The Dawn: Omnibus edition (box set books 1-5)

by Michelle Muckley

  “Welcome, resident 8652. Successful completion of daily tasks registered. Your president thanks you on behalf of all New Omega Citizens.” Zack ignored the voice and looked in the shard of old mirror that he had taken from one of the lifts. The back had been spoiled and was peeling, blemishing his reflection with false age spots. Zack reached down into the bucket at his feet and wet the cloth in the inch of remaining water. It was grey like the sky and smelt like sulphur, but it was precious. Wringing every last drop back into the bucket like the rain that never fell anymore, he wiped it over his neck, his face, a few icy droplets trickling across his chest making his skin contract. He peeled away his overalls and swiped the cloth under his armpits where there always seemed to be a subtle layer of dirt. He tossed the rag back into the bucket and grabbed a once-white T-shirt from a pile of two. He pulled it over his head and then covered it with a jumper that would have once been suitable for an athlete.

  He lay down on his bed with nothing else to do, the only sound the hum of the air vents and the adverts from the televisions outside his room. They were offering additional numbers which could be tattooed above your original branding for no more than thirty credits. He listened as they offered radiation sickness tablets. New clothes, new toys, better healthcare. Nothing he had credits for. He stared out from his corner window with his hands tucked underneath his head. For a while he thought about lounging on the beach, the heat blazing down on him, the sounds of the waves creeping steadily in and out. But lately even these images were becoming blurry and less defined. They no longer seemed real to him like they once had. So instead he allowed himself a moment to watch the sky as it moved along, wondering if he too might catch a glimpse of Leonard's lights peeking through the clouds.

  The hum of the strip lighting softened as the lights dimmed, centrally controlled, signalling that somebody had decided that the day had drawn to a close. He wondered if they were still counting the hours. After five minutes of pointless staring at a sky no longer consistent with life he stood up, no longer able to torment himself. Even if there was light, even if the dawn really was about to break, what was there left for him to go back to? There was nothing left for him in the old world. Delta was all that he had now. Even if he could go back to that final day, the moments just before the sky turned black when his life as he knew it ended, would he even have the courage to do so? He wasn't so sure that he would find the strength to get it right this time, or that he wouldn't just disappoint her all over again? He secured his overalls with a belt, letting the top half of them hang down from his waist. He checked the spare ration cards were still in his pocket and then pulled on his deerstalker hat. He left his ration card in the wall mounted box, his artificial presence in his quarters, and stepped back into the noise of the corridor. Most people had retreated to their rooms, and all the kids had been rounded up as he made his way through the lobby. It made the adverts seem louder still, but when it was this quiet they offered him some comfort, because they left no space in which to think about what a mess he had made of the life he had lost.

  Chapter Two

  One bag had been waiting like a convict, imprisoned but ready for action in the wardrobe since last Saturday. Mother had insisted. She had said there was no need for the warm clothes to stay hanging up or stacked in dusty piles, the type that would be beneficial when winter fell and refused to depart like a man-made Ice Age. She had spent the last three days packing, things they needed, and things they didn't. Emily had unpacked some of her stuff, like the T-shirt that had PEACE emblazoned across it with the CND sign. This was the one she knew she was going to wear when the time came.

  Mother had left her to pack only one bag, but she still hadn't done it. Now it was almost too late. It was the bag for the small things that seem irrelevant but that matter because they belong to you, and because the you that you know, the one you see when you look in the mirror, isn't going to exist anymore.

  Emily could still smell the coffee from the breakfast they hadn't eaten as she stood staring into the void of the empty bag. There was hardly any space. It was too small, but Father had told her that was all she was allowed. She had spent hours looking through her belongings over the last few days, trying to triage her items into important and non-important. She thought at first it would be easy, but it wasn’t. She thought she could look through her things and know what she wanted to take with her, but it was evident early on that when you knew that soon enough you would be left with nothing, everything became something to treasure.

