Planet Urth
(Book 1)
A novel
By Jennifer and Christopher Martucci
PLANET URTH (BOOK 1)
Copyright © 2013
All rights reserved.
First edition: October 2013
Editing by FirstEditing
Cover design by Damonza
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Wind howls through the trees and rushes in the cracks of the cave, whistling shrilly. I bolt upright, startled. In the bleary moments just after waking from a deep sleep, I worry that they’ve found us. When my eyes adjust, I see that we are alone and our defenses have not been breached.
I sigh and feel the panic begin to leak from my body as my eyes sweep the familiar surroundings. The sun has not risen yet. Eerie, iridescent light trickles in with streams of air that carry the sweet, pungent zing of ozone. Sharp and fresh, the scent fills the cave. I wonder if my sister, June, smells it. It is one of her favorite scents, the way the atmosphere smells before it rains. But she is still asleep, her small body curled in a ball beside me. I am tempted to wake her. She does not like to miss any opportunity for joy, as joy is a rarity in our world. But she looks too serene to disturb. With her eyes closed and her features relaxed, she looks her age: eight years old. Her brow is not creased in concern. Her eyes are not narrowed as they usually are. Her face is smooth, innocent. She looks at peace. But I know that when she finally wakes, favorite scents or no favorite scents, peace will seep from her. Daylight will appear to age her. It always does.
I watch her for several moments. The familiar ache begins in my chest and quickly tightens my throat. I swallow hard, gulping in vain against the lump of dread stuck there. I don’t know why I bother. It never moves. I doubt it will ever leave.
Thunder rumbles and shakes the cave’s stone walls. Rain patters at first then drums loudly, the shriek of the wind accompanying it. A violent storm is underway. Still, June remains asleep, unbothered and unaware of it. I almost envy her.
Her eyelids flutter and a small smile tilts the corners of her mouth upward. She must be having a pleasant dream. I have forgotten what pleasant dreams are. My dreams are never pleasant. They are usually filled with dreadful images, and running, always running, without a destination in sight. The veil between nightmares and reality is thin. Some days, I have trouble distinguishing between the two. I would have ended it all long ago were it not for June.
June is my reason to live, the only reason I still live. She is my purpose. I exist to keep her safe, for she needs protection from many things in this world. It has been eight years since I’ve seen another human being that wasn’t my father or my sister, June. I’m convinced we are the last human beings on what was once called planet Earth. I would never tell June that. I tell her every day that I believe someone will find us, that we will one day feel safe instead of scared all the time. But I know that is not true.
I force a smile on my face each day, in defiance of the truth, in defiance of the ache in my heart, and tell June that one day our lives will be filled with calm and order. It is a sharp contrast to the jumbled chaos of our day-to-day existence. Most days the madness of it all weighs on me so heavily I contemplate scouring the forest for berries my father warned me against, and filling my belly with them. Once, I came dangerously close to doing just that that.
A few weeks ago, I leaned against a tree trunk, mesmerized by the yellowish-orange fruit, and picked a handful. I brought my hand to my mouth and parted my lips, tears of relief slipping down my cheeks as I envisioned an end to it all, to the never-ending tightness in my throat, the constant worry, the suffering. I was about to eat several berries when my sister called out to me in the distance. She was cheering excitedly about catching her first squirrel, which turned out to be a skunk. I froze. The gravity of what I was about to do hit me like a fist to my gut. The berries fell between my fingers and dropped to the ground below. “In a minute, June,” I yelled. I needed time to collect myself and breathe through the swell of emotion crashing over me. I had intended to take my life, had come dangerously close, in fact. The actuality of it staggered me. I was angry, scared, and grateful all at once. I sprang to my feet and paced for several moments, panting like a wild animal, before I calmed down enough to plaster a tight smile on my face. I returned to June and did not speak of what I almost did. She never asked, and I never told. I haven’t done anything that reckless or stupid since. I don’t have the luxury of doing such things.
Now, as I watch the rise and fall of June’s chest as she takes deep, even breaths, I realize I was selfish weeks earlier. I am selfish every time I entertain the idea of ending the yawning pit of sadness inside me for good. She needs me. She would not survive without me, especially since our father died a little more than a year ago. He lived what I guess was a much longer-than-average life and passed away peacefully at the age of fifty. In the days before his death, I promised him we would stay safe, and I would keep June out of harm's way and never give up. He showed me how to do it, how to survive. The rest, namely living, is a bit more complicated.
