Immurement
Book One
Norma Hinkens
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. For more information about the author, please visit www.normahinkens.com
Text copyright @ 2015 Norma Hinkens
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Dunecadia Publishing, California
ISBN 978-0-9966248-0-0 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-0-9966248-1-7 (print)
Cover Design by Alexandre Rito
Editing by Jeanette Morris
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
For my children who never stopped believing.
Special thanks to my critique partners Jeanene and Maureen.
Author’s Note
Parts of this novel are set in Idaho. I have taken liberties with the geography of that state, including names of places.
Immurement, the state of being imprisoned, entombed, confined in an enclosed space.
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless and swift and proud.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Chapter 1
The sun’s always two fingerbreadths or higher above the Sawtooth peaks when the Sweepers come. Never at night. I swipe a strand of long hair from my eyes and throw a nervous glance at the horizon. The scrawny cow I’m guarding has all but given up flipping its tail at the droning swarms itching for a carcass. Time to leave it to its fate.
I reach for my hunting pack, and freeze. A muffled crackling sound—too heavy for a rabbit, too light to be the cow keeling over. I hold my breath as I grab my gun and motion to my collie, Tucker, to drop beside me. My heart clatters like a wooden rollercoaster as I pan the charred hillside, my trigger finger tight on the safety. Dead trees poke up like broomsticks all around me. There’s nowhere to hide, but I’m troubled by the feeling I’m being watched. I skim the canyon again, my vision blurring in the blinding sun. A flicker of movement to my left. I suck in my breath. For one elasticized moment, I think they’ve come for me.
“Ba-boom!” My eighteen-year-old brother, Owen, presses a finger to my temple and flops his lanky frame down beside me. He slides his pack from his shoulders and rakes a hand through his wavy, black hair. “You just died, Derry Connolly.” His lips curl with satisfaction as he reaches over and scratches Tucker’s head.
I take a few uneven breaths, my heartbeat stair-stepping back down from the wild ride it took me on. Ordinarily, I revel in our game of stealth, but this time Owen has unnerved me. Just last week the Sweepers extracted a kid from the camp five miles north of here.
“You zoned out again.” Owen throws me the disapproving look he’s perfected since Ma died, the one where he flattens his brows and squares his jaw in perfect alignment.
I shrug. “It’s not exactly riveting stuff watching zombie horseflies sucking on the last of our steak.” I study the stitching on his pack, reluctant to meet his gaze. Everyone’s on edge since the last sweep, and I swore I’d stay alert if I took a shift up top.
“This isn’t a game, Derry. I was on you before you even flinched. I swear, you turn sixteen and you become some ditzy girl I don’t even know. It’ll get you killed.” Owen knuckles me in the shoulder to get my attention. “Hey! Are you listening to me? They can dart you from five hundred feet and you’ll never know what hit you. Like Sam.”
I roll my eyes, and jerk my shoulder out from under his expert fist. “Quit acting like my security detail. I can take care of myself.”
“None of us can. Not anymore.” Owen scowls. “The sweeps are too efficient.”
I clench my lips in a tight line. I can’t argue with that. The Sweepers’ noiseless ships hover over the canyons on some kind of electromagnetic suspension system. Eerily silent. Not even a vibration signals they’re coming for you.
In our bunker system deep in the Sawtooth Forest, there are twenty-three of us left, split between eight separate bunkers connected by a shared tunnel—an underground beehive community of sorts. No one ventures up top after dawn unless they’re logged out on assignment. And never the clan women, which is why I have no real friends among them. They won’t take chances. But, I can’t live squirreled beneath the dirt. I need to know the sun still rises. How else can I be sure the world hasn’t ended a second time?
Owen pulls out half a fried rabbit from his pack. “Gimme your knife.”
“Why? Where’s yours at?” I eye him suspiciously. “Have you been gambling again?”
He shrugs. “What’s it matter?”
“They’ll kick us out if you’re caught. They’re already looking for any excuse to get rid of Da.”
Gambling was outlawed after an Undergrounder was stabbed to death in a fight over a lost wager. Trafficking in weapons is illegal too. The camps all have numerical codes on their possessions now, but stuff still trades hands. And Owen’s a master hustler.
He gestures impatiently for my knife. I toss it to him and watch him carve a piece of meat. He’s good at it—he can whittle on anything. He’s promised to make me an antler handle for my knife, same as his, soon as I spot him a stag. Which could take forever. What’s left of the big game has retreated deep into the Wilderness of No Return. There’s nothing out here for them to eat. Even the grass is down to a fried stubble.
“You should be sleeping,” Owen says, through a mouthful of rabbit. “You’re on watch tonight.”
“Waste of time.” I arch my brows at him. “When do Sweepers ever come after sundown? Prat just makes stuff up for us to do so we don’t go rabid down under.”
Owen lets out a satisfying snort of laughter, and I allow myself a smug grin. We share a warranted disdain for all things Prat a.k.a. Prentice Carter. We call him Prent to his face, but Prat behind his back. I don’t feel too bad about it. I’d take either one over Prentice. Prat only made bunker chief because he said he knew how to manage people. Turns out he spent a summer stocking shelves for his parents—wealthy entrepreneurs who were overseas when the earth’s core overheated. I think Owen should run the bunker, but his pedigree isn’t up to par, our father being the camp drunk and all.
