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

by Michelle Muckley

  Hairless from top to toe, he dressed in the clothes provided for him, a white pyjama-like outfit that he recognised from the footage from Omega Tower. The needle-like hairs on his legs grated at the clothes like splinters in his skin. He slipped his feet into the lace-free pumps from the locker, and dodging the pile of hair on the floor, he approached the door. He thought of Ronson as he reached out and turned the handle, that same sense of sickness-inducing awe washing across him as he moved freely into the next room, and he realised that it wasn't the simplicity of a working mechanism at all that had left Ronson speechless when he went above ground. It was the door itself.

  A new door is a passport to a foreign place, a forbidden gateway behind which magical things await. People even make amulets of the door; step with your right foot first, sprinkle salt nearby, place heads of angels above it to guard safe passage. To safeguard those behind it. To be granted passage, to step beyond, is a form of acceptance. For Ronson it was a temporary relief, but for Zack it was something more. He was being given the key to this place. In this isolated moment he had no Guardian, no assistant, no fixer. He was here. Alone. Stepping into a new world.

  “Ah, good. You are ready,” said Dr. Watson, putting down a cup. There was a smell of coffee in the air, rich and thick, and Zack could feel saliva rushing into his mouth. “Shall we make our way to your quarters?” Isobella had disappeared. He knew because he looked for her. Zack nodded and followed Dr. Watson through a series of doors until they stepped into a well-lit corridor, strip lighting buzzing above him every third step like the sound of rain on an electricity pylon. “This room isn’t really all that comfortable, but I think you will manage here for a while. Unfortunately,” he said, without stopping or turning to look at Zack, “allowing you access to the upper levels at this early stage is a step we are not prepared to take. There was an outbreak of the flu the last time, and quite simply we do not want to have another incident like that. A disease in such close quarters spreads faster than herpes in the sublevels of Delta Tower.” Dr. Watson found his own joke hilarious, but it all seemed staged because he soon brought the laughter under control, as if a switch had been flicked. On to off. Funny ends now. It coincided with his arrival outside a door marked ISOLATION ONE. Dr. Watson turned to lean against it so that he was facing Zack. He let out a deflating breath. “Besides, I am fairly sure that is scabies nesting on your hands. We’ll have to treat that first.” Dr. Watson opened the door and stepped inside the room.

  “Scabies?” Zack said, following him, but with his attention cast down onto his reddened and blistered fingers. He thought it was a touch of eczema. “I hope it isn't scabies?”

  “Maybe not. We’ll see. What difference does it make? Anyway, for now, put this cream on.” Dr. Watson produced a tube from his pocket. “Put it on all the time, especially after washing. “Might just be eczema. Regardless,” he said looking around the room, “you have got a TV there, which should help with the lack of windows down here. Everything in good time, eh? Somebody will be along shortly with some food, probably a nice looking girl from the kitchens,” he said, winking, peering over his glasses. “Other than that you are on your own for a while. I would shake your hand but, well, probably not a great idea. Welcome to Omega.” With that, and before Zack had a chance to ask any other questions the doctor was gone, leaving Zack standing alone in ISOLATION ONE, a room twice the size of the one he had lived in for an unidentified number of years.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He put the tube down on the nearest side table, low level and glass topped alongside a beige egg shaped armchair. On the far wall there was a bed sticking out into the middle of the room, topped with a plump mattress and covered by crisp white sheets embroidered with the words ‘Shangri La Palace Hotel’. On either side of it there was a bedside locker, guarding the bed like the gates to an ancient city. Running along the wall on the other side was a desk the full length of the room, and as Zack neared it he noticed that there was a pen, a pencil, and a writing pad, each imprinted with ‘Shangri La Palace Hotel’. Further along was a pane of glass, much like the screen that the non-Guardians had been using on Level B1. He assumed that it was the television to which Dr. Watson had referred. There was a bookshelf too but it was empty, with the exception of a copy of the Omega Manifesto, a ten-page booklet with the rules of The Republic of New Omega. It had been placed there without expectation, the same way that there would once have been a copy of the Bible in a hotel room. Nobody expected it to be read. Flicked through, perhaps, or used to prop open a bathroom door.

  He moved towards the bed and leant down to the sheets, balancing on his toes and bended knees. The sheets didn’t smell of anything as he smoothed his hand across them. They almost looked new. He sat down onto the bed, the mattress creeping up around him. Nothing but cushioned comfort, no springs or frame to interrupt it. On another glass-topped table which sat in the middle of the room he noticed an envelope. He leaned forwards to pick it up. The paper was a soft as silk, smooth like cigarette paper, which left the skin on the tip of his finger tingling. It stirred another memory, that of Samantha running her finger over his chest, making him shiver. They were flooding back to him like a seismic tsunami.

