The Park Service: Book One of The Park Service Trilogy

by Ryan Winfield

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  The End of the Holocene

  Part One

  CHAPTER 1

  Tomorrow’s the Big Day

  CHAPTER 2

  Good Thinking and Good Luck

  CHAPTER 3

  What Did I Do?

  CHAPTER 4

  I Love You, Son

  CHAPTER 5

  I’ve Died and Gone to Eden

  Part Two

  CHAPTER 6

  What in the World Happened?

  CHAPTER 7

  The Boy Who Sits on Water

  CHAPTER 8

  Jimmy

  CHAPTER 9

  Thank You, Robert Frost

  CHAPTER 10

  Welcome to the Cove

  CHAPTER 11

  You’ll See Soon Enough

  CHAPTER 12

  Idols from the Past

  CHAPTER 13

  Rites of Passage

  CHAPTER 14

  The Butterfly Waits

  CHAPTER 15

  The Slaughter

  CHAPTER 16

  Horror in the Cove

  CHAPTER 17

  The Funeral Pyre

  CHAPTER 18

  The Storm Passes

  CHAPTER 19

  There’s Nowhere to Go

  Part Three

  CHAPTER 20

  Just Passing Through

  CHAPTER 21

  One Foot In Front of the Other, and Don’t Slip

  CHAPTER 22

  Who Lives Here?

  CHAPTER 23

  The Lake House at Malthusai

  CHAPTER 24

  My Sweet, Sweet Hannah

  CHAPTER 25

  Dr. Radcliffe

  CHAPTER 26

  The Foundation

  CHAPTER 27

  Touring the Park

  CHAPTER 28

  Stories and Storms

  Part Four

  CHAPTER 29

  Days of Rain

  CHAPTER 30

  Gloria

  CHAPTER 31

  Mrs. Radcliffe

  CHAPTER 32

  One, Two, It’s All Through

  CHAPTER 33

  I Love You, Dad

  CHAPTER 34

  But What About Eden?

  CHAPTER 35

  My Last Mistake

  CHAPTER 36

  You Don’t Look Like an Angel

  CHAPTER 37

  How Many Miles Down to Babylon?

  CHAPTER 38

  You’re Free Now

  CHAPTER 39

  You Got a Better Plan?

  CHAPTER 40

  Why is Courage Wasted on the Young?

  CHAPTER 41

  The Wave

  CHAPTER 42

  One Last Night

  Second Book Email Sign Up

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  The End of the Holocene

  Dead leaves scatter, caught and swirling in smoky exhaust.

  Now the hiss of hydraulic brakes, the ticking blinker, the whine of straining gears as the bus disappears down the city hill like some mechanical land-whale sounding in a concrete sea.

  A young soldier stands alone on the curb. She thumbs her earbuds in, cranks her music up, slings her service pack on and walks the empty morning sidewalk toward home.

  Passing a pawnshop, she spots her reflection in the glass and stops to look—

  Taller, broader, her hair shorter than before—she isn’t sure who she is, who she has become. All she knows for sure is she isn’t who she was when she left.

  Nobody is, and nobody ever will be.

  The streets are quiet, even for the early hour.

  A digital clock on an unfinished bank building behind her blinks mindlessly, the red numbers reversed in the glass. She’s turning to read the time when she’s caught by the flash.

  A bright magnesium burn in the corner of the gray sky.

  Bright and then brighter.

  Then the heat hits.

  She stiffens, her skin crawling with searing pain.

  Weightless now, she’s floating above the blinding street, a garbage can suspended beside her, its contents already aflame. When she hits the pavement she feels the thunder of buildings collapsing around her, the tumbling stone, the falling glass.

  All is black now, but black as only hell can be. She hears a distant fire bell. Then muffled screams. Shrieks of pain, moans of agony.

  A voice calling softly—“Mother.”

  Another, more distant, mumbling some memorized prayer, strangely comforting in its innocence, despite the irony there. She smells sulfur, the dust of concrete, the pungent odor of cooking meat. She sits up and shrugs off her flaming pack. She strips free of her jacket, peels her shirt over her head, wincing as her skin tears away with it. Then the darkness lightens to a red haze that clears in a sweltering breeze. And from the haze a naked man stumbles toward her, his pale arms uplifted as if pleading to the burning sky, his quivering mouth agape in a silent scream. She watches with curious horror as he passes her by, his backside burned to muscle, to bone, the gushing blood running down his legs to leave a trail in the dusty street.

  She closes her eyes for a minute, maybe two.

  She opens them again.

  Beneath the billowing mushroom cloud rising above the ruined city, the morning sunshine breaks through in beautiful beams of rainbow color down to where she sits in the middle of the street. She tries to stand but discovers her legs crushed beneath a giant granite cornerstone, the date carved on its face like a tombstone already on top of her—

  ERECTED 2012.

