Natural Enemies

Chapter 1 - Selection

The first thing Maud noticed about Leo Caprisky’s mansion was that it had no stairs. Not a single one. Just a single floor of vast, lavishly furnished rooms and wide, sprawling hallways letting out in the back into a magnificent garden with an outdoor amphitheater, complete with misters and immaculately shined, stainless steel fans mounted on each pillar even in the northern chill of the outskirts of Blackwater City. The architecture itself was inangular, shimmering with colored glass in almost biological curves, like something that had been grown, rather than designed. It was a strange place to call home–then again, a man like Leo probably had several estates to his name, one for each mood that struck him.

And for some reason, she’d been invited to party with him and his cabal of business big-wigs.

Between glasses of champagne, she adjusted the hem of her dark emerald gown. Like everything she wore in public these days, it was from Florid’s ‘Couture’ line, and everything about it, from the color to the pattern of the up-and-down, zig-zagging black stripes, to the cinch at her natural waist, was deliberately designed to make her look slimmer. She reached for an oyster off a passing waiter’s tray, wishing, as she slurped it down, that she could enjoy it more–as it was, she was praying she wouldn’t pop a seam and cause a public scene that’d have her press team blowing up her voicemails for a week.

The other guests were exactly who you’d expect: manicured socialites, decked out in all their eccentric finery, with teeth too white and voices too loud, gliding between curated conversations about solar tech, exclusive stem-cell spas, and market disruption. Maud shook hands with tech bros, art influencers, one woman who swore she was a scent designer for air fresheners that subconsciously increased consumer spending in departmentment stores, and a plastic surgeon who complimented her facial structure like he was appraising a luxury timeshare.

“Maud!” She looked up at the sound of her name from across the garden, and there he was, coming straight toward her: Leo Caprisky, boy-king of the Internet, CEO and founder of Mybrid, and the man of the hour, with cameramen tailing him like obedient puppies. She put on her photo-op smile, the one that played nice, the one that paid rent, and met him halfway. His slender hand took hers in a crisp, over-eager shake with a disarming amount of squeeze behind it. “How does it feel to be the face of the future?”

“Please. I’m the face of Florid,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “D’you know they only have their own storefronts because the parent brand doesn’t wanna be caught dead selling upwards of size 16?”

“Well, you know what they say about one small step for man,” said Leo, dropping his voice in turn.

“You jumpin’ in the space race now?”

“There’ve been talks,” he replied. “Rather firm handshake for a girl. It’s refreshing.”

“Not a bad one yourself, for such a little guy,” she said. Any louder, and it could have been considered retaliation. His other hand settled casually on her lower back. The smile stayed on her face, but her voice only grew colder. “You’re one of them chubby chasers, huh?” she said. So were his business contacts, probably. More than a few of the men and women in his inner circle had rather heavyset partners on their arms. And not Florid Couture heavyset–heavy enough to need everything custom-tailored. Caprisky’s own sister, who drank too much and stumbled a little too precariously in her heels, was either married to or dating the most enormous man Maud had ever seen–cut from the same cloth, she supposed. “Just so you know, the fact that I get unwantedly groped less than the skinny-minis in the Slim and Fitch catalog don’t mean it’s a compliment when it happens. So don’t get off thinking I oughta feel lucky or nothing.”

Leo stiffened, blinked again, and to his credit, removed his hand. “You’re right, Miss LaBelle. So sorry,” he said, offering a sheepish grin.

“Damn straight.” If she felt out-of-place before, her confidence was now blooming after successfully telling off the ‘gracious’ host. She tipped her champagne toward him, then melted back into the crowd.

A few minutes later, she noticed a waiter standing corpse-still by the bar, a tray trembling upon his flattened palm with only two flutes of champagne left. He looked young. Nervous. Probably underpaid and micromanaged.

“Hey,” she said gently, taking both glasses off the tray. “Give your arm a break, yeah? Least until they reload ya.”

His eyes filled with gratitude. She turned away, holding the second glass aloft.