  It was a day of winter, the deep kind where venturing outside is only for the foolhardy, and when animals know better than to leave their dens. The sensible hibernate underground, fattened up during summer, sleeping through the harshest, and whitest of days. That's what Samantha said they were doing. Hibernating. Her dormouse, she called him as they slipped into the sheets in the middle of the afternoon. The room was sparse, a remnant from the olden days when houses were built for grandeur instead of comfort, and when ceilings were high and draughts penetrating. The windows in that old university room had been fitted years before, and the thin panes allowed icy streams of air to tease their skin. Say we'll do it, Zack. Say it'll happen one day. Those were her words, her voice high-pitched and excitable. We'd be so good together, Zack. He believed it back then, when he was twenty two and naive, certain that he knew what he wanted for the rest of his life. He told her they would marry, that they would buy a house with enough bedrooms for their offices and for their children. Maybe even for an au pair. It was all possible back then, before they knew what real life was, and before they left the safety of youth. They didn't know then that the promises they were making would fade, rot like a shipwreck in the ocean, almost unnoticeably day by day, until the time when everything collapsed. Hating each other was unimaginable, a news story on the television. Something for other people.

  Zack pulled at the open flap of the envelope, withdrew the paper from inside. He opened it out. It was a letter. Addressed to him.

  Dear Mr. Christian,

  Congratulations on your recent selection for residency in Omega Tower. As you are aware, this is a much sought-after prize, and we are pleased to warmly welcome you into our community.

  You will by now have undergone many of the preliminary necessities. I am sure you enjoyed the hot shower, and as for the rest, I apologise. Your stay in isolation for the following period of up to several weeks is a necessary and unfortunate step that we must take in order to protect the citizens of Omega Tower from the potential diseases of the outside world. We assure you that as soon as we are able to welcome you formally into our world, you will of course benefit from this same protection, enjoying the benefits of living in a clean and safe environment, virtually free of disease.

  In the meantime, you will find a small control panel on the side of your desk and this will give you full access to the services on offer in Omega Tower, including television and music. I would like to point out that Channel 0 plays a constant stream from the lobby, giving you an opportunity to sample life in Omega Tower in advance. Channel 100 is my particular favourite, but I will leave you to discover that on your own.

  Start feeling like your Omega self today!

  Mr. W Thompson,

  Lottery Coordinator

  He slumped back on t
he bed, swung his feet up and sank into the pillows. Weeks. He might be in here for weeks? That length of time could start to feel like some sort of rite of passage. To be stuck for weeks seemed like a near impossible task, and he realised that being able to count the days was harder than when he had no concept of time. He gazed around the room. It was near empty, clinical like an aseptic version of life, and yet there was a comfort to it that was absent in Delta. The materials were soft and smooth, the pillows plump in a way that when you rested into them it felt like the embrace of a parent. Say we'll do it, Zack. Say it'll happen one day. Her words rang out again in his head and he covered his face with the letter. He had managed to block Samantha out in Delta, but ever since the lottery announcement she had been pushing her way back into his consciousness. Since his success she was here with him, reminding him of the past. Both the good and the bad. Zack folded the letter into three and dropped it back on the table. There was a knock on the door and a petite blonde walked through, her green eyes twinkling like freshly mined emeralds under the glare of an Afghan sun. Her mouth was covered by a mask, and most of her hair was tucked underneath a net cap. He sat up and straightened out his clothes. He attempted to brush his hair into place, and then remembered that he didn't have any.

  “Mr. Christian,” she said as she pushed a trolley into the room, a dimple forming in the mask as she spoke giving just the hint of a mouth. She lined the trolley up next to the coffee table. Zack watched her, admired the soft skin around her eyes which looked youthful and fresh. She was smiling underneath the mask. He could tell because the apples of her cheeks were pushing up the corners of her eyes, and yet her skin stayed wrinkleless. Not even the slightest tissue-paper fold. Smiles in Delta had become almost obsolete. It was as if there was no use for such a thing, like language in a monastery. To see a smile, even one that was covered, gave a sense of life and spirit. It reminded him of Samantha at that age, no more than twenty. You're like my furry little dormouse. “Your first Omega meal, Mr. Christian.” She turned to walk away, stopping only as he spoke to her.

  “Thanks,” The plate was topped with a silver cover, nothing fancy, more hospital than hotel. Regardless, it was an improvement. At least the porridge would be warm. Perhaps they even added a flavouring.

  “Our good President, may you enjoy it,” she said, smiling again before leaving and closing the door behind her. He moved to the armchair and sat down, contemplating the unusual farewell. He found the egg shell chair to be set on a swivel, and moved himself left and right, testing it out. It had to beat the plastic bench seats of Delta Tower. He pulled the tray towards him and picked up the cover. The sight and smell caused a rush of saliva in his mouth, almost enough to drown on. He swallowed it down.

  Chicken. Potatoes. Peas. A small drizzle of a beige coloured sauce. He reached for the knife and fork and tore at the meat, the skin crispy, the flesh soft and juicy beneath. But the first mouthful was overwhelming. The food swelled in his mouth, choking him. It was the taste of Sunday roast dinner, a pub in the winter, a log fire warming his knees. Somebody’s dog was on the floor in front of him, toasting itself like a marshmallow, first one side, then the next. Samantha’s cheeks were pink from the hike, their lungs clear from the sharp winter air. She was telling him she loved him and he was saying the same thing back. He made a promise that one day they would marry and have a child. So it'll happen one day? One day. Not yet though, he added.