  It had been a normal Friday night, movie queued up and popcorn in the microwave when that first call came. They had finished a takeaway dinner of pizza with an extra topping of pepperoni the way she liked it only half an hour before, amidst laughter and talk of the coming weekend. Maybe they would go hiking on Sunday? Who fancied a trip to the theatre? Whose turn was it to load the dishwasher because it was the cleaner's night off? Life before that call had been normal. Happy. Emily was shouting from the living room, calling for them to hurry up with the popcorn. Mother had been telling her that she hadn't done her chores and that the plates were still waiting to be loaded. But then the telephone rang and there was silence. It was only minutes before Mother came running through, telling Emily that she had to be quiet, that Father was taking an important call. Important calls were nothing unusual, but her mother's behaviour became erratic, drawing the curtains as if they were living through a wartime blackout. She began turning out unnecessary lights like they were a family of fugitives on the brink of being seized. Mother sat down on the settee, told Emily to come close, not to panic, all the while smoothing out a tissue over the top of a jittery knee. She stroked Emily's hair as if she were still a baby who needed comforting, but it was her mother who was brimming with fear. Her father came in and stood with his back against the door. He noticed the dark and turned on a lamp. He too checked the curtains. Silence. It was Emily's mother who broke it to ask if it was time, and his only answer was to look away. After he had calmed her down it was he who had the most to say. Her mother had been unable to stop whimpering long enough to work a sentence together. She sat with one hand resting on Emily’s leg, the other dabbing a wrinkled and soaked-through tissue at her nose and eyes. She kept saying everything was going to be all right. Not to panic. Whatever her father said was met by her mother telling her that everything was going to be all right. Emily knew straightaway that it wouldn't be.

  “Emily, hurry.” The words travelled emotionless like foot soldiers up the stairs. “You’ve got less than ten minutes.” She heard her father’s shoes striking against the marble floor as he walked away, barking more orders at the people who had arrived at the door. Emily was already wearing her school uniform when the call came that morning. She had refused to stay home and her father had reassured her mother that it was best to keep living as normally as possible. He added that it would be easy to get to her when the time came. Her mother had called it an irresponsible decision. She added, almost like an afterthought, that it hadn't been his first.

  The history, science, and English books that had been in her bag were now strewn across the quilt cover. It was a patchwork with a heart on it, and now it seemed stupid in a way it never had before. She peered out of the window to see her father arrive on the driveway. He completed a series of movements with his arms, instructions like semaphore, left and right as if he was still in command of his destiny. The rays from the low sun cast him in shadow, his form becoming a hazy silhouette that she almost couldn't recognise, and she had to squint to shield her eyes. The three men who remained nameless but who had been in the house since the night when that first call came, set about loading the cars as if their life depended on it. Rather than Emily's and her parents'.

  Emily rummaged through the pile of school books and grabbed the English text that she was currently reading. The Handmaid's Tale. When she first started the book she had thought it unbelievable that so many of the girls would go along with being handmaids, and she had told h
er English teacher so. No way, she had said, would a girl who knew her own mind just go along with that. She would fight back. She wouldn't let it happen. Her teacher had tried to convince her that they were trying to save their own lives. That they were trying to be strong in their own way. That they would do whatever it took to survive. She had never understood how cooperation could be somebody's only means to fight, or how the bravest fight could be born of silence. She threw the book in the bag. She grabbed a selection of jewellery, all cheap and worthless. Not good for trading, but she was too young to think ahead. She didn’t like the diamond earrings anyway. Why would she take them? There was a copy of Cosmo lying next to the bed, so she snatched that up and shoved it in the bag.

  “Emily,” her father shouted, his voice angrier, as scratchy as nails on a blackboard. “Come on, get a move on. It’s time.”

  “Anthony, please. Stop shouting,” she heard her mother reply, her voice stretched as if every fear was hanging from the end of it. “You’re scaring her.”

