What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  “Whatever happens.”

  “No matter what.”

  END OF BOOK ONE

  About the Author

  Shelbi Wescott is a high school Language Arts, journalism, and creative writing teacher. She is also a mother of two, a television junky, a table game connoisseur, and an enthusiastic participant in Reddit gift exchanges. She wrote her first book, “Virulent: The Release”, for her students after they asked her to write a post-apocalyptic book that took place in their school. When she isn’t writing, she is wandering the aisles of Powell’s Books, throwing elaborate birthday parties, officiating weddings, and avoiding cleaning her house. Shelbi lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and her two sons, and an aggressively cuddly hound dog named Darby.

  You can find her in all these places:

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ShelbiWescott

  Tumblr: http://shelbispeaks.tumblr.com

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/Shelbispeaks

  Website: www.shelbiwescott.com

  And you can find her books on Amazon

  Find out about upcoming releases here: http://www.infiniteinkauthors.com/shelbi-wescott.html

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As a reader, I really love the acknowledgments page. It’s like a writer’s Academy Award speech, except no one can play you off with an orchestra and you are likely thanking people who helped you while you are still wearing pajamas instead of a fancy ball gown. And that’s the thing about writing; I can just tell you that I’m writing this in a beautiful bright yellow Oscar de la Renta dress and you could believe me. But you shouldn’t. I am clearly in sweat pants and a maple syrup stained t-shirt.

  Here we go:

  First of all, thank you Kevin. Thank you for hating every single book I tried to get you to read when you were in the ninth grade; thank you for your never ending barrage of fourteen year-old opinions and your challenge disguised as an insult: “Ms. Wescott, I bet even you could write a better book than this.” Challenge accepted. I hope I did okay. Sorry it took four years, but I’d like to think this is a pretty unique graduation gift. Plus, I feel like I’ve offered you a very cool pick-up line for college girls, “So, my freshman Reading teacher wrote a book for me. You wanna go out?” Now that I wrote that down, I realize that you can probably think of better pick-up lines, but that is why I wrote a book about people dying of a virus instead of a book about pick-up lines.

  To every other student of mine at Centennial High School, past and present: I didn’t become a teacher because I liked to hear myself talk about The Great Gatsby. I went into teaching because I think there is something special and amazing and powerful about teenagers. That little speech I give about being your teacher and your mother? It’s true. Thank you for indulging me by letting me name characters after you and for stealing gossip from your own life and giving it to the people in my fictitious high school. Thank you for being early readers and being honest about what worked and what didn’t work for you. Thank you for your excitement and for forcing me to finish when I was tired and didn’t think I had it in me. I’m especially grateful to my creative writing students, who inspire me with their own talents, and to the Talon staff who believed in me first.

  Book Club: You are more than a book club. You are my best friends, my confidants, my support, and my lifeline. You are readers and thinkers and you are my biggest cheerleaders; you challenge me personally and professionally and have proven that there is nothing in this world better than amazing female friendships. Without hyperbole I can tell you that I don’t know where I’d be without you all. I’ve decided that the best decision I can make in my life is protecting my heart. I give my heart to you without reservation or regret. Book Club is the best thing I’ve ever done. Thank you. Words are not enough. But from the bottom of my heart, thank you: Allison, Christy, Claudia, Lorrie, Melissa, Molly, Sunshine, Suzy, and Toni. (I know that Sunshine needs a specific shout-out for forgoing sleep to give me honest feedback that forced me to admit to my semi-colon problem.)

  Nicole—we are the dynamic duo. Thank you for reading this first and championing publication. And thank you MOST for thinking of a title. Otherwise this would be called “Swimming Pool Full of Dead Teens” or “Trapped in a School with an Evil Principal” and no one would want to buy it ever. Your questions were the catalyst for major changes that made this book FAR BETTER than it was before and I am eternally grateful that I work with you and can call you a friend. Rana—your laughter and willingness to love me, despite knowing all my deepest and darkest secrets, is the best gift. Thanks for letting me put this book into your student’s hands.

  (Is this where the orchestra starts? Don’t play me off! I have more!)

  Mom and dad: When I told you at age four that I wanted to be an Arthur and you thought that I meant I wanted to be an aardvark, but then you realized I meant author, you have always told me to go for it. You let me wake you up at 3am to read you things I was excited about and you always pretended it was the best stuff ever, even though I’m pretty sure you were sleeping when I read it and only woke up when I asked, “What do you think?” Thank you for raising my brothers and me to be creative, musical, and passionate. Dad, thank you for the jazz music and the introduction to Science Fiction. Mom, thank you for reading everything I’ve ever written. Thank you for being a voracious reader of other people’s books and saying more times than I can count, “You could’ve done that book so much better” even when it was very clearly not true. But that’s what moms are for. Also, THANK YOU for never censoring my reading material, especially when I was in junior high and all I wanted to do was stay up really late and read Stephen King books.

