Segregation by sex was easy for no one, but we developed our own coping methods. I earned the name Luther for believing that we could—for the time being—live without female companionship just as religious monks in monasteries had done for centuries. (Perhaps Augustine or Lawrence would have been a more appropriate name, but I kept the one I was given, as was our custom.) Quite a few of the men followed my example, using meditation and physical exercise to free their minds of our God-given urges. Avoiding madness was always the goal.
"All in good time, my friends," I offer with what sounds like certainty. "We've lasted this long. We can hold out a while longer. If the women of today are anything like those we remember, then I doubt that they'll want anything to do with us until we get these shelters finished." I raise an eyebrow at Samson. "And perhaps take a shower or two."
Hearty laughter erupts, and with renewed vigor, the men return to their work, doubling their efforts.
"Well said," Plato remarks once we're alone. "So...when do we start the search?"
My gaze returns to the mountains in the distance, their peaks frosty in the light of the waxing moon. "Sector 50's bunker was near that ridge. But the maps are useless now—the earth has changed. Those may not even be the same mountains, for all we know."
Plato keeps his voice low as we work together, tying down one of the tarps on Samson's shelter. "Do you really think they planned everything out?"
They—the government scientists and sociologists—had known for years the Cold War would eventually thaw, and when it did, another continent could be lost. Or worse: the entire globe. The North American Sectors had grown ripe with underground terrorists—Patriots, they called themselves. Rumors circulated about vials of weaponized chemical agents missing from secure government labs. If such dangerous bioweapons ended up in the wrong hands, the only way to neutralize a potential threat would be nuclear strikes hot enough to eradicate a toxic outbreak along with every other living organism for kilometers around.
The scientists worked together unilaterally across the sectors to construct our bunkers—state-of-the-art subterranean prisons designed to safeguard their most valued commodities, as defined by rigorous tests of intelligence and physical stamina. The war-mongering factions turned a blind eye to these efforts; their goal was to take lives, not save them, and they did not interfere. Before the time eventually came for a chain reaction of falling bombs, the government officials collected us and took us below ground to safety. For the next twenty years, we stayed alive thanks to their careful planning and preparation. But how far into the future did their foresight extend? Could they have accounted for every eventuality?
"For our sake, and for the future of our species...I hope so."
"You've done well, Luther. You've kept us together, united. The men remain in high spirits." Plato glances around quickly before returning to his work. "But if they were to lose hope—"
"We won't let them."
He looks up at me, and in his eyes is a hint of fear.
"Done!" Rip calls out, slapping the roof with an air of finality as he tosses down his hammer. It hits the hard-packed sand with an earthy thud.
"Done!" echoes throughout our village as the shelters are completed, one by one, and the men move on to the next.
We join forces to finish Samson's, and by morning, as the sun's rays break across the eastern horizon, we find refuge for the first time not beneath the earth, but above it, in shelters of our own design. The men sleep, each under his own roof, exhausted bodies sprawled out across mattresses we exhumed from the bunker below. Snores and deep sighs punctuate the stillness of a new day.
I lie on my back and stare at the plexiglass ceiling, coated with a dark UV protective polymer. I study the edges where thick canvas tarps are tied down. If we made any mistakes in our construction, if something comes loose in a sudden gust of wind, the sun will scorch us in our sleep. Perhaps I should have told the men to wear their jumpsuits, but I wanted them to feel free.
I need to relax. We are free now. Finally on our own.
But we're not truly alone. I feel it—that Presence in the air I breathe. I don't know how to describe it. I sense the men around me in their shelters, even when their breathing is quiet. But this is different. It's not simply the presence of another human being. What I sense is much greater. And it is watching us.
When Samuel from the Hebrew Scriptures was a boy, he thought he heard his elder, Eli, calling to him. But it wasn't old Eli. It was God.
"Here I am, Lord..." My voice hangs in the stillness. The silence that follows is thick, mocking me. I'm no prophet. I shouldn't presume to hear the Creator speak to me.
Something hits the side of my shelter with a loud crack. I catch my breath and sit up.
"Yes?"
No sound answers. I pull on my jumpsuit and fasten the face shield. Pushing through the heavy tarp that serves as my door, I step outside into the white-hot sunlight.
Even with the tinted Mylar on my face shield, my eyes take a few moments to adjust. When they do, I find a large stone lying beside the canvas wall of my shelter. I bend down and pick it up, hefting it in the palm of my gloved hand. We swept this area clean a few nights ago, sending rocks to the bottom of a dry gully south of our village. This stone shouldn't be here. It wasn't here minutes ago when we all turned in for our first day's sleep inside our new homes.
I glance up and down the vacant path between our twin rows of shelters. If one of the men is up to some sort of shenanigan, he's doing a good job of hiding. I stand and face the bunker, a hundred meters away with its mouth dark and inviting. In this moment, I know what Plato meant. It's natural for us to crave the familiar. We were so secure in our underground prison.
I grip the stone in my hand and take a few steps away from my shelter, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. Other than the sighs and snores of the men deep in slumber, everything remains still and silent. I hear my own breath against my face shield and marvel, yet again, at the complete desolation around us, as ashen as a crumbling corpse. We have sinned, and great is our iniquity.