“Want one?” she offered the man beside her.

He looked down at it like it was a snake. “Are you TRYING to kill me?”

***

“Whoa there, partner!” snapped Maud LaBelle, who Mark Klein happened to hold personally responsible for the slow death of health-consciousness.

Maud, with her big brown beauty-queen curls that wouldn’t make her look any smaller no matter how stiff her stylists sprayed them.

Maud, whose pictures in the magazines encouraged every deluded fat girl in the country into thinking they were as good as royalty.

“I was just trying to be friendly!”

“Well, I don’t drink any sugar,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or, for that matter, alcohol.”

“Well, if you don’t drink, then what’n tarnation are you doing here?”

“Hoping to grow my brand on Mybrid. In numbers, I mean, not…whatever it is you’re doing.” He handed her his business card, bearing his multiple web addresses.

Mark TheMindCleanse: juicing evangelist, biohacker, and perhaps most famously, the guy who’d gone viral last year for getting his entire following not to believe in dinner anymore.

“Never heard of you,” said Maud, and it was nothing short of infuriating.

“That’s so funny, because I HAVE heard of you. You’re a plus-size model.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m a model. The ‘plus-size’ part’s only a problem if you think it is. Although, I do gotta admit, sometimes it’s a problem.”

“So you DO feel guilty about promoting obesity?”

Maud sipped her champagne, rolling her eyes. “Funny. Most of my work is about making fat people LESS visible.” The way she threw the F-word around so nonchalantly…it was enough to make him flinch. If he had accepted that drink from her, he’d have spilled it all over himself. Had she no shame?

“They shove me into two tons of shapewear. They photoshop THESE to pieces…” She gave the outside of one thigh a pinch between her index finger and thumb. “And they edit THIS clean off me.” She stroked the bottom of her belly like she actually liked it. “They do my lighting to make me look like a ghost. I’m not ‘promoting’ anything I’d actually want to. I’m lying to women about what I look like, and telling them they’ll look like me if they buy all this over-priced crap, all with a corporate gun to my head. But hey. It keeps the lights on.”

“Sounds like you’re making excuses,” Mark said. “You’ve got a pretty face. If you followed the food rules on my channel, you could finally lose all that stubborn weight and be a real model.”

Maud quirked an eyebrow. “So I’m a fake model, is that it? Paying my fake bills with my fake checks? And thanks, but no thanks. I don’t want to change my body. It’s MINE. My mama gave it to me, rest her soul.”

“Well, maybe she would have lived longer if she’d made more of an effort when it came to her fitness. You know genetics is just another one of those excuses I was talking about, right?”

“Listen, you little twig bastard. I have been TRYING, to the best of my ability, to be as nice as I can. But if you don’t shut your yap about my mama, I’ll shut it for you.”

Just then, the music cut, and a soft DING echoed over the crowd. Leo Caprisky was tapping a fork against a champagne flute, standing at the podium at the front of the amphitheater. He had something to say.

***

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Leo to his adoring crowd, “before we start passing out dessert, I’d like to take a moment to talk about the future…or, rather, what it’s done to us.”

The guests murmured with interest.

“In an age where we live through screens, where every thought is a post and every meal is a photo-op,” he continued, microphone in hand, pacing with dramatic flair, “and make no mistake, I eschew no responsibility for my part in it. After all, do I not stand before you, CEO of Mybrid, in the flesh?”

There was laughter. Maud couldn’t tell if it came from the crowd, or if it was canned.

“Some have called me the ‘singlehanded murderer of online privacy’. That might be so…but it keeps the lights on,” said Leo. Maud’s back stiffened. She was beginning to feel singularly surveilled. “I wonder what would happen if any one of you were…unplugged? That’s why, tonight, I intend to kick off a social experiment.”

Behind him, a wall-length screen lit up with tranquil images of a lovely property full of pine forests and snow-dusted peaks. The audience ooh-ed and aah-ed. “Do you like it? It’s mine. And one lucky volunteer will get the chance to stay there, for two months…with no Internet access.”

