XY Revolution

“We’ll take care of him, Freya,” Mum says, leading me outside as Tyler and Dad lift Nate’s wrapped up body onto the back of Dad’s pick-up.

I don’t think I’ve physically reacted yet. We were all up through the remainder of the night, packing up things for my family to make their escape. My parents phoned Nate’s mum and told her he’d had a bit too much to drink and they’d be taking care of him.

My mind has been too busy to really dwell on it. I’ve had to pack up the things I want kept, which are very few, and the things I’m ready to have destroyed. Fortunately, I don’t own many personal possessions besides my clothes. There’s a teddy bear I had, but he’s long since been passed onto Jane, and I know she’ll take care of him.

A beat up old off-roader suddenly roars into the driveway, and a grin spreads across my face. My seventy-six year old gran jumps out, dressed in the gear she wore during the third World War. Her dark eyes are twinkling with mischief, as much as ever, and they’re as sharp as they’ve ever been.

Her hip has been replaced several times, but the old bird shows no signs of slowing down, and I love her to pieces. If there’s anyone I look up to, it’s Gran. She’s probably one of the few women left in the world who can say they own property. I mean she doesn’t technically ‘own’ it, but she may as well for all anyone cares. For the past twenty years, she’s lived in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere. She grows her own vegetables, collects rain water, and farms livestock. She gets electricity somehow, but she’s never told me how she managed that. I assume she’s siphoning it from some poor sucker. Her and Granddad were pretty sneaky, but they definitely had the right idea.

“Where is my girl?!” she bellows and I run over to her.

I managed to change out of my blood-stained dress and into a pair of jeans and a jumper a few hours ago, but I know she wouldn’t care if I’d worn that or a potato-sack covered in manure. Her face is lit up like the sun.

“Freya!” she pulls me into a tight hug, with a grip of steel.

“Hi Gran,” I say and wrap my arms around her small, yet surprisingly sturdy frame.

She’s probably the most muscular woman I’ve ever met, and the way she lives, I expect she might even outlive my parents. That’s something I try not to think about though. Life expectancy is just such a tricky thing when your food supply isn’t guaranteed, or you can’t get decent medical treatment, or you just end up getting shot.

Gran pecks my cheek then tells me, “I’m so proud of you. It wasn’t easy, what you did. And it’s not going to get any easier, what you’re about to do.”

“Thank you,” I mumble. “I’m just sorry this might be the last time I see you.

She leans back then slaps me hard across the face, and glares at me.

“Shut up. You don’t get to talk like that. You’re going to come back with scars, and all the UN’s heads to mount on the wall. Then we’re going to go out in the garden because those tomato vines are becoming a two-lady job.”

I laugh and hug her again.

“Sure thing, Gran. Maybe we can even get some good compost out of the bodies.”

“Mum, Freya!” my mother scolds, “That’s so inappropriate! And you need to start up the car again, Mum. You’re taking Tyler and Sarah now.”

“Alright, alright! Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Gran says with a roll of her eyes and the flick of her wrist, wandering off back to her off-roader.

Mum leaves to go help Jane move things around in Dad’s pick-up so she can actually sit in the back.

“Freya,” Sarah calls, tears in her big eyes.

I smile at the girl not too much older than me and open my arms so she can embrace me. Her protruding belly which was once so enviably and healthily flat sticks into me. It surprises me how hard it is, but I suppose making a baby is more solid than your last big meal.

“You’re so brave. And I know we don’t always get along, but you’re like a sister to me and I know you’re going to be amazing. I’ll just miss you so much!” she says, the tears now streaming down her face and her chest heaving with sobs.

Tyler just pulls her off me and mouths ‘hormones,’ leading her off. It’s bizarre thinking I won’t be there when the baby is born. It seems like I’ve been there for the majority of the relationship and this is a big step. It’s not like you get a new niece or nephew every week.

It depresses me more that I’m crossing my fingers, hoping that the baby will be a boy.



Soon enough, Gran, Ty and Sarah have left, and I’m saying my goodbyes to Mum, Dad and Jane.

Jane doesn’t say much when I hug her; just that she loves me and tells me to come home soon. I tell her that I will as soon as I’ve done what I have to. Mum cries a little and I have to pry her off me so she’ll get in the car.

I pull Dad to the side though and ask him, “Are you sure I’m doing the right thing? The Resistance is dangerous.”

“Freya, living is dangerous. How satisfying is that for you though?” I stay silent. “I don’t think most girls’ dads worry about how their daughter isn’t going to come home one day because she’s been shot for telling some asshole he can’t put his hands on her and breaking his nose.”

“Now you just have to worry that I’m going to get shot for being a rebel,” I reply weakly.

“Is this what you want though, Freya? Because there’s no point in fighting if your heart’s not in it, and if you’re not ready to make the sacrifices. You’re going to have to do things that will make you doubt yourself, question if what you’re doing is right and just, that might compromise your integrity. You have to be prepared for that. It’s not just fighting some enemy with a beating heart and a semi-automatic, it’s also fighting yourself. Can you do that? Do you want to?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you’re doing the right thing.”

So when the pick-up rounds the corner, leaving me behind, I can turn on the home of my childhood and light the match.



The heat is sharp but pleasant on my skin, and I’m down-wind from the smoke. The flaming ruins of my house are something beautiful right now, but I know that if I see the charred remains, I’d probably curl up into a foetal position and never get up again.

Fortunately, I don’t get that opportunity. The wind suddenly starts to swirl and distinctive sound of whirring blades forces me to look up. Sure enough, there’s a black helicopter coming my way. Anyone who’d seen the flames would be shut up in their houses now. A helicopter landing in a suburban street is never a good thing.

But this isn’t the UN and I have no reason to be afraid.

I wait and watch the massive machine touch the broken asphalt, my hair wrapping around my face. A black figure then jumps out and walks up to me, face concealed with a full helmet. There’s a large gun on his back and knives strapped to his belt, and calves. There are probably more weapons on him, but they’re hidden from view.

“Freya Belmont,” he yells over the noise.

I nod. He simply gestures at the helicopter and I climb in, the masked man following closely. We take off immediately, and the door is left open just long enough for me to get one last glimpse at the wreckage of my former life.

He then shuts the door, and tells me, “Welcome to the Resistance.”