Tucker licks his lips and whines for a piece of rabbit. I ruffle the back of his neck to let him know I’m on it. “I couldn’t sleep in the bunker anyway,” I say with an exaggerated sigh. “Da was singing again.”
“So?” Owen stops chewing and throws me an incredulous look. “You’ve been falling asleep to drunken karaoke your whole life.”
I laugh. “Not my whole life.” I swipe the rabbit from his hand and tear off a chunk for Tucker. Owen’s strong, with a grip of steel, but I’ve always been quicker on the draw. “Ma used to sing to us,” I remind him. I swallow and stare out over the disfigured hills, pine branches radiating out from stumps like fried arteries. It’s been six years. Some days I forget what she looked like, but I can still hear the lilt in her voice when she sang.
She died the day the earth’s core overheated, or the meltdown as we call it nowadays. Me, Da, and Owen were fishing up at Steelhead Lake—Da was mostly popping beer cans—when the water began to heave. A tidal wave built in the lurching lake, and we scrambled to higher ground and huddled toget
her, watching helplessly as a fireball the size of a football field ripped through Shoshane City. Molten rock pushed miles of asphalt sky-high forming blacktop mache mountains. Strip malls exploded like piñatas, buildings shot hundreds of feet into the air like gigantic stomp rockets. Da says toxic ash clouds took out the survivors. All hell broke loose after a ring of volcanos around the globe erupted and the sovereign leader issued a thermal radiation warning. That was the last we heard from him. And Ma. I miss her gentle spirit. There’s nothing gentle about the world anymore.
I liked how she used to pull my hair back from my forehead with her soft hands. “Makes your green eyes stand out,” she’d say, tilting her head to one side. “Now everyone can see those butterfly leg lashes resting on that milky skin.”
Half the time I live in my memories. What we’re doing now isn’t really living.
“Your hair needs cutting,” Owen grumbles. “You look like a matted mountain goat.”
I jolt upright and glare at him. “Jakob likes it long,” I say, shoving what remains of my loosened braid inside my collar.
Owen slings his arm around my shoulder and leans his forehead against mine. “Somebody got a bunker boyfriend?”
I dig an elbow in his ribs and he makes a clumsy move to pin my arms. I grab him by the neck and topple him, and we roll around, jostling for control, until we’re too weak from laughing to go at it anymore. I like it when he’s just being my brother, but for the most part he’s forgotten how.
If it weren’t for Jakob Miller, life in the bunkers would be unbearable. I can talk to him about anything and everything, even Ma dying, and he doesn’t tell me dumb stuff like Ma’s in a better place, or we’re the lucky ones. For that, I can forgive him the goofy overalls and trucker cap he walks around in. Not a hot look, even by bunker standards, but he makes me feel safe, and maybe that’s more important now than anything else.
It’s against the rules of Jakob’s clan for women to cut their hair. His family are Septite homesteaders who moved off grid decades ago when the world government came into existence and the first sovereign leader was elected. As far as the Septites are concerned, the tribulation has begun. Which is odd because they still spend their days making furniture that will outlast any of us. They call themselves Separatists, but the rest of us shortened it to Septites, which bugs them no end.
Jakob hasn’t told them we hang out. He says it would be one woe too many for them right now, whatever that means, so we meet in secret in an alcove at the far end of the main connecter tunnel, well beyond the last bunker—too dark and damp for prying eyes to bother us. Mostly we do battle over pawns and castles on a chipped chess set in the tawny glow of a flashlight jammed upright in the hard-packed dirt floor. Mostly. I can’t say we’ve never held each other close, hearts beating as one, or that our lips haven’t brushed a time or two in the dark. Jakob says if his father ever happens upon us there together, we’d be wishing a Sweeper found us instead.
I toss Owen the half-eaten rabbit. “Do you think we could catch one?”
“What? Another rabbit to fatten up your bony butt?”
I wipe my hands on my shirt. “A Sweeper.”
He shoots me a warning look. “Don’t go getting any stupid ideas.”
I fiddle with the rear sight on my Remington. I know he’s trying to protect me because Ma would want him to, but it feels like he’s always bullying me into submission since she died. “It’s not stupid to want to know what we’re hiding from.”
Owen frowns as he chooses his words. “Predators. That’s all you need to know.”
“I don’t want to live in a gopher hole the rest of my life. Don’t you want to be free again? We should quit running and fight back.”
Owen widens his eyes at me and swallows a bite of rabbit. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as if he’s processing the thought. “They never get out of their ships.”
“They must sometimes.”
“Forget it, Derry.”
“There has to be a way to—”
“There isn’t.” He chucks a bone at Tucker who snaps it out of the air in one fluid streak of fur. “Let it go.”
I stare at Owen defiantly. “You think I’m a hazard up top, but Sam asked for it. He was goofing off, skimming rocks. They sucked him right in before he—”
Owen turns toward me, his dark eyes murky like stagnant pools. “How do you know that?”