  I will be forever grateful to Samantha Lynn for saying, “Um, my mom wants the next chapter right now” and it kept me writing. Thank you to Sam’s hotel bar at the Monarch for providing a mostly-quiet place to work without distraction. Thank you to all the screenwriters who write the amazing television shows and movies that get me excited to tell my own stories! Deborah Reed, thank you for offering me the encouragement I needed to try this publishing thing on my own. Thanks to Carin for your unbridled enthusiasm and cheerleading; I’m sorry sending you new chapters as I wrote them crashed your phone. And a huge thanks to the creative community to which I belong—I have supportive and awesome and exceptionally talented friends. I don’t deserve you, but I’m grateful you exist.

  Lastly (as they push me off stage): To my little family. Matthew, Elliott and Isaac. In the event of a disaster, we will be together—fighting side-by-side. Actually, no, that’s inaccurate. I will fight and Matt will be the comic relief. Elliott, you are my gifted storyteller. My heart bursts with love and admiration whenever I listen to you telling me a story you created. You are my inspiration. Isaac, you are so funny and your snuggles make all my hard days better. You don’t understand why mommy is busy and doesn’t want you hitting the keyboard. I’m sure your additions would’ve been spectacular, but readers usually get confused when sdhjdf;lksdf is in the middle of a sentence.

  I love you all. I am loved. I am blessed. I thank God for this journey. And I’m ready to start the next adventure.

  * * *

  EXTERNAL FORCES, Deborah Rix

  BONUS CHAPTERS!

  Dystopia, by Deborah Rix

  Welcome to Dystopian High

  I didn’t set out to write a dystopian story, but once I imagined teenagers in a not-too-distant future I don’t think it could have been otherwise. Dystopian stories can seem to be about wildly imaginative yet impossible futures, but they are really a version of what is happening in teenage lives right now.

  The world is a nice enough place (if you live in the first world,) most decisions are made by others, and the future is a bright and shiny place. But, along comes high school and teenagers are questioning rules that suddenly seem arbitrary and can randomly change. Their bodies are no longer under their control and seem to operate independently from their brains. They are watched, assessed, and assigned to a social group
they may or may not want to be a part of. Adults are constantly monitoring communication channels, and nonconformity attracts bullies. No one cares who they really are, even though they themselves haven’t quite figured out who they are yet.

  And then they discover the Big Lie. There are things going on that no one told them about, and there are places in the world that, for good or ill, are utterly different from their own existence. They realize that it’s their turn to change the world.

  Plus, kissing.

  Reimagine all of that and you end up with young adult dystopian fiction.

  My reimagining began with Scientific American. It has fascinating articles from every branch of scientific discovery. It also has a lot of bad news. Well, potential bad news. I began to ask myself what would happen if those dire warnings came true, or if those breakthroughs led to something unexpected.

  What if scientific theory could be challenged and declared untrue by people with no scientific background? What if Creationists gained political power? What if big pharmaceutical companies ran the American FDA and approved whatever they wanted to? What if all those potential problems with genetically modified food actually happened? What if genetic information was collected during a vaccination program from an unsuspecting population under the guise of national security? What if all the pollinating bees began inexplicably disappearing, threatening food crops? What if there was mass starvation and genocide on the other side of the world and we didn’t do anything about it? What if personal privacy was eradicated and all of our communication was monitored?

  All of those things have recently occurred in some form; my imagination only had to take it one step further. And I have to say, it was hard to stay ahead of developments because the future kept catching up with me as I was writing.

  None of those possibilities could cause TEOTWAWKI (The End Of The World As We Know It) on their own, but what if they happened all at once? What if TEOTWAWKI comes not as an apocalyptic bang, but instead we watch it arrive without giving the slightest whimper?

  Reimagine all of that, and, again, we end up with dystopian fiction, the sort that likes to warn us of the consequences of staying calm and carrying on. If those teenagers out there don’t stop and turn things around for us, this is how the future could turn out.

   Deborah Rix

  BONUS!

  First four chapters of External Forces by Deborah Rix

  The Laws of Motion

  Lex I

  EXTERNAL FORCES

  Deborah Rix

  LAWS OF MOTION

  Lex I: Every body perseveres in its state of rest or of uniform motion in a right line unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impress’d thereon

  The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy

  By Sir Isaac Newton

  Translated into English by Andrew Motte, 1729

  PROLOGUE

  I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.

  It’s part of the Special Operations Assessment and Selection course, twenty-eight days of grueling work. The two days of no sleep are meant to disorient us, part of discarding our former selves. There are three hundred of us trying to figure out how to do what we’re told, when we’re told to, and how to do it correctly. Jay and I weren’t assigned to the same platoon, which was unexpected. I’m in the “civilian” platoon; we’re the ones with skills that don’t generally require brute force. I think Jay is in some kind of elite group because I haven’t seen him, I’ve only seen the G-men platoon. They are all about brute force; they’re the ones that opted for genetic enhancement at age thirteen without the supervision of the Devotees. But Special Forces is, well, special, so they have to prove they’ve got more than muscle and I’ve gotta prove I’ve got more than a quick mind.

  If I don’t make it to Special Forces, my life expectancy in the regular army could be pretty short. And if I’m a complete washout, I’ll have to go to my assessment with the Devotees and they’ll find out about me, making my life expectancy even shorter. I seriously need to pass.