  Emily grabbed the drawstring of the back pack and fastened the buckle on top. She held her wrist up and checked her watch. 8:15 AM. She thought about Amanda sitting next to an empty desk wondering why Emily was late. She picked up her mobile, dragged her finger across the screen to check for any new text messages. Her prayers remained unanswered. There was no stroke of luck that Amanda had sent her a message to say that she was ill and hadn't made it to school. No last minute holiday somewhere far away. There was nothing from Amanda. But of course there was nothing. Amanda’s family didn’t know anything about what was happening. They had no reason to run or hide.

  Emily had considered betraying her father's trust and telling Amanda. She had played out the conversation over and over in her head. But what choices did Amanda’s family have? Where would they have gone if they knew? There was no underground bunker waiting for them. No man in a suit to pack their car. The last time Emily saw Amanda she had smiled and hugged her, and Amanda had told her that she had decided to go on the date with Richard Curtis from the year above. They had both known what that really meant. Emily had told her to have fun on that Monday night, and as Amanda skipped away laughing, Emily knew that she had lost her chance to do the right thing. She had decided that telling her the truth could end up making things worse. She threw the phone back onto the bed. There was no need for it now. She reached into the nearest drawer and pulled out the T-shirt with PEACE on it and pulled it over her white school blouse. She pulled her arms into the sleeves of her blazer and picked up the bag looking something like a 1970s punk. She allowed herself one last look at the phone. It was too late to do anything. She told herself again that it was better that they didn't know. Who wants to know they are going to die?

  “That’s it, Emily, come on.” Her father was standing at the bottom of the stairs waving his arms in giant circles of encouragement. “Go sit in the car.” His feet were tapping, and her mother was turning around in small circles behind him. She looked like a jewellery box ballerina that had become detached and lost its way.

  “Oh, Anthony, stop it,” Mother begged again.

  “Helena, she has to understand that we have no choice,” he said, not once taking his eyes from Emily. “Everything is packed, Emily. Go and wait in the car.”

  “Not everything is packed,” Emily said, her bottom lip sticking out, her jaw clenched shut. She fiddled with her braid for a distraction. Her hair was soft like golden leaf, and when it hung loose the breeze caught the ends and tousled them like embers blown from a bonfire. Rapunzel, her mother called her.

  “Emily, darling. Your father is right. Please hurry.” Helena Grayson turned to Anthony as she edged her daughter towards the door. “This is all your fault, you know that? You are responsible for everything.”

  “Helena, not now,” he barked. “Go on, Emily, we are right behind you.” Emily arrived at the front door and slipped her hand into the pocket of her school blazer. She stopped when she found the pocket empty and swung back towards the stairs. Her father snatched at her arm to stop her. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, as the tartan rucksack slid down to her wrist, swinging like a pendulum between them.

  “I forgot something. I have to go back.”

  “Emily, no!” he shouted, but she had wriggled her wrist free, snapping it back like a catapult released. “Get back down here now,” he said, charging up the stairs behind her, almost tripping on the rucksack which had dropped to the ground. She stood at the door to her bedroom with her hands on the doorframe, her father bellowing behind her, her mother still whimpering. “Emily, hurry up,” he said, followed by something inaudible from her mother. But Emily wasn't listening.

  She raced into her bedroom and grabbed the iPod from her nightstand. She breathed a sigh of relief as she wound the earphones around the old click wheel device before she stuffed it into her pocket. She couldn’t believe that she had nearly forgotten it. She turned to leave the room, but as she did she saw her pin board facing her. “Emily Grayson, if you are not down here.........” She heard her father's voice resonating up the stairs, followed by footsteps on the marble staircase. His words were disappearing into the reality that she could feel slipping away from her, a place she could no longer reach. Her eyes surrendered to the pin board in front of her and as they travelled across the mementoes from her past, they settled on a strip of images taken in a photo booth. In one, Amanda was sticking her tongue out, in another she was cross-eyed. That day they had been to the cinema, a forgettable movie about a loser boyfriend and a stupid girl who always took him back. They had laughed together as they promised themselves that they would never be like that. They would always have each other. They promised that they would never let each other down. Emily knew that she had failed to keep her promise. She could have told Amanda yesterday. She could have warned her in time for her to do something, to hide, to run, to try. But instead she did as her father instructed her to do and said nothing. She had no right to feel sorry for herself. She was no better than he was.

