a woman’s face as she bent down to tie her child’s shoelace. “What is happening here, why are you marching on Washington?”

“We’re fed up, is what,” the woman said. She walked away. Her child ran after her.

The reporter talked toward his camera operator as they maneuvered through the crush of irate women and whining children. “Oh, my goodness, it looks like someone is giving birth right on the sidewalk in front of the White House! Well, would you look at that! We’ll have to edit that, for sure. Jeez. That baby just plopped right out! She cut through the cord! Holy crap! And now she’s walking away!”

The reporter ran after the woman who was staggering back toward the line of buses at the curb. “Wait, miss, you left your baby on the sidewalk!”

“You can keep it,” she said. “You wanted it, I didn’t, now it’s yours. Oh, my aching back, I gotta lie down.”

The reporter ran back to the squalling baby. There were other babies now on the sidewalk, screaming and waving tiny arms and legs.

The reporter stopped a woman with two small children in tow. “What is happening here?”

“Listen, we’ve had enough. You didn’t give us the choice to decide, so now it’s your problem. You want them? You take care of them.” She bent down to her kids. “I complied with the law. I birthed you. But I don’t have to keep you. You guys are on your own.” She walked away toward the buses at the curb, leaving her bewildered kids staring after her.

Unattended toddlers and preschoolers were now the majority of the crowd, all crying. The mothers had lined up to board the buses. They were still chanting, “You wanted them, we didn’t, now they’re yours.”

The camera operator panned around the scene, filming police officers trying to soothe howling children and pick up freshly birthed babies and infants from the gutter. The reporter fell to his knees on the grass. Small children swarmed him, trying to get on his lap. He waved at his camera operator. “Bill, don’t film this, cut, cut, jeez!”

Anchors on evening news broadcasts all around the country showed the same horrifying scene, in the street, on the sidewalks, on the White House lawn, on the Capitol steps, a sea of abandoned children being rounded up by National Guard troops, some of whom appeared to recognize their own children among the throng.