The Vestige

by Caroline George

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the storm to die down?” I shield my eyes from the torrential downpour. Fog creeps through the trailer park, thicker than smoke. Its ashy tendrils claw at the remote-controlled aircraft. Chunk of plastic and wires. Determiner of our fate.

  “Rainstorms are terrific cloaking devices, and since the drone won’t be going to a high altitude, the clouds will not hinder our imaging system. We’ll have a clear view,” Nash shouts over the patter. He pumps a weather balloon with hydrogen and activates the drone’s navigation system. “The weather balloon along with a thick coat of paint will prevent a heat signature. We should be off-grid.”

  Jack stares at the overcast sky with his jaw clenched. He must sense it, too—danger lurking around us like a predator, the stench of change. “Let’s head inside.”

  We squeeze through masses of people to reach the Command Center’s main room. Why has everyone come to witness the big reveal? We’re screwed whether we live or die.

  “Move.” I fight through the sea of dirty bodies and emerge at the front of the crowd where General Ford, Ezra, and their crew of logistic officers stand at attention. Someone activates the drone’s flight sequence. Static shifts across the monitors before clarifying to reveal aerial footage.

  Jack grabs my hand. He’s trembling. “Are you afraid?”

  For all the strong, compassionate parts of him, there are also scared, broken parts, and until this moment, I’ve been so focused on the layers I love, I’ve overlooked the layers that make him human.

  “Please. Make me afraid because feeling fear would mean I wasn’t numb.”

  The footage shifts focus, replacing dilapidated trailers with acres of forest, tumultuous whitewater rivers and mountains blanketed in mist. Learning the truth won’t destroy Earth in a blink, so why should I worry? I’ve experienced the worst-case scenario, lost all that mattered to me. The apocalypse can’t take or return what’s been stolen. It won’t leave me any more scarred and changed than I am now.

  “Approaching the dome,” Nash says. “Increasing altitude.”

  Silence plagues the crowd like a virus, spreading fast. Some of the Listers appear to be holding their breath. If the drone doesn’t pick up speed, I might have a bunch of unconscious people to resuscitate. Jack—he squeezes so tight, my knuckles pop. Why are they freaked? How could life in a world beyond the dome be any better than life inside the bubble?

  Reality flickers onto the computer monitors.

  Charred buildings rise from the horizon, black as soot, void of vegetation. Stillness. Darkness. Dead. The clouds unspool to reveal cracked highways and mounds of abandoned cars.

  There lie the remains of America: skeletal ruins, necrotic residue. The surviving evidence of humankind is all that’s left. And it’s not enough.

  Vomit shoots into my mouth and burns my lips. I must be more afraid than I realized. The end of civilization doesn’t confiscate more from me. I am still as homeless and futureless as I was before the drone launched. But I’m indescribably alone. Nobody is outside my snow globe looking in, waiting for the day when I’ll be allowed to emerge. Stuck. Trapped.

  Footage plays, swirling into an abyss of pixelated imagery. It’s as if we’re a salvage crew surveying the wreckage of the Titanic, soldiers flying over a battlefield of corpses and knowing we arrived too late. There’s no one left to save.

  “We know the truth,” General Ford says. “It’s not an easy truth to swallow. We’ve been clinging to the idea there might be a life for us beyond the dome. That dream is unattainable. Where we are … this is our home … and it’s up to us to make it better.”

  “It’s the end of the world,” Bellamy yells from amidst the mob. “We’re going to die.”

  Jack releases my hand and shoves his way through the crowd, storming off into the maze of shabby corridors and offices. His warmth dissipates from my palm. Gone. Disconnected.

  A pulled trigger.

  The walls fold in around me, the ceiling lowers, and the room begins to spin faster and faster until I’m a child clinging to the bars of a playground merry-go-round, screaming out of fear of being ripped into the unknown. I stumble toward the open door, into a crashing torrent of rain.

  No, this can’t be real. The apocalypse was supposed to be cliché drama, Godzilla roaming the streets and zombies crawling from graves to devour the living. I guess all of humankind wanted to believe they’d end with a bang instead of unnoticed silence. We all, deep down, want to believe in a future where our historical monuments and literature hold significance. We want our deaths to be important.

  We want to matter.

