Impervious Read online

  *S*3*4*

  Surface floor.

  Third hallway.

  Fourth opening.

  Thanks, Chan.

  After exiting, she crept past several pods before reaching Chan’s, and then hovered by the opening, almost afraid to peek around the corner—like always. With feet planted and neck extended just enough to allow a glimpse past the metal door frame, she saw the top of the bed, but no Chan.

  She took a tiny step forward and craned her neck a little more until she could see the whole bed.

  Still no Chan.

  After choking back another mouthful of fear, Fran lifted her chin, placed hands on her hips, and stormed into the room. A bluish glow from an old fashioned video display illuminated an empty bed on the far side of the chamber. Outside of the occasional whirring of a nearby food trolley or med dispenser, a hushed silence filled the room.

  Fran’s heartbeat picked up, and she turned in a slow circle. She must have missed something. Bed. Video display. Closet. No Chan.

  As she pivoted in the panicked circle, her eyes blurred. Gray. Blue. Gray.

  No Chan.

  “Chan?” She croaked out his name which sounded too loud reverberating through the silence. Fran rushed to the single bed and touched the gray coverlet.

  Cold.

  Pointed corners created sharp right-angles―a task perfected by a robotic arm—leaving the bed snug and unwrinkled. She dropped to her knees and checked underneath before running to the free-standing locker which housed Chan’s belongings, but all traces of her mentor had been erased. The presence of death lurked in every corner. The Beast had moved in.

  While holding onto her breath, she backed away. Her leg bumped into the tight mattress of his bed, and Fran fell onto the mattress with a quiet oomph. She scraped the tears threatening to spill. She wasn’t going to be like the drama queens who bawled at the feet of loved ones. That’s not how a wolf behaved.

  She stood and lingered by the bed, her gaze drawn to the depression she'd made on the scratchy covering. She liked the implication. Someone had been here. Someone had cared.

  The ugly, tight-cornered, scratchy abomination once housed her mentor. It held him to its fetid bosom and watched him disappear. She trembled with emotion, lifted her leg and shot a worn boot into the carcass of a bed.

  The metal screeched and the bed shimmied. Fran hopped back, and with lifted fists, switched her stance to unleash a ferocious side kick. Dead on. The bed careened into the far wall.

  Her body hummed with rage as she chased the retreating abomination. Front kick, side kick, left and right. Crisp sheets softened and carefully-tucked corners unfurled. The thrill of a small victory belong to Fran as the mattress shook and shifted from her lethal assault. Tiny beads dotted her forehead as if she had transformed weak tears to angry sweat. Fran celebrated the small triumph as she looked upon the unkempt bed. Of course, the mechanized arm would soon return and erase her efforts. But for this round anyway, she emerged the victor.

  On a huff, she turned to exit. As she did, Fran could have sworn the ravaged coverlet winked a goodbye. She turned back and moved closer to the bed. A glint of light reflected off a nub sticking out between the mattress and metal frame. She touched it.

  Her heart raced.

  Seriously? It couldn’t be.

  Fran pulled the small, shiny rectangle from its hidden confines and brushed the surface. Most residents owned one. It carried the daily news and special events and was used for games, and mail, and all sorts of things. She’d even rented one back in her school days. But this one was different. This was Chan’s cherished reader. The one he had kept from her view. The one of which he had claimed, “There’s things in here you’re not ready to see, Wolf. Not yet.”

  But now, he had left it for her.

  Right?

  Somehow, even in his declined state, he had remembered to pass on the legacy. Fran’s mouth lifted into a shaky smile. Chan’s final act as the perfect mentor. Dwarfed by the enormity of his action, she hugged the reader to her chest, and felt her heart dance upon the hard surface.

  She remained until the silence of the room grew in size and soon the drumming in her chest sounded too loud. A tingle moved through her body, just like when a Graphie was close at hand. However, this presence wasn’t of the holographic nature. It heralded a unique malevolence, and it wanted to consume her.

  The Beast.

  Fran tore out of the room and raced through the hallway. The thought of being spotted by a low-ranking worker never entered her thoughts. The cruelty of the Beast chased her down the hallway as Fran sprinted toward her escape. She had to get away, far away from this place. If the Beast could consume her sharp-edged mentor, Fran knew it wouldn’t hesitate to pull her into its decaying embrace. She panted. No, she couldn’t even breathe. Her lungs refused to move. Was she dying?

  *S*3*4*

  The venting hummed and a roar from the Beast’s leathery lips engulfed her head. Heat from its breath seeped in through her pores. The grating slid open. She shoved the reader down her shirt and dove for cover.

  She zigged. She zagged. Sightseeing forgotten, Fran scurried across the sluice and back into the OE. With movements as mechanical as the cold arm feeding the residents, she pressed on, not stopping until she reached the compartment she called home.

  Once enshrouded in her canvas blanket, she closed her eyes and listened to the sound of her own labored breath. The rise and fall of her chest slowed, and the essence of the Beast began to dissipate. When she finally felt safe, Fran tugged the canvas from her head and sat in the darkness rubbing its frayed edges.

  The reader poked into her skin and she pulled it from its sweaty confines. As she waved a hand over the power sensor, a glow from the screen lit up her niche as bright as a Light-Genie. She brushed a thumb over various icons which held Chan’s most prized information. Venting schematics, stats on each Rebel, black-market movies, communication software, and at least twenty other random folders stood at the ready. Her eyes darted around, her thumb eager to brush over each and every icon.

  She swiped a folder labeled Diary of a First-Gen and after a quick blip, words appeared on the screen.

  We hadn’t heard the missile strikes but instead felt them—vibrations so profound as if the core of the earth writhed in pain. And below the surface, although sealed up tight, undue panic spread among the residents.

  Excitement lifted the tiny hairs on Fran’s neck. A real first-generation account? Sure, she knew the story of Impervious’ beginnings from the mandatory studies in her school days. However, those texts were nothing more than a list of facts weaved together with a few conjunctions to form boring sentences. This account read differently. Like a story.

  She held the reader close to her face—too close, probably—with her nose but a few inches from the screen. She’d always loved to read and had gobbled up story after story throughout her era of learning. However, it was all Sanctioned stuff like The Laws of HAZMAT, The History of the Council, and The Sons of the Generations. The idea that she’d unearthed a pirated, unsanctioned story gave her goose bumps. And not the kind that Graphies caused, but ones elicited by delicious excitement.

  The words of a First-Gen.

  Fran―a Fourth Gen, born and bred underground—knew of her lineage. Mom—a Third-Gen Impervieite—lived a similar life to Fran’s. Of course, her Second-Gen grandmother was the first round of babies born into the city. But before that? Sanctioned accounts didn’t reach back that far. But, this? This account from fifty years ago, by a man who had seen the world before the war? It read like a crime thriller…

  Radiation. The mere mention of the word had the ability to send most Impervieites into a fit of unsolicited shivers. To say The War of Annihilation created a nuclear mess would undersell the severity. The political and social climate had come to a boiling point. We knew what lay ahead and had anticipated the complete obliteration of 70% of the earth’s land surface would turn the globe into a melting pot of whacked-o
ut weather patterns and radiation fallout.

  Even if an above-grounder survived the initial flares, the ensuing radiation sickness, innumerable plagues, nuclear winter, and plain old starvation would have left him wishing he had perished in the blast. However, being academia from the old world, I wasn’t one to fall prey to the urban legend of Geiger-ghosts. Radioactive zombies who roam the earth? Sensationalism at its finest.

  Having been one of the original designers, I knew every last detail of the containment city. Yet at DEFCON-1, even I had experienced unwarranted dread. Panic sparked gossip, and soon rumors of permeating radiation flooded the bunker, and with them, a tsunami of fear.

  But then good ol’ Marcus— Head of the Building Council—became the man in charge. He managed to calm the masses like a cup of warm milk. Just a touch over thirty, with a premature sprinkling of grey at his temples, he spoke with authority and kept a level head. Like a courageous father, he led his family.

  He exuded authority as he stood on the platform, speaking to the last survivors of the world—the ones who’d paid a small fortune for salvation. His blue eyes sparkled with sincerity as he promised the residents that each and every last one of them would witness the day of rebirth. The Epoch. Even now his words, embedded deep in my brain, reverberate in my ears.

  “… And rest assured no one and nothing can permeate this bunker. It’s… Impervious!”

  But is it really? Just a few years after that great