I lie back down and close my eyes, remembering all my father taught me. I curve my body around June’s sleeping form, comforted by her stillness. She does not feel me there. She continues to sleep. The storm rages outside. And the lump in my throat balloons to the point that I fear it will strangle me.
But in spite of the turmoil outside and the havoc rattling around inside me, exhaustion takes hold and pulls me on a dark and velvety tide. I sleep until the chirping of birds wakes me.
Sooty shadows still stretch across the cave I’ve called home for the last six years, but the light filtering in is considerably brighter. My stomach clenches violently, rumbling and growling, and I know it is time to hunt. Food has been scarce the last few days, leaving only small animals to trap and eat. I have only caught rats. They taste terrible, have very little meat on them, and always leave me feeling sick. I crave the filling sustenance of boart meat, but haven’t seen one recently, not in the last three days, at least.
The thought of filling my stomach with tender, succulent boart flesh forces me to sit up. My back complains and my neck aches. Too little sleep and positioning myself oddly conspire against me. Regardless, I push myself to stand, shoving my palms and heels against the hard, rocky floor. I scrub my face with my hands, and then stretch before pulling out the logs that are lodged between the wall and the boulder at the mouth of the cave.
Six years ago, my father found a stone to cover the cave’s opening. He spent months etching it, chipping away at its surface little by little, until it fit, rounded and able to roll bumpily. With an assortment of wood stuck all around it, the boulder conceals us, and keeps creatures of every kind from getting in. The beings that roam the land after dark are deadly. We cannot go out once the sun sets, not even in the event of an emergency. No human being can, should any exist. And together, the boulder and the logs safeguard us from Lurkers.
The thought of Lurkers makes my skin crawl, as if thousands of insect feelers are scuttling across it. The need for fresh air and light becomes urgent. Large logs wedge the boulder into the mouth of the cave to keep it securely in place. The logs extend from the boulder to the far wall. I frantically clear them, working so hard I am winded. When the last log is cleared, I rest my hands on my knees and gulp air greedily. I brush my brow with the back of my hand and my eyes immediately go to June, still
fast asleep. I regret having to wake her, but the next task is too difficult to be performed by only me. The boulder is heavy, and while I’m at my prime at age seventeen, my strength is no match for the stone.
Reluctantly, I move toward her and sit. I brush a lock of golden hair from her forehead.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say.
She stirs and slowly opens her eyes. Her eyes narrow and focus on my face, erasing the smoothness of youth. She suddenly looks all of her eight years, plus some.
“Time to move it.” I thumb over my shoulder to the boulder.
June groans and scrunches up her face.
“Come on, lazy bones,” I tease her. “If you want to get outside and enjoy the long, warm day, I suggest you quit moaning and help me.” I poke the tip of her small nose with my index finger. She smiles, an expression that lights her entire face, then sits up and hugs me tightly. The gesture loosens the tightness in my chest and I am reminded of what, or who, I am living for.
“I do want to go outside,” June murmurs into my hair. “I hate nighttime.”
Her words resonate in my bones. She loosens her grip on me and sits back. “We need to do a lot today, but if we have time left, we will go to the meadow.”
Her face lights up and her pale-blue eyes sparkle. “Oh, Avery, you promise?” she squeaks, and her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline.
“Promise,” I say.
She mumbles something about having the best sister ever and my cheeks grow hot. I do not deserve her compliments.
June scrambles from her sleep sack and stands. Her long limbs are thin, her elbows and kneecaps prominent. Our recent diet, reliant on rats as a source of protein, is taking its toll on her. I curse myself under my breath for not doing a better job, for not taking care of her properly as I’d promised my father I would.
“Let’s move this thing out of the way,” I say more cheerily than I feel.
We must crouch to walk through the narrow, tunnel-like structure that leads to the mouth of the cave. It is a tight squeeze, but we do whatever is necessary to secure ourselves.
June follows, placing her hands beside mine. A crisp breeze blows, cooling my skin just before we pull the stone until a thick rim of light appears all around it. We continue until a brilliant glow pours into the cave. I squint and shield my eyes with my hand as they adjust to daylight.