  ****

  “Aww, why are you crying, Julie? Was all that too scary for you?” Sutton possesses the Overhang like an evil spirit. She breathes down my neck. “General Ford should’ve only let the big kids see the footage. Listers are too young and fragile to handle the truth.”

  “Leave me alone.” I rest my head on the damp, wooden table. Maybe the introvert position will make me disappear. “Don’t you have to go screw someone?”

  She emits a growl and yanks me to her waist. “I don’t like the way you’re talking.” Her talons dig into my scalp, and I squeal. “Apologize.”

  “Let go.” I grip her wrists to lessen the tension. Pain pulses across my skull, a sharp, wet sting. Was she born crazy, or did she lose her mind with age? “I mean it. Let go, Sutton.”

  “You don’t deserve to be here,” she hisses. “Jon was a nice guy, great kisser, but you’re nothing like him. You are weak and ugly … and it baffles me that Jack likes you. I guess it’s only a matter of time, though. Dead brother. Dead parents. You’ll die, too. And when you’re dead, I think Jack might be my next special friend. He has a great body.”

  “He’d rather die than be with you.”

  “Let him die, then.” Sutton wrenches my tresses and shoves me to the wood. “Jon was a slut.”

  “Go to hell.” Tears puddle on the tabletop. My muscles quiver. No one is allowed to hurt me, debase my brother. I won’t let them.

  Everything is a battle. You either win or you die.

  “We’re already there,” she smirks. “Welcome to hell.”

  I rise from the table and with a single punch, send her crashing into a pile of crates. If my hands weren’t bandaged, I’d probably shatter a few fingers on her jaw. Worth the pain if I can put a dent in her perfect nose, bust those plump lips that once crawled across Jon’s mouth.

  Sutton splinters wood and lies in a disfigured wad on the ground. Her expression contorts into a frightening display of rage. “Bad idea.” She slams her fist into my stomach, tearing open my scar. Blood soaks my t-shirt in a matter of seconds. Intense pain trickles through my body, draws a gasp from my lips.

  I scream and knock her to the floor.

  We wrestle in the dirt. I bite her arm. She hits over and over and grabs me in chokehold. I cough, wheeze, entangle my fingers in her long, glossy hair and jerk her forward. She cries out, loosens her hold on my neck. I roll on top on her and strike until her eyes roll back into her skull. I’m hurting someone because they hurt me first. I’m doing this for self-preservation. But even though fighting back may earn respect, in the process, I become like my enemy.

  “You’re idiots,” Tally screams. She yanks me up by the back of my shirt and slaps so hard, I lose sight for a moment. “Do you want to get kicked out of the Underground?”

  “I’m done with bullies. No one is allowed to mess with me, not even you.”

  She laughs. “You did this to make a point, Priss?”

  “Stop calling me Priss.” I massage her smack from my cheek. “I’m not a small, defenseless animal you can prey upon. Next time you hit me, I will hit back harder.”

  Abram and Ezra haul Sutton from the ground. She slumps against the two men, barely conscious, and allows them to drag her out of the Overhang. I caused her wounds. I hurt her like she hurt me. And the more I try to justify my actions, the more I realize how unjustified they were.
<
br />   Revenge is a lie we fabricate to ease our consciences. But like two negatives can never equal a positive, two wrong deeds cannot make a right. They only screw up the equation.

  ****

  Darkness transforms the tunnel shaft into a place of cockroach chirps, rhythmic drips, and spectral echoes. I scale the ladder into pitch black. Anything could grab me. No one would hear me scream. Since the apocalypse is real, maybe the Boogieman didn’t get the I Shouldn’t Exist memo.

  Goosebumps wash across my skin. I reach the bottom floor and immediately snatch a headlamp from the coatrack. A golden glow warms the underground roadway into a less treacherous environment. Tubes. Equipment. Sludge. Nothing too deadly.

  It’s been four weeks since I had java and detox isn’t an option. I’d rather be sipping a latte with a broken leg than be healthy and have no coffee at all.

  My priorities are a little skewed.

  Moonlight filters into the mess hall from a bare window, illuminating the ancient appliances and linoleum counters. I open cabinets, rummage through the pantry. There isn’t a coffeemaker to be found, not even a pack of instant coffee. How does the Vestige function?