  Emily pulled the photograph from the board and folded it in two just as her father arrived at the door. He didn't say anything but instead he snatched at her wrist and began pulling her downstairs. Emily ran to keep up with him but her footing was unsteady.

  “Dad! Dad, you're hurting me!” she said, sliding the folded images into her skirt pocket. His fingers gripped her arm like the sharp claws of an eagle and she could feel his skin rubbing against hers as if it was sandpaper. His skin was red hot, his face as brilliant as the brightest flare, and he didn't loosen his grip until she was in the back of the waiting car. Her mother was already sitting on the back seat trying not to cry. Emily rubbed at her sore arm, her skin marked by four finger shaped welts. She turned to her mother, her common alliance when her father got too rough. Her mother's instinctive reaction was always to stand in Emily’s corner, an unflinching buttress of support. Her parents would trade insults, and Emily would cocoon herself in her bedroom until the shouting diminished to a distant moan, like the call of the whales from the ocean. But today nobody seemed to notice what had happened. If they did, they didn't care.

  On the way through the streets Emily was surprised at how normal everything appeared. There were people eating breakfast in cafes which made her empty stomach grumble, queues for coffee served in takeaway cups that snaked out of shop doorways as people hurried to work. They passed a school and it was full of children playing in the courtyard without a care in the world. There were girls skipping, and another group was playing hopscotch. Emily imagined them in flames, charred and burnt like a movie she had once seen. Emily knew she didn’t belong here anymore, her place in this life sacrificed by her secrecy, her right to mourn relinquished by her choices. These people were not like her. They didn’t know what was coming. Not even those she loved. She looked down at her T-shirt and suddenly felt like a fraud, taunted by the CND sign as it pulled on the strings of her guilt. She wrapped her blazer closed and held herself in her own
embrace.

  They drove up the A23 en route to the city and it was only once they passed the turn that she was expecting to take that she realised they weren't stopping for anything. Or anybody. Emily turned to face her mother who was crying again, her shoulders shaking, her tears spreading out from puffy, mascara-stained eyes. Her hands were clasped together as if she was praying, and her father sat stoically like a statue staring from the window. The sirens on the top of the cars ahead and behind wailed to notify the less fortunate of their presence, and they sailed through the traffic as if nothing and nobody else mattered.

  “What about Grandpa?” Emily asked. Her mother let out a whimper, the sound of a dog whose paw had been trampled. It was a pathetic cry, one that she probably didn’t even expect to make. “Dad, what about Grandpa?” Emily asked again, pulling at his arm. She studied his face and found that was clenching his jaw tighter than usual, and she heard some of his breath escape before he turned to look at her.

  “There is no room for your Grandfather, Emily. There is no time.” He reached across and placed his hand on his wife’s knee, but this only seemed to make matters worse because Helena Grayson let out another yelp, another pathetically trodden paw, and she pulled her knee away from him as if he were a leper, and that his touch was that of certain death.

  “But, Dad,” Emily stuttered. “He’ll die.” Another whimper. “Dad, do something. You can fix it. You can organise it. You can get him in, I know you can.” He didn't flinch as Emily dropped to her knees on the floor of the car, as if he hadn't even heard or felt her. “Dad, you can do anything.” Her words became more desperate as each attempt at reason was met by a sullen, hopeless shake of his head. “You can do it, Dad. You can. And if anything goes wrong we can sneak him in. He can sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the floor. Dad,” she pleaded, kneeling next to him and rubbing her hands over his clenched fists, begging for him to see that it was possible. “He’s going to die.” She grabbed the car phone with her remaining strength, gleaned from the desperation of the last hope. In her heart she already knew she was defeated.