  Then her left earbud fades back in and her music plays on as before, the voice of some pop past echoing in her ear from a world already gone. She almost reaches to pull the bud free, but decides to leave it in. And so she sits, pinned and watching, with an oddly fitting soundtrack as the wild tornado of fire rips up the street toward her, setting everything it touches ablaze, melting light posts, incinerating corpses, cleaning the street and making way for the gathering clouds of black rain.

  This street, every street—

  The world will never be the same.

  Part One

  CHAPTER 1

  Tomorrow’s the Big Day

  I stir awake.

  I listen to the gentle waves lapping at the shore, smell the saltwater breeze, feel the sun on my closed eyelids, and I grasp at my daydreams as they drift like clouds across my mind.

  A dark shadow flutters above, lands.

  Something brushes my throat.

  My eyes pop open.

  The gull opens its beak and screeches in my face. I lift my arm to knock it away, but my arm won’t budge. It’s trapped, I’m trapped. Buried. A mound of sand rises above my chest, only my head and neck are free. The gull pecks at my throat again. Another gull lands and nips me with its beak, too. More gulls circle overhead. I struggle, I kick—nothing gives.

  I’m frozen in the concrete grip of wet sand.

  I open my mouth to scream, but stop when I hear them laughing. I can’t show them I’m scared. I won’t. I will myself to relax, to be calm and take whatever comes, and I lie there in my tomb feeling the weight of the sand above me and the sharp brush of beaks snatching crackers off my baited head.

  The laughing stops. I hear their footsteps padding away on the wet sand. Then the gulls take flight, too. A moment later Bill’s smiling face appears in the blue sky above me.

  “I’ve never seen a beached seal,” he says, laughing. “But I was sure they’d be bette
r looking than you are.”

  “Stop making fun and dig me out.”

  “You need to learn to watch your back with those bullies,” he says, dropping to his knees and scooping the sand away.

  “Isn’t that your job?” I reply, sarcastically.

  “It’s my job to make sure you don’t drown.”

  I want to ask him who could drown in just a half meter of water, but I don’t. Free of my confinement, I stand and brush the sand from my arms and chest, revealing my pale flesh. I’m self-conscious standing next to Bill with his olive skin and his electric-sun bleached hair. I smile nervously, buying time to come up with a self-deprecating joke, but before I can think of anything, the sun clicks off, the blue sky disappears.

  “Looks like rec time’s over,” he says, his voice echoing in the sudden silence.

  What were miles of sunny beach and a blue-ocean horizon are now just a cavernous sand-filled room and a shallow, artificial reservoir gleaming gray in the overhead LED glow.

  Bill walks me past the lifeguard station to the locker room door. I smile up at him in silent thanks.

  “Hey, isn’t tomorrow the big day?” he asks.

  I nod, not happy to be reminded.

  “Boy, I’m sure glad I never have to go through that again,” he says, shaking his head.

  “That bad?”

  He flashes me a smile. “Not for smart kids like you.”

  When he opens the door, I step into the shower room. He must see the worry written on my face because he lingers in the doorway before closing it. “You’ll do fine,” he says. “Just relax and follow directions. You don’t want to end up like me, spending your career sifting sand for gull shit and buried boys.”

  Bill’s smile disappears as the door seals shut.

  I strip off my shorts and toss them in the hamper. When the hamper closes, the jets turn on, and I’m blasted from every angle with hot water. The water turns off just long enough for me to lather my body with a pump of soap before it turns on again and rinses me clean. I raise my arms for the blowers, then exit into the locker room.

  I step onto the scale—no gain. Same as last week. I get identical food rations as every fifteen-year-old, but I can’t seem to put on a gram. Two weeks ago Tuesday was my birthday. I’d asked for a weight set, I got a graphing calculator instead. My dad says my brain’s the most important muscle anyway. I say nonsense. Besides, everyone knows the brain’s not a muscle.

  As I dress, I’m half hoping I do get sent to another level tomorrow, just so I can wear something different. The same gray jumpsuit every day gets old. I pull my hoody over my head and push from the bright locker room into the dim hall.

  My steps echo off the polished-stone tunnel walls and the LED lights cast two eerie shadow twins on either side of me, so I imagine I’m actually a gang of three brothers heading to find that bully Red and teach him and his brainless buddies a lesson.

  But I don’t have any brothers, and I never will.