"Forgive us..."
I don't expect a response. I gave up on that long ago. But I continue to pray daily. I know the Creator exists, and He hears me. There is no way we could have destroyed Him.
I bring the stone into my shelter and set it beside the mattress. I keep my eyes on it as I remove my face shield and pull off my suit. I have no idea how the stone came to be where I found it, but I'm too weary to wonder anymore. My eyelids sink heavily and I exhale, falling back onto my bed. My arms stretch out to my sides as sleep draws me into its abysmal depths. I couldn't resist even if I wanted to…
In my dream, I run toward the mountains as fast as I can, but I move so slowly it seems I'm not moving at all. In the distance, so far away yet so vivid, I see the women of Sector 50, their waving locks of hair taken by the breeze that whisks across their lithe, naked bodies. I try to warn them. I try to scream, but my voice emerges in hoarse gasps. I can't get to them in time. Horror overwhelms me as the sun scorches and blisters their perfect skin. They reach out in desperation, shrieking silently. The breeze becomes a wild torrent of wind that blasts through them, scattering ash into a thick cloud that engulfs me, suffocating me. I reach for my throat as I cough. My fingernails become an eagle's talons that sink into my flesh.
I scream.
"Luther?" Plato kneels at my side, his face red, glistening with sweat.
Where am I?
His strong hands grip me by the shoulders.
"Nightmare?"
I look him in the eye as reality reclaims my senses. I nod and wipe beads of perspiration from my brow.
"No wonder. Hot as hell in here." He runs a forearm across his own brow and sniffs as he looks around my shelter. "We didn't plan for this."
I take a deep breath to steady myself. Did I scream loud enough to wake the men? Or was that only in my dream?
"We couldn't have known." The suits have kept us cool during the hea
t of the day. This is our first without them. Mine lies folded beside my mattress. "We may need to wear them while we sleep."
Plato nods. "I'll tell the men." He reaches for my suit, and as he turns, I see the skin on his back is sun-burned.
"Where's yours?"
"Here—put this on. You'll sleep better."
I pull it on. "You're burned, my friend." I look him squarely in the eye.
"You were screaming." He shrugs to explain his recklessness. "Do you remember anything from your nightmare?"
Of course I do. It was terrifying.
"No." I stand and zip up the front of my jumpsuit. "I'll get yours. You've been burned enough for one day." I stop before I lift the tarp. "It was foolish of you to risk your skin like that. Don't do it again." I snap my face shield shut.
"I hope I won't have to," he says.
The images from my nightmare remain clear in my mind's eye as I step outside and move toward Plato's shelter. I glance at the mountains. According to the maps we printed off the bunker database before our computers lost power, the Sector 50 bunker was built in the foothills. It was there that our female counterparts were held during the nuclear winter. We were told that after All-Clear, we would be united with them.
Unlike other sectors whose members were sterilized prior to D-Day, we and the women had one over-riding purpose: repopulation. It was why we were selected, the only reason we're here now while everyone else in our sectors died that fateful day, twenty years ago. The government scientists knew we would be needed when the time came to recover from their world's mistakes.
But without the women, my brothers and I are only half the solution.
I can't shake the feeling that the women—wherever they are—may be in danger. Thanks to that nightmare, of course. I should deride myself for being so easily influenced by subconscious fears. But it was so real. I saw their faces, every detail. Vulnerable and exposed, standing on that ridge—a hundred or more of them.
We were never told how many had been assigned to the Sector 50 bunker. Samson has his theories. A man with only one thing on his mind, he says it was common knowledge that the population of each female enclave was triple that of its male counterpart. For the purpose of our species' continuation, there would be a greater probability of successful births that way. The government scientists had it all figured out, he says.
But I have my doubts. The Creator was not consulted by the United World government as they carefully planned our future, even as they destroyed our past. It would serve them right—and us—if we were unable to conceive a single child in this post-apocalyptic nightmare of a world.
Something catches my eye as I reach Plato's shelter. A dust spiral rises from the earth just beyond our village, perhaps thirty meters out. Odd—there's no wind blowing against me. The dust devil whirls and builds upward, sucking ash into its center and expanding ever outward like a miniature tornado. I can't shake my gaze from it.
Plato has to see this.
I rush into his shelter and grope blindly, stumbling across his jumpsuit beside the mattress as my eyes adjust to the dim light. I roll up the suit and tuck it under my arm, heading back outside to see—
Nothing.
The dust lies still on the baked earth as if it had never moved at all.
I take a deep breath. First the stone, appearing out of nowhere. Now this dust spiral, forming without any wind and disappearing just as quickly. The stone could have been a prank, but not this. There's no way to explain this.
Unless I'm losing my mind.
Lack of sleep in conjunction with the heat and a wild nightmare... Perhaps I simply need to rest. Shaking my head, I return to my shelter and toss Plato his suit, chiding him again for exposing his skin.
"Fine. Next time I hear you screaming bloody murder, I'll leave you to the bogeyman." He stands as he zips up.
I remove my face shield. "Thank you, my friend."