  “It’s kind of early for breakfast, don’t you think?”

  The florescent bulbs flicker to life. I squint. Jack stands in the kitchen’s threshold. His hair is disheveled and his intense, blue eyes are puffy from sleep.

  “Why don’t you have a freaking coffeemaker?”

  “It’s two in the morning. Why do you want coffee?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “And caffeine is supposed to fix that?” Jack snickers and pulls a set of keys from his pocket. “Let’s go for a drive. I’ll find you some coffee.”

  “Are you serious?” He can’t be.

  “I’m starving and the only things available to eat here are canned beans and spaghetti sauce. You’ll get your coffee. I’ll have a pack of something drenched in sodium. It’s a win-win situation.”

  “Won’t we get in trouble for leaving the Underground?” Stupid question. Of course we won’t get in trouble. He nearly runs the camp. Why am I sweating? He’s Jack, my best friend, my family. I shouldn’t blush when he’s around. I shouldn’t want to crawl out of my skin each time he shows up with messy hair. For once, can I not act like a silly girl?

  “Nah, you’ll be with me.” He offers his hand and smiles when I entwine my fingers with his. “We better get moving if we want to be back before dawn.”

  Every moment of contact between us seems important—every glance, every touch, every word. I don’t understand him, but I know him, and he knows me. It’s this strange connection we share. No matter how often we fight, lie, make mistakes, I choose him and deep down, I think he chooses me, too.

  We exit the mess hall and trek toward an industrial building constructed along the forest’s edge. Levi appears out of nowhere. He moves through the underbrush like a wolf, quick and silent.

  “There are a few perks of living in the end times.” Jack enters the metal shed. Vehicles clutter the space: three sports cars, a truck, a van, and a Jeep. His smile widens when he hops into the driver’s seat of a red Lamborghini. “Am I totally irresistible now?”

  “Oh, yes. Sutton will be all over you when she sees your sweet new ride.” I laugh and slide into the vehicle. Jack is here. With me. Looking for coffee. And if a boy can manage to have coffee with me during the apocalypse, I know he cares. There’s not a speck of doubt in my mind.

  He must care.

  Levi settles into the backseat. The garage door lifts. Jack cranks the ignition and drives out of the trailer park, into a wilderness that swallows us whole. Mountains cut through the shadows. The trees reflect the moon’s rays, scintillating a dull silver light.

  Beyond the Underground, the apocalypse is real and at my fingertips, so close I can touch it. Out here, I am a remnant, not a miniscule cog in some elaborate machine. Coffee isn’t worth seeing nothing where something should be. Where are the late-night truckers and sketchy junk cars? What happened to the homes that once lit the rocky ridges like fireflies?

  “Scavs rarely fly over after nightfall. We’re safe.” Jack drives in the middle of the road, slams his foot against the accelerator, and handles the zigzagging highway with daring precision. The Lamborghini’s engine roars. Tires squeal as they crest the edge of a cliff.

  “There are speed limits for a reason.” I grip my seat when the vehicle swerves. After all I’ve survived, it’d be wrong for me to die in a car crash.

  “You do what you couldn’t do before,” he says, “so the world will seem larger, fuller, and life with have something worth living.”

  “Speeding makes your life fuller?”

  “Everyone loves to speed. They love trying not to get caught.” He shrugs. “There’s no one around to catch us, though. Not as fun. Stakes aren’t high enough. No, I like to drive on the other side of the road because I can.” His face loses its humor. Maybe he feels our loss more than he let on.

  “Why do you think our end was kept a secret?” I ask once the road straightens and Jack decreases his speed. “If civilization was crumbling, and people were dying, why did the government decide to build a dome here? What made us more special than the rest of humanity?”

  “My guess is the Feds wanted to protect and maintain a normal state of life. Maybe our area hadn’t been contaminated. Maybe we were the short straw.” Darkness shifts across his face. He switches gears, stares at the road with pain in his eyes. “Maybe they decided to keep the rescued public ignorant until things had been reestablished to avoid panic and upheavals. I don’t know. Maybe they just like playing God. Maybe we’re a part of a massive-scale experiment, fish in a fishbowl.”