  The tunnel widens as it joins with the others. Following it to the outlook, I stop and gaze over the parapet and admire the Valley, or what some of us sometimes affectionately refer to as the “Anthill.” It’s a seven story drop to the cavern floor and the buildings that make up Level 3 of Holocene II. The walls are lined with stacked housing units where we live, seven families on top of one another. Today is Sunday, so people are in their quarters and a thousand yellow windows glow against the dark rock. Maybe it’s because of the unchanging view of laboratory rooftops, but I’ve spent at least a thousand hours looking out my bedroom window, and I’ve never seen another face looking back. Well, except maybe that bully Red when he sneaks out to go make-out with his sour-faced girlfriend, which is against the rules because we’re not allowed to date until we test.

  I look up at the cavern ceiling, the blue-glowing benitoite shining there like jewels embedded in the rocky sky. My dad says our ancestors used to look up and see the Milky Way—no ceiling, just four-hundred-billion stars twinkling in the endless night. It’s never night or day here—just productive hours and rest hours, and the only difference are the levels of ultraviolet light that help us produce vitamin D. It’s the UV lights that are sparking the blue benitoite on the cavern ceiling now.

  I know from my lessons that our generators harness the Earth’s electromagnetic field to power the lights and the fans that filter and condition our air. I asked my dad once why it’s never warm here and he told me to just be happy I’m not on the surface, where the air is so thin and cold that my blood would boil then freeze in 60 seconds flat. But I think it would be worth it just to see the sky for a minute before I die.

  I take the lift down to the Valley floor and weave my way through the deserted pathways toward our quarters. As I pass the food engineering lab, I get an idea. I check the door—it’s open. My father works here to make our underground crops nutritious and visually appealing. Trying to remember where they keep the food coloring, I search the cabinets.

  “Here it is. This should do the trick.”

  I stuff a bottle of green coloring dye in my jacket.

  When I reach our quarters, I hear voices inside and stop short of entering. My dad never has company. I put my ear to the metal door and listen to the muffled conversation inside:

  “He’s a smart boy,” I hear my dad say. “I’m sure he’ll be staying on here. I’m sure enough, I’m certain.”

  “You just never can tell anymore with these new tests, Mr. Van Houten. But I’m sure you’re right.”

  It’s strange to hear my dad addressed by our last name—Van Houten. He says it means “of the forest.” I never thought of it before now, but I guess it’s a little weird being named after something that’s been extinct for over 900 years.

  “Well, he’s a smart boy, my son is.”

  Checking to make sure the dye isn’t visible, I push open the door and enter our small quarters. My father sees me and smiles. He’s sitting at the table across from a young man in a white lab coat, a man I recognize from around the Valley.

  “There you are,” my dad says. “At the beach again today? This is Mr. Zales. He’s here to take a sample for tomorrow.”

  The man rises. “Just a quick draw. Won’t take a minute.”

  I approach the table and sit in the vacated chair, pushing my sleeve up and exposing my arm. The man snaps open his black case, lifts out a needle and strips the plastic from its tip.

  “Just a little sip, my good man, just a little sip” he says, his smile too big for the small room. A quick swab of iodine and then he plunges the needle into the crook of my arm and draws out a vial of my blood. My dad sees me wince and starts talking:

  “You know, I can remember when you were testing age yourself, Bobby Zales. The boy whose parents earned their way up from Level 4. People were sure you’d be going down again, but I knew you’d make the grade. You’re a smart boy, Bobby. I mean, Mr. Zales. A smart boy, just like my son.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he says, removing the needle, capping it, and placing it back in his case before snapping it closed again. “Well, that’s all we need for now. A few more ‘fifteens’ to prick yet, and I’ll be getting on to quarters myself. Good luck tomorrow, Aubrey.” He pauses at the door and looks back. “Could I ask you a favor, Mr. Van Houten?”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “You retire soon, don’t you?”

  Dad’s face brightens. “Yes, I do. 123 days.”

  “Will you say hello to my folks for me?”

  “I sure will, Bobby. I sure will.”

  The man smiles. A smaller smile, but a real smile this time. A smile that makes him appear young for a moment. Then he thanks my father and closes the door, leaving us alone.

  My dad leans back and looks me over. “Nervous?”

  I pull my sleeve down, covering the blood-specked spot of iodine. “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, it’s nothing at all to worry about. Just remember what always works for me when I need to relax: breathe good en
ergy in and breathe bad energy out.”

  I nod, taking a deep breath and letting it out.

  “You’ve got good genes, son, and a great work ethic. Plus, you’ve studied more than any boy in the Valley. All you can do is the best you can. And that’s enough. I’m proud, no matter what happens. Darn proud. And your mother would be, too.”

  At his mention of my mother, my father’s eyes get wet, and he stares off to some distant place only he can see. She left the same day I came. That’s where I got my name—Aubrey. When I was young, my father said that even before he met her, he loved my mother’s name. Said he loves it more now that it’s my name, too. But we don’t talk like that much these days.

  “You think Mom will recognize you after all these years?” I ask. “I mean, she hasn’t aged, but you have.”