"I thought we swept this area clear." He gestures toward the stone beside my bed.
"We did." Part of me is glad that he can see it too. I exhale loudly as I fall back onto my mattress, arms out to the sides, eyes closed. I keep my suit on this time. "A memento."
"Get some rest, Luther. You'll need it tonight."
Tonight? Of course. Without the scorching rays of the sun, we'll make our first attempt at locating the women. "Be sure the men have enough to eat. They'll need their strength."
"Before or after we find Sector 50?" He grins.
It's good to see him smile. "Goodnight."
"Good day," he says quietly as he leaves.
The perspiration that covered me when I awoke has been absorbed by my suit, already recycled by the cooling system within its fibers. I don't mind the heat at all now, and I'm sure I'll sleep peacefully—and dreamlessly, I hope.
We kept these suits stored away in the bunker along with all the other supplies we would need after All-Clear: medkits, tools, construction frames, extra nutrition and hydropacks—all off-limits until the day the bunker door locks released us, and we stepped outside for the first time in decades. The scientists told us the suits would be our first line of defense against the harsh climate we'd find waiting outside, but they were not designed to be a permanent solution; after their shelf-life, they could be expected to function well enough for six to nine months. The more we used them, however, the sooner they would expire.
I close my eyes and count the number of days I've worn my suit. Three? Four? I should be able to spare a good day's sleep. We all should. We've earned it. And later—when our suits reach their expiration dates and can no longer protect us from the elements—
"Plato can worry about that," I sigh, half-mumbling as sleep overtakes me once again. My body sinks into the mattress as if I'm floating in a lake of cool, fresh water.
We had a small lake house before the end. When I was a boy, we'd go there every year. My parents accumulated their paid leave so they could take my brothers and me for a month in July. We always looked forward to it, so much so that by the middle of June, it was tortuous even to attempt to focus on our studies. Our minds were completely occupied with thoughts of diving, swimming, and kayak races. We'd spend hours hiking through the trees in the sector's only natural Preserve. The government had continually offered us a great sum for our cottage, but my father had always said there were some things in life money could not buy. The property had been passed down from father to eldest son for over a century, and someday it was going to be mine. I never would have sold it…
I float on my back, my arms drifting out to the sides, my legs gently kicking to maintain my position. Eyes closed, I smile under the sun's warmth. The cool, fresh water fills my ears, but—if I pay attention—I can hear the distant shouts of my two younger brothers as they wrestle on shore, no doubt fighting over who will get to use the telescope next to spy on our sunbathing neighbors. This is heaven, floating far away from my studies and all those tests. Here I'm free to live.
My brother Alex calls my name—my real name. At first I don't respond; I've been Luther for so long now. Then he calls again, and I realize it's me that he wants. I let my legs sink, and I pull myself forward, treading water.
"What? Is Dad back?"
He stands on the pebble-strewn shore in his swimming trunks, his bare skin rosy from too much sun. He shakes his head and points to the house.
"Somebody's here for you!"
I remember this moment. My stomach tightens.
They're here to take me away, back for more tests.
I didn't want to go, but my parents made me. They said it was for the good of us all that I comply. They said it was for our future, and they were proud of me.
I like it fine right here. I lie back and let my arms and legs go limp. Instantly, I'm floating again. Free again, calm, cool and relaxed. The water laps into my ears. I can barely make out Alex shouting anymore.
"They're coming!"
Let them come. I won't go back.
I didn't know then what
all the tests were for, but they were sorting out the best and brightest from our sector, the ones there would be room for—made for—in the bunkers, while our loved ones died on the surface. Of course, they never let us or our families know about any of this, only that we'd been chosen by the UW to provide a better tomorrow.
When the bombs started falling on D-Day, then everyone knew.
The truth.
The lake turns to sand all of a sudden, and I gag on it. I jerk forward to find myself covered, buried from the chest down. I blink, my eyes stinging. My heart races as I look around me. Our house is gone, as are the trees and blue skies. In their place is an endless sea of ashen sand beneath a blazing sun.
"What have you done?" I rasp, spitting to clear my mouth.
Two scientists in baggy, reflective environmental suits walk across the desert toward me, their mirrored face shields showing my reflection. My arms push out to the sides as I try to pull myself free. But it's no use. I'm stuck.
"What have you done with it all?"
They don't respond. They approach and stand over me, their heads tilted forward as they stare.
"What do you want?" I thrash wildly, swinging my arms at them with clenched fists. "Leave me alone!"
They bend down to reach for me, their gloved fingers curled to grab hold of my arms. I see my eyes—bloodshot with rage—in the face shield of one of them, and my scream is both guttural and unintelligible as I thrust my hand at his throat. My fingernails, suddenly extended long and sharp like eagle talons, rip through his suit and tear into his flesh. I feel the warmth of his blood as it pours over me. He convulses and falls backward.
My hand moves slowly as I pull back and stare at it.
What have I done?
My blood-red claws start to retract into my fingers. I flex them, and out come the talons again. Sharp. Lethal.
What the hell is this? What's happening to me?
The other scientist has let go of my arm. His face shield is trained on my hand. In the reflection, I look like a monster.
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 4