As the video rolled, he clarified, “Anyone not volunteering may cast their vote, before the end of tonight, for the lucky winner who’ll get to take this very special holiday. Should you be selected, you’ll be surveilled, for the entertainment of the rest of the fine folks you’ve met here tonight, and at any time, they’ll have the opportunity to tip you for impressive performance, with minimum donations starting at five million dollars.”

FIVE MILLION DOLLARS?

If Maud was disinterested before, now she was thinking of the things she could do.

The assembly broke into whistles and cheers, as if these people were excited to throw money around just to prove they could.

“In a few moments, you’ll be able to enter. One of you will get to learn firsthand what happens when status, followers, and curated feeds disappear…while the rest of you will get to witness what happens when humans are left alone, with nothing but themselves, their provisions, and the land.”

As the noise swelled, a phone number flashed across the screen, directing guests to opt-in via text. Maud didn’t hesitate.

And neither did Mark.

One by one, more names trickled in. Ten in total. As the crowd clapped and whispered, the massive screen shifted. The garden darkened except for the glow of social media profiles being pulled live from the internet and into everyone’s view.

One by one, the volunteer contestants’ public personas were displayed. Mark’s was first. He appeared smug and toned, next to his personal mission statement: ‘Detox. Discipline. Destiny.’ His grid was a shrine to colorless meals, shirtless selfies, and unblinking motivational rants.

Then came Maud’s page. The feed scrolled automatically, pausing on a photo of her holding a royal blue ribbon next to a huge speckled hog, captioned ‘Best in Show, 4-H Rodeo.’

Another photo flickered up: Maud in a burnt-brown Blackwater A&M hoodie, a trophy cradled in her arms. Then: a grainy street snap of her outside a coffee shop, her modeling scout from Florid tagged in the caption. Finally, a selfie taken on her mother’s phone, while she sat at her mother’s sick bed in the hospital.

The crowd shifted, interested now. She saw someone mouth ‘She’s legit.’

Once everyone’s profile had been put on blast for the attendees to dissect, Leo returned to the center of the stage. “And now, our brave volunteers will tell us—why? What are you hoping to get out of this? What does unplugging mean to you?”

The first few contestants stammered vague sentiments about ‘getting grounded’ and ‘resetting priorities.’ One influencer mentioned getting away from the stress of the big city. Another said something about wanting to write a novel. They sounded coached and empty. The husband or boyfriend of Leo’s sister said something about wanting to get closer to God, and so far, he sounded the sincerest. He’d be a tough one to beat…

Then Mark took the podium.

“I believe in transformation,” he said, clasping his hands before him and sounding even more like a televangelist than ol’ Choir Boy. “We’ve made comfort into a cult. And it’s killing people. Making us soft. I’m doing what I can, with the resources I have, to fight it on behalf of humanity, but I can’t pretend to know everything. If I win this challenge, I’ll donate every cent of my reward to research into curing obesity.”

Nobody applauded, and Maud hadn’t expected them to. She almost felt sorry for Mark: had he not read the room?

She leaned toward him as he stepped down and hissed, low, “You couldn’t have said cancer?”

He blinked, then scowled, then scoffed, and then, finally, walked away.

Leo called her next. She ascended the steps to the stage, and faced the crowd, unprepared for how much the microphone would pick up her breathing. For a moment, it was all she could hear. If Mark’s arrogance had made him a pariah, would her own humble roots make her a laughingstock?

Then, with a conclusive inhale, she pulled it together.

“My name’s Maud LaBelle, and it’s true, I’m not like none of y’all. I grew up on a farm in Sainte-Clodine. I worked dawn shifts and took animal science classes at A&M on a scholarship I earned feeding pigs and milking cows. Those-a you that know of me, if you know of me, know me as the face of Florid. I started modeling to pay for my books. Then it turned into something bigger, but if I can just talk to y’all for a minute…that’s not really who I am.”