“Wow,” June comments, her eyes round with wonder. “Look at the sky. It’s so blue.”
She’s right. The sky is bluer than usual. It looks as if it has been scrubbed clean. Not a cloud mars its perfection.
“You know why it looks like that, right?” I ask.
“No, why?” She looks at me quizzically.
“We had storms a couple hours ago, and someone slept through all of it,” I comment playfully and elbow her lightly in the ribs. She frowns and knits her brow as if she’s done something wrong, not quite the response I’d hope for.
“Were you scared?” she asks, her eyes pleading pools of crystal-clear water.
“Nah, not at all,” I lie. “The only reason I woke is because you snore.” I elbow her again. This time, a wide, goofy smile spreads across her face that makes my chest temporarily release the stranglehold on my heart.
“Yeah, well, it’s better than drooling like you do,” she teases me back.
“Hey!” I say with exaggerated annoyance.
“Come on, drool-girl, I’ll race you to the river!” She arches a pale brow and twists her mouth to one side before darting off into the woods toward the fresh-water river where we start our days.
“No fair!” I call as I dash after her.
The air is cool, refreshingly so, when it rushes in my face as I race after June. She is small and thin and quick as lightning as she streaks between trees and bushes, dodging vines and creepers. Birds flit from tree to tree and chipmunks peep in annoyance. All around us, the woodland wakes. A new day has dawned. Storms have passed and the grass is wet, but the mugginess is gone, the air is lighter, as if the world has sighed away a heavy burden. But I know the Lurkers still exist. I wish it were that easy.
When I reach the river, June is there already. Her hands are on her hips, and her chin is tipped upward, a sly smile rounding her cheeks.
“I thought you’d never get here.” She tries to sound smug, but she is incapable of conceit or arrogance of any kind. She is better than that.
“What can I say? You’re fast, too fast for me,” I reply.
Her smile broadens. It reaches her eyes and makes them dance with pride.
“Come on, let’s wash up and hunt.” I splash my face with water warmed by the summer sun.
June follows my lead and scoops handfuls of water and scrubs her face and underarms. Once we are clean, I turn to her.
“We are going out a little farther than the perimeter today,” I say. June’s brow furrows deeply and her eyes narrow to slits. She folds her willowy arms across her chest and listens intently. “Do you feel comfortable going off on your own out there? Do you think you’ll be okay?” I ask, fearful that she is not ready yet.
She nods resolutely and says, “I’ll be fine.”
I place a hand on her shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze as I smile. I do not hide the pride I am feeling, or the relief. Going beyond the boundaries we’ve observed for years is crucial. The knobbiness of her shoulder is a painful reminder that if we do not push our boundaries, our food supply will continue to dwindle.
“Great,” I say. “I knew you were.”
June’s eyes widen at my words, gleaming with satisfaction, and my heart swells.
“I’m going to get us a couple of rabbits for dinner tonight,” she says with steely determination.
I admire her grit and wish grit alone were capable of snaring a pair of rabbits. But it is not. The sad fact is that June rarely catches anything, and has never caught an animal substantial enough to feed us more than once. I feel confident today will be no different, but I respect her more than words can say for waking up every single morning and trying. She is undaunted by failure, unsullied by it.
“Good,” I tell her and wink. “I look forward to it.”
“Count on it,” she says. Her posture straightens, so full of optimism and hope.
I wish she would learn to hunt. I hope she reaches her goal today. She needs to be able to kill and prepare her own food as a precaution. We live in a dangerous world. If something were to happen to me, I want to know that she will not starve.
“All right, let’s get going before the sun is overhead and the animals seek shelter from it,” I tell her.
She realizes it is time to separate and a strange look clouds her face. Without warning, she closes the distance between us and wraps her arms around my waist. “Be safe, Avery,” she says. “You are my sister and my best friend.”
My throat constricts around words that are jammed there. I swallow hard and try to talk, managing just a hoarse whisper. “I’ll be fine, sis. Don’t worry,” I tell her. I hold her briefly, then gently push her away. Our eyes lock, and I hold her gaze. “We’ll go to the edge of the woods together. Stay nearby.” Nearby means that she is not to wander more than a few hundred spear lengths from me. “I will signal when I get something. Okay?”
June nods in understanding and we move through the woods.