  He set the knife and fork down, gulped down the mouthful of chicken, followed by the knot of emotion which was resting in his throat. It was so different to the porridge, and too hot. He guzzled the water from the glass beaker on the tray. His mouth felt as if it had been burnt. His heart was racing. It was what people used to call sensory overload. He stood up, paced around the room, his eyes spinning from the bed to the bookcase to the tray of food and then back to the bed before making another round of the same objects. He ended up at the door, and only as he reached for the handle did he realise that it was missing. He breathed in, out, and then in again, eventually settling himself when his eyes caught sight of something else. A small cartridge on the tray next to his food, much like an old SD card for a camera. Was it supposed to be there? Had the green-eyed woman put it there when she brought in the food? He picked it up and fingered it, turning it around so that he could catalogue every detail. It didn't take long because it was almost transparent, save a few gold metallic components along one edge. He was certain if he did this no detail could take him by surprise later on, uncover a hidden memory when he wasn't expecting it. He forced himself to recall everything he associated with such an item so that one couldn't jump out from where it was hiding when he wasn't expecting it. Holidays, daytrips, an argument about camera settings, downloading and uploading the pictures, being in the woods, waiting for sunrise. That was all. There was nothing he left out. At least he hoped.

  He pushed the tray away across the table. The food was too hot, and the roof of his mouth had been irritated by the texture. He was trying to scratch at it with his tongue, like the day he had finally stopped wearing braces. He looked around the room for a card reader, trying to recall what one might look like. He opened the bedside drawers and found a white toothbrush sealed in a plastic bag and a tiny tube of paste. Alongside it there was a metal pot of soap and body moisturiser. In the drawer on the other side there was another copy of the Omega Manifesto. No card reader. Next to the television he found a small glass tile, and as he picked it up the screen lit up. He ran his finger across it, and the screen that he had assumed was a television also woke up. The glass whitened, like pouring milk into water, and then a large black omega sign appeared in the centre of the screen. Underneath in small black lettering there was another sentence fading into view as if it was bursting through a summer sky full of clouds. After a moment it was clear enough to read. Providing your future.

  On the top edge of the smaller tile he found a hole, something that looked like a slot for the tiny glass card. He smiled when he heard a click as he pushed it in. It had worked. He could see the card positioned inside, and next to it a small light began to shine. The omega sign on the television faded out, and a new image faded in. A date. August 13th, 2028. Was it possible that was today? Then more lettering appeared underneath the date, blinking into view as if it was being typed right before his eyes. Omega Today. A title?

  In the life plan that he had been trying to execute since his early twenties, he had intended that by the date on the screen he would be married to Samantha. He had always intended to marry her. It was real, that memory from the winter’s day in the pub, the day in the bed, when snow smothered the ground and frost crept up the windows. He had promised her these things, and he had meant it. But somewhere along the way the promises got lost, discarded like the brown leaves of autumn before the arrival of winter. They should have been raising a child on this day. He should have been waking up in bed, a smiling wife and giggling ten year old carrying a cake with candles, or a tray of burnt toast and sloppy cereal. Now, in this moment that's what he should have been doing. That was what was supposed to be happening, according to the promises he had made.

  But even without the bombs he had told her that he couldn’t, that it was the wrong time. That the child they had conceived couldn’t be raised by them. Back then he thought he had forever, as if he were immortal. He didn't realise that he had so much already and that it should have been enough. He thought that he could return the offer of that future like an unwanted gift. That he had the right to pick and choose. Such mistakes were made so easily when you thought you had an eternity ahead of you in which to put them right. He had told himself since that he would have seen sense. He had told himself it was just fear that had made him say those things on that morning, and that he would have put right his mistakes to become the father as was destined. He had almost convinced himself that it was true.

  He looked again at the screen and the date. Was it really today's date? If so, Emily had been right. He had been in De
lta Tower for ten years, and that he had got out on his thirty seventh birthday.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The meal was cold by the time he had finished reading Omega Today, but it didn’t matter. He was used to cold food. Anyway, in comparison to the mineral-enriched porridge that he had forced himself to swallow like medicine over the last ten years it was a feast, a medieval banquet complete with roast boar and bowls of steaming potatoes. He learned that the control panel worked via touch, and with a series of taps and slides of the fingertip it was pretty easy to navigate. The information on the screen seemed much like a newspaper, like the ones he used to buy from street vendors huddled inside rickety shacks. Back then he would read the stories light-heartedly, scan the information like one might gaze in the window of a shop without any intention to buy. Before life in Delta he had been a waster of experience, of information, and life. How easily he had discarded things. People. But it was different now, and he read the stories over and over, as if he could read his way back into the old world. Or perhaps even into the new world, wherever and whatever that might be. There was nothing that he didn't want to be a part of. There was nothing for him to casually discard as if it were of negligible importance. Now, everything mattered.