She paused. The silence was full, but not awkward. She was killing it: everyone was smiling at her! Well, not everyone…

“If I win, I’ll use the money to save my papa’s farm. We’re real behind on the mortgage. The bank’s circling like buzzards. If I have to spend two months unplugged to keep it safe—hell, I’ve gone without wi-fi before, I’ll do it again.”

Then…

A loud, lone cry came from down below: “BOOOOO!”

It was Mark, and though she wasn’t prepared, something in her stirred to strike back.

“No! NO YOU DON’T!” she shouted from the podium like she was chastising an unruly animal. “You say the folks have got too big? Well, I say the WORLD has got too big! So big that an honest man can’t hold onto the land what’s fed his kids anymore, because all anyone wants is cheap factory eggs! So big that the checks from hardworkin’ folks ain’t cut the mustard to save my mama!”

A guilty pang twisted her somewhere deep when she played that card, but it won her a lot of nods from the aristocrats.

“Look, I know I ain’t much…but thanks for your consideration.”

As she descended the steps, to thunderous applause, she knew Mark must have shot himself in the foot with his last move, and she’d been smart to use it against him. But when someone pressed a tissue into her shaky, manicured hand, the tears she wiped away were real.

***

Most of the guests left after they’d cast their votes, but a fair few lingered around to see the results for themselves, rather than get them in a notification the following morning along with their daily alarms. By the wee hour of the morning when liquor stopped being sold in bars, the crowd was thin, if only in numbers. Maud stood near the koi pond with her arms crossed, barely listening as someone droned on about leveraging attention into capital. Her stomach knotted up tight. She wasn’t sure what made her more nervous: that she might lose this thing, or that she might win.

Finally, Leo appeared again atop the stage, flanked by two women in dramatic silver gowns who might have been security, but were probably just set dressing. He held a sleek black tablet in one hand.

“Well,” he drawled with a grin. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a statistical improbability.”

Behind Maud, someone asked their date, “What does that mean?”

“After an evening of enthusiastic support, I’m pleased to announce that Mark Klein has topped the charts with 217 votes…”

Mark fistpumped and jumped in the air. Maud sighed, prepared to shuffle through the crowd and disappear into her taxi.

“And he’s tied alongside Maud LaBelle, also with 217 votes! Come on down!”

Their images flashed on the vast screen: Mark with his sugar-free raw vegan smoothie in hand, Maud with her arms around her prize-winning hog.

“The solution seems obvious,” said Leo. “Why send just one when we can send both?”

Numb, stunned, Maud made her way back onto the stage while Mark did the same from the other side. Another cheer broke out, this one sharper, laced with voyeuristic delight. There was blood in the water now.

Leo gestured and the screen behind him switched again, now cycling through pictures of a rustic but sleek log cabin nestled deep in a pine forest, complete with solar panels, a stone hearth, a freshwater well, and a workable stove.

“Contestants, you have 24 hours to pack. You can take anything you want, including your phones,” he said, voice almost mechanically smooth, “but you’ll lose connectivity by the time you reach the property. There is no cell signal. No satellite link. No internet…except, of course, for mine. Drones will monitor your movements for audience viewing. You won’t see them, but they’ll see you. And if your supporters feel inspired, you’ll get a notification on your in-cabin scoreboard when donations roll in.”

The crowd applauded again, louder than ever. Someone shouted, “Let them fight!” Maud got the sense the guy was only half-joking.

Leo extended a hand toward them. “Now then. Maud. Mark. Come join me.”

They approached one another in silence. Maud’s heels clicked with steady weight. Mark’s jaw was set like a soldier’s.

Leo smiled at them both. “Shake hands, now. For the audience.”

Maud and Mark each extended an arm. Their hands met at center stage. The shake was firm, deliberate, and cold as ice. They didn’t smile. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t look away. Just a long, locked moment of pure mutual loathing in front of a straggling group of grinning onlookers.

Flashbulbs popped, capturing the moment.

Leo laughed, this weird, alien snort. “Oh, this will be fun.”