The forest is awake and humming with activity. Birds dart from tree to tree, rustling leaves and branches. Intermittently, a chipmunk scurries across the needle-covered ground and chirps loudly. June is silent as we walk. I watch her from the corner of my eye. Her expression is concerned. I reach out and take her hand.
“Everything is going to be okay,” I say.
She clutches my hand for a moment, then releases it. “I know,” she says and smiles. But I’m unconvinced. She is eight years old, a child by most standards, yet she must shoulder adult burdens. It�
��s necessary for her survival, a point that I regret with every fiber of my being.
When we reach the edge of our safety zone, the trees grows farther apart and the area is brighter. We are not as concealed.
“Don’t go too far,” I tell her.
June’s eyes plead for a moment, shining with emotion. “Love you,” she says.
“Love you, too,” I reply.
Her demeanor haunts me as I watch her crouch low and move cautiously between spiny ferns and brush. Why was she so worried? Did she sense something I’d missed? My mind starts spinning questions, rolling around in my head like a ball of barbed wire. But I need to force them to the dark recesses of my brain. I cannot worry or speculate about intuition or what-ifs. Too much is at stake. Eating takes priority.
I walk for several minutes until I find fresh boart droppings. My father once told me that long ago, before the war, boarts were called boars. But like every other animal on the planet, the boars changed. They mutated into a different species. I quickly look all around, scanning the low growth for the pot-bellied beast responsible for the droppings. I do not see one, but know it is near so I decide to seek higher ground. The massive oak beside me is the perfect lookout point.
With my knife sheathed at my thigh and my spear and sword in a scabbard at my back, I grab hold of the lowest branch and hoist myself up. I climb from one to the next, scaling the tree cautiously, gently. I do not want to disturb anything or make a sound. I do not want to scare the beast and send it running. I continue, gingerly navigating the dovetailed branches and only stop when the limbs above me become thin and fragile-looking. I do not want to risk resting on one that cannot bear my weight and settle into a squatting position where I am. I crouch low, balancing. Unsheathing my spear, clutching it securely in sweat-slickened hands, I watch as nearby growth stirs and a boart comes into view.
Minutes tick by and the boart does not move. The sun beats down through limbs and leaves. Sweat stipples my brow and trails between my shoulder blades, but I do not dare brush it away or shift. I must remain still, poised to strike when the moment presents itself. The snorts and chuffs of the beast grow closer. I do not move. I barely breathe. My muscles ache and tremble, and my knees protest holding the same position for so long. My pulse hammers against my temples. The beast continues to inch forward, creeping at a leisurely pace. Hunger gnaws ceaselessly. My belly rumbles, a sound so loud I worry it will frighten the boart and ruin any chance of eating for myself and June. But it does not. I have it in my sight, my gaze zeroed in on it. It disappears for a moment behind a dense thicket, so close to me I can smell its pungent stink.
It reappears after several painstaking seconds. Up close, it is enormous. It must be nearly three hundred pounds. Not that I would know that for sure. The last scale I’d seen was when my father was alive and we’d stayed at a camp with other humans. Then, I’d been weighed and told I was one hundred five pounds and five foot one. Years have passed and I’ve grown since then. But the beast easily triples my girth. Massive shoulders and hindquarters are connected by a rotund belly, and small eyes sit atop a generous snout. Pointed tusks bulge from its lower jaw and saliva drips from its wide mouth as it sniffs a tuft of blossoms near the trunk of the tree I am perched in. It continues to snuffle and grunt. I grip the handle of my weapon so tightly my palm aches.
When it is just below me, I jump.
The ground hurtles toward me. All breath leaves my body and needle-sharp stabs of pain claw my legs as branches lash my thighs. Bruises and cuts will result, but I do not care. All I can think of is feeding my sister, and me.
My spear drives into the base of the beast’s neck before I land atop it. I hold the spear steady with one hand while I unsheathe my blade and slice its throat. It squeals, a tortured, awful sound, and thrashes. Warmth gushes over my hand, covering my blade, but I do not let go. And I do not let go of my spear either. I hold fast and plunge it until the entire middle section of the spear is no longer visible.
My chest heaves and every part of me quivers. The world around me has gone quiet. All I hear are my own ragged breaths and the fading shrieks of the stuck animal.