I study him for an agonizing moment, regretting my decision before the words leave my lips. “Because, I was there.”
Chapter 2
Owen grabs me by the collar of my jacket and yanks me toward him. “Are you messing with me, or is this for real?”
I blink, calculating the risks of coming clean. I’ve never seen my brother’s eyes flash like this before. Tucker gets up and pads around, sniffing the air like he does when he detects uncertainty.
My pulse thuds in the back of my throat. If I lie to Owen now, I’ll never get the answers I want—like what he was doing with Sam that day, and why he’s been sneaking off to other camps. I’ve had enough of his secrets. I want to know what’s going on. “I followed you,” I say in a choked whisper. Tucker brushes up against me and I sink my trembling fingers into the thick fur on the back of his neck.
Owen stares at me for the longest time. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
I fold my arms in front of me, bolstered by Tucker’s protective stance. “You shouldn’t have snuck off without me.”
He hesitates. “Did you … see everything?”
I give a somber nod, the full significance of my admission not lost on me. No one has ever witnessed a sweep, and lived to tell about it, that is.
“What happened?” Owen’s voice is thick with emotion.
I take a deep breath to calm my racing heartbeat. If I can make him understand what I saw, maybe I can persuade him to do something. “I was staked out near some rocks, not far from Sam. There was this whooshing sound, and all of a sudden Sam keeled over. I jumped up and spun around and that’s when I saw the Sweeper ship. Next thing I know, this telescopic tube thing shoots out and suctions onto him.”
Owen rubs a hand over his taut jaw and waits for me to continue.
“It swings back for me, so I duck down and take cover. The tube rams into the boulder I’m hiding behind—makes this high-pitched grinding sound. Then all of a sudden it goes limp and the ship takes off.”
Owen looks across the canyon, the violet shadows beneath his eyes illuminated in the sun. “I saw the ship leave the canyon. I didn’t know they had Sam.”
I grab Owen's sleeve. “Don’t you see what this means? The Sweepers aren’t invincible. They make mistakes.”
He ignores my brilliant insight, kicks at a clod of dirt. “Did you get a look inside?”
I shake my head. “Tinted glass. All I caught was TerraTechno on the side of the tube. But I found a dart they fired at me buried in my pack.” I pull it out and hold it up, but he turns away, balling his hands into fists. He’s smoldering mad at me for taking such a huge risk. But I’m ticked at him too. I survived a sweep and he won’t even give me credit for pulling off what no one else has ever done before. I suck on my bottom lip for a minute, stoking my frustration. “Prat needs to know about this. He could rally the Undergrounders, come up with a plan. Seeing you won’t.”
Owen narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t be ridiculous! Prat wouldn’t know what to do. He’s got us all plucking chickens and filtering water, like we’re knucklehead Girl Scouts on a camping trip.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “You’re right about one thing. We’ll never be free until we find a way to stop the extractions. But you need to be patient.”
He stands, slings his gun over his shoulder, and looks out over the canyon awash in half-shadows. “It’ll take more than just us. The camps have to unite. The Undergrounders need a real leader. One who’s not afraid to do what needs to be done.”
I pat Tucker on the head and get up, an uneasy feeling creeping up my spin
e. I thought all that sneaking out had something to do with a girl. But now, I’m not so sure.
Back in our bunker, I heat up last night’s rabbit stew on our wood stove. I add some dehydrated potato slices and carrots, and give the stew a hearty stirring. I miss Ma’s cooking. Our food unit is chock-full with five years’ worth of dehydrated supplies in sealed plastic tubs, but most of it tastes like chalk. Prat’s supplies are a whole lot better—some highfalutin’ NASA MREs, but he’d rather hoard them than share with us.
We’re an odd bunch, the ones who made it. Preppers stockpiling for Doomsday, mountain men with beards like rugs, Prat, our wuss bunker chief, who grew up rich, but he’s not anymore I suppose, unless you count his twelve-hundred-square-foot custom-built steel bunker with solar-powered lighting. His parents even sprang for the two-hundred-year warranty, for what that’s worth now.
Mason says he’s a Marine, although I’m not so sure. He’s a newcomer to our camp and nothing about him adds up. Then there’s us of course, the Connellys, garden-variety suburbanites, grateful our neighbor took us fishing up here and gave us a tour of his bunker. He never showed up after the meltdown. Da says he’d have wanted us to have the place, but I think he’d hate nothing more than to see us holed up here scabbing off all of his hard work. He only brought us here to stick it to us. He wasn’t the sharing type either.
My mouth waters as the aroma of real meat fills our-eight-by-forty-foot recycled shipping container. I glance across at Da slouched in a chair, eyelids drooped, clutching a sock in one hand. A halfhearted gesture at getting dressed. He’s wearing the same stained sweats he’s slept in for months, snoring like a woodpecker. Of course there’s a fresh batch of beer fermenting in the corner. Apparently he hasn’t been sleeping all day.
Immurement: The Undergrounders Series Book One (A Young Adult Science Fiction Dystopian Novel) Page 1