  Zero dark thirty is when I have to haul myself out of bed in the so-called morning. My drill sergeant has been yelling at me for most of the past two days. The word “why” has been surgically removed from everyone’s vocabulary. Any individual hesitation in following orders means at least one private is getting smoked, if not the whole platoon, which usually means push-ups. We’ve done a lot of push-ups. I stare straight ahead as the drill sergeant walks by me and continues down the row of privates. I made the mistake of “eyeballing” him yesterday.

  Never. Eyeball. A drill sergeant.

  1

  Three weeks earlier – May, 2125

  My mother thinks I’m a Deviant.

  It’s the kind of thing that can really throw a girl for a loop.

  The Devotees missed it when I was born, she said, but one day they would come for me. That was a few years ago, she didn’t know I was home when I overheard her; I got out of there lickety-split.

  And it’s not as if I haven’t noticed the way my mother looks at me sometimes. If they had taken me when they had the chance, maybe her other baby would still be with her. I’m pretty sure that’s what goes through her head when she looks at me.

  So the early assessment notice wasn’t entirely unexpected. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of kids are called for early assessments and nothing happens; they show up at school the next day. Some of them are all excited because they got called to become a Devotee.

  But some of them, well, they don’t come back.

  —

  I‘m in the parking lot of my high school, West Liberty. It’s prom night, and I came with my best friend, Jay. He’s still inside; he likes this sort of thing. I haven’t told him the early assessment notice came this afternoon. I didn’t want to ruin tonight for him. The humidity has made my dress even more uncomfortable than it was inside. Jay owes me. At least he won’t mind if I go home; it’s not that kind of date.

  A car door slams shut. There aren’t a lot of kids who can afford the fuel to drive their own car to the prom.

  Uh-oh. Blake.

  I take a step back. Blake is a popular kid, with the right look, the right home, the right pedigree.

  Right.

  Despite my attempts to blend in and stay in the background, Blake noticed me this year. When I didn’t respond like all the other girls do, I became his target.

  His car keys jangle as he drops them in his jacket pocket. I stand still; maybe he hasn’t seen me.

  “Hey, freak,” he calls as he comes around the blue pickup I was hoping would shield me. “Not leaving, are you?”

  I smell alcohol as Blake backs me up against the truck.

  His slicked-back hair smells slightly astringent, and his tongue slides over his upper lip as he looks me over from top to bottom. A shiver of revulsion goes through me. I can’t imagine what girls like about him. I can hear some voices, but they’re at the other end of the parking lot. It’s just me and Blake.

  “I’ve got an early graduation present for you,” he says quietly. His face is close to mine, and I can see beads of perspiration on his forehead. Slick from the humidity, his hand glides down my bare shoulder, as if he’s entitled to touch me.

  I don’t think I want a present from Blake.

  I’m surprised when my hand moves. There is a wet sound as Blake’s head snaps back.

  Blood spurts, and it seems as if time has gone into slow motion. The blood sprays toward me. I move my head to the side to avoid it, and watch it slowly drift by, suspended in the air.

  I turn back to Blake and a thrill zips through me. Thick, glossy blood creeps down his chin from his mashed nose. His mouth is open in shock; blood colors his teeth and gums. He moves sluggishly, and each blink seems to take effort.

  Drip by slow drip, the blood falls from his chin onto his shirt. Fascinated, I watch each droplet burst on his crisp white collar.

  A wet plonk hits my forehead as a sudden coldness envelops me. The
grin I’m shocked to find on my face sags. Fat droplets of rain release the pressure in the air and mix with the blood on Blake’s shiny shoes.

  Hands to his face, he doubles over as time suddenly speeds up again. The rain pelts down now. I take two steps to the side and run. I hear a sob and realize it’s me.

  What just happened?

  —

  It’s the morning after prom, and Jay saunters along beside me as we walk back to my house. I met him half way, as per my usual. His t-shirt is a bit wrinkled, but that’s on purpose, to go with jeans that are a little baggy in back. He’s over six feet and gets asked if he’s a model, which he laughs at, but I know he’s pleased. He could be quite popular if he wanted, but he hangs out with me instead.

  Jay and me are Fifth Generation. We’re the ones born between 2100 and 2120. We found each other in the seventh grade. We were the last two kids left when we all paired up for gym class. He asked me why I wasn’t moving when we were supposed to be heading out to the field. I explained that I was trying to activate my special powers so that I could use them to transport me far away. Usually that kind of talk would send kids running, and they’d whisper that I must be a Deviant. But not Jay. He blinked at me, then asked if I would take him with me, should my special powers ever actually work. We’ve been best friends since, and tell each other pretty much everything.

  “So, can you come to the thing?”

  Uh oh.

  I think I’m supposed to know what he’s talking about.

  “Uh, when is it again?” I stall for time. What thing?

  I push my hair behind my ears to help me think. It doesn’t always work. I have shoulder-length brown hair, parted on the side. My no-nonsense look is how I think of it. I still don’t know what the thing is.