Before long, the boart stops flailing. Blood is everywhere–on my hands, on my arms, my legs, and my face, even feels like it’s coating my tongue, but it’s not. It is just the heavy, coppery smell, so thick and overpowering, tricking my mind into believing blood has entered my mouth. The boart’s weight begins to shift as it topples to one side. I must keep my dagger from becoming trapped beneath its massive body. I must keep from getting trapped beneath its massive body.
I flick my knife to the side and hear it land with a soft thud in the grass, then yank as hard and fast as I can to pull the spear from the boart’s body. I dive to the ground, reaching and stretching with every ounce of strength I have to throw myself clear of the beast’s fall. I land hard just in time to avoid being a squashed blob underneath it then whistle loudly for June.
The faint swish of wet grass and leaves sounds and before long, my sister appears. At first she sees the blood covering my hands and splattered across my face. She gasps and her hands fly to her mouth. She cries out words that are unintelligible.
“Oh no, no, no,” she sobs.
“June, no, I’m okay,” I assure her and point with a trembling hand to the boart carcass.
Her eyes widen. “You got one!” she squeals excitedly. “Oh wow!” She bounces on the balls of her feet, clapping her hands, and I am reminded of her youth, of her innocence. I suddenly wish she did not have to see the boart’s carcass. But one day she will have to gut a boart on her own.
“Come on, let’s prepare this boart quickly before the scavengers come out to play,” I say, referring to the buzzards and other winged predators that could announce our position.
June assists while I carve enough meat to stuff ourselves for the day, as well as the next morning. The boart is robust, its flesh plentiful, but we cannot take all of it. It would spoil by midday the next day. Wastefulness of any kind pains me, particularly when it concerns food. If it were winter, every bit of its meat would be taken and packed in snow, then eaten for weeks. Today’s kill is just for the day.
We return to the cave with our haul and cook it immediately. Cooking after the sun sets is off-limits. The smell of roasting flesh would frenzy the creatures of the night and all but guarantee our deaths. The thought makes me shudder.
As soon as the meat is fully cooked, I offer the first piece to June. She devours it immediately. I nibble a chunk and watch as she reaches for a second then third serving.
“Be careful not to stuff yourself,” I warn her. But it is hard not to. The salty taste and the tender texture of the meat are irresistible. Before long, I find myself ignoring my own advice and helping myself to more.
“I have to stop,” I moan, but a full belly is blissful. “We have to train still,” I say more for my own benefit than June’s benefit.
“Aw, do we have to?” she asks and frowns.
I level my gaze at her and do not say a word. I do not need to. She knows better, knows that it is imperative for us to train each and every day, to keep our senses sharp and our reflexes swift. I never allow a day to pass when we do not train. That is what our father taught us. And June needs to become as good with a sword and spear as I am. Her life depends on it, and so does mine. Room for improvement always exists.
“Can’t we just relax for a little while?” June begs.
I look to the sun, my mind warring with my heart, and realize there is plenty of daylight hours left. June deserves a reprieve. I owe her that, at least.
“Okay,” I concede.
Her head whipsaws from me to her food then back to me. “Are you kidding?” she asks suspiciously. “’Cause if you are, it’s not funny.”
“Nope, I’m serious,” I say. “Let’s go now.”
; June does not need to hear me say it twice. She is on her feet before I am. We make our way to the meadow quickly. The clearing is overflowing with wildflowers that perfume the area. I would love to run through the field and pick as many as my arms could carry but I am not permitted such an indulgence. Instead, I settle for sitting on the outskirts of the meadow.
June plops down then flops backward. I sit for a while then lean back on my elbows.
Warm, buttery sunlight heats us from overhead. A tangy, earthy scent infuses the air as we lay in the tall grass gazing at the sky, a vast blue canvas scrubbed clean by the early morning storms. A butterfly flits past June before landing on her nose. She giggles as the floppy-winged insect stops for a second then flaps and flies away. The sound is sweeter than anything I’ve heard in a long time. I turn to face her. Light washes across the top of her head, highlighting the natural gold of her hair. It makes her appear almost angelic. She closes her eyes and dozes while I fight the exhaustion that follows the adrenaline rush I had from killing the boart. A full belly assists my physical fatigue.
Before long, my eyes grow heavy and my body feels as if it is being rocked, cradled in warm arms, a sensation I barely remember but yearn for nevertheless. I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Planet Urth (Book 1) Page 1