  Jack steers down a dirt road, weaving along the bank of a lake. Houses appear amongst the sea of trees, mostly cottages and boathouses. He parks in the yard of a two-story log cabin, removes a pair of flashlights from the glove compartment, and climbs outside.

  Levi scampers into the foliage, unmoved by the night’s eeriness and vacancy.

  “I thought you were taking me to a supermarket.” Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I follow him to the house. A real home. That belongs to someone.

  “Scavs looted the stores but left residential areas untouched. We’ll find what we need here.” Jack breaks open the cabin’s front door and walks inside. “You don’t have many personal belongings, so take what you want. Check the bedrooms for clothing. I’ll go find a coffeemaker.” He tosses me a flashlight.

  “We’re going to steal?” I cough on dust when we enter the living room, a cozy space cluttered with rotting furniture and faded photographs. “The people who lived here were relocated, not executed. They’ll come back. It isn’t right to take their stuff.”

  “Necessity trumps morality.” Jack snatches a lighter from the mantel and disappears down a corridor, leaving me to wander at a polite pace.

  The nearest bedroom belongs to a teenage girl. It’s painted a pale-blue color, plastered with posters of pop singers and actors who are probably dead now. I find a pink backpack beneath the bed and fill it with random, useless things—empty journals, a Polaroid camera, postcards, books, makeup, and a stained quilt. The closet is full of clothes. I sort through the hoard like a zealous shopper at a Black Friday sale, grabbing everything that looks even the tiniest bit appealing.

  People took what belonged to me. They ransacked my house because they believed necessity trumped morality. How is what I’m doing different? Am I better than them?

  Survival is a passive way of saying “my needs are greater than yours.”

  Jack waits for me in the kitchen. He’s propped against the linoleum counter, drinking from a plastic cup. “I found a coffeemaker and several bags of medium roast.” He gestures to the items piled beside him. “I also found beef jerky and vodka.” He swallows the alcohol like a cancer patient drugged on morphine, easing his hurt with a despair-filled gulp.

  “Booze has never helped anyone.” I pry the cu
p from his hands and toss it into the sink. If he drowns his pain, he won’t heal. He’ll become like Dad, and I will lose him. “Let’s go sit by the lake.”

  “You’re trying to fix me?” He snickers. “I’ve spent a large chunk of my life trying to fix people. Not everyone can be fixed. I didn’t know how to fix Mom. Jon was too far gone.”

  “To fix someone, they have to be broken. And I don’t believe you’re broken.”

  “What are you trying to do, then?” He slides a hand across my cheek, anchors a thumb behind my left ear. His voice breezes across my skin—I shiver from the shock. “Why stop me from getting wasted?”

  “Because there are better medicines.” I hug him tight and say everything is going to be okay because it’s what I want to say, what he wants me to say. It’s what we both need to hear.

  The lake shimmers with a million stars and laps at the rocky shoreline like breaths of a sleeping someone. I slide from behind the cabin’s screen door and drag Jack toward the dock, through decaying leaves and overgrown shrubs. We have to reach the water and pretend for a moment our world hasn’t ended, that we’re two people who decided to steal coffee and stargaze. Real medicine.

  “Hold on a sec.” Jack plucks a daffodil from a weed-infested flowerbed and gives it to me. His lips twist into a crooked half-smile.

  Cheeseball.

  On a scale from one-to-ten, how wrong would it be for me to love him, not the sisterly kind of love but real, crazy, all-in love? Maybe a five. There isn’t a cosmic rule that prohibits people from falling in love during the apocalypse. But he is Jon’s best friend. So maybe a seven. Not too awful. That’s like scoring a C on an exam. Passing grade.

  “Come on.” He jogs to the dock’s edge and yanks off his clothes. “We’re going for a swim.”

  “What the heck, Jack?” I shield my eyes and then crack my fingers. His skin glistens from the moon’s rays. Goodbye jeans. Goodbye t-shirt and jacket. “You better leave on your underpants.”

  “If you insist.” He snickers. “Be spontaneous.”

  The hands that say no are peeling off my sweater. I shed clothes until I’m left in an oversized bra and granny panties. Blood burns my cheeks—he’s seen me like this before, so why am I embarrassed? He’s sliced open my stomach, wrestled with me in undergarments skimpier than these. “Happy?”