A Martha's Tale (Inspired by The Handmaid's Tale)

1

Irene walks down the avenue, past row after row of warehouses with idle shipment trucks docked to them, gravel parking lots, and workers in Econo coveralls. White vapors billow from funnels, perfuming the air with a chemical smell.

She wears a grey wool Econo dress that flows to her ankles. Irene has a squarish face with low cheekbones, dark hair pulled beneath a soft headscarf and umber eyes. Her black boots grind on the gravel as she makes her way through the city's industrial district.

There were many men and few women around, but nobody paid her any mind. She managed to trade Econo clothes at the dry cleaners; it cost her a whole sack of rice, but it was worth it for this. Nobody could tell what she was.

She finds the warehouse with the black lantern painted on its side and stands in the middle of the high loading entrance at the front of a warehouse. A worker with a stubbled chin and bushy brows stares at her.

"Blessed day... I need to speak with your foreman," she tells the man.

"I'm the foreman. Come, follow me."

The foreman has on a black baseball cap, grey coveralls, and heavy steel-toed shoes. He is of average height, slim, with a sizable oval-shaped belly.

They're in a printing warehouse that is full of noisy machines. Massive printers spin rolls of paper and dispense them in heaps. The scent of dust, bundles of pressed paper, and cardboard stifle the air.

The foreman walks with her in his wake. Checking over his shoulder, he smirks when he notices her reading.

Irene reads the propaganda posters, Gilead's credo, analyzing the images beneath the heading. She reads each header hungrily as she walks past them. Gilead needs more soldiers to send to the front.

At the back of the warehouse is the foreman's office. He steps in, pausing at the door for Irene to go in. The room is filthy, with yellowish blinds pulled down over the oversized viewing windows. The man closes the door, waves for her to sit down, and reaches into his chest pocket, taking out a pack of cigarettes. He strikes a match that hisses into a flame, lighting the cigarette between his lips, and sits behind a metal desk with papers neatly organized on its surface.

"Someone told me that you know about the network," she says.

"Who sent you?"

She doesn't say anything. Her eyes shift away from the man to the surface of the desk. He could be an eye, she thinks.

"That isn't important, is it," she finally says.

The foreman takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows smoke between them. "You don't want to answer me, fine."

"I need the network."

He shakes his head. "I left the network," he tells her hastily.

She doesn't need to ask why. She knows why. Gilead was everywhere, listening, working against anyone who tried to outrun it.

"So you won't help me?"

He scoffs. "You just showed up at my work. I don't know who the hell you are or what you want."

"I need a doctor." Irene flared as though it were obvious.

He rubs his stubble, leaning to one side of his chair.

"And are you sick or something," he asks.

She can tell he doesn't think she can get out of Gilead.

"I'm not sick."

He nods, eyeing her as if measuring her resolve.

"There are hospitals. See a doctor at one of them." The foreman was short, and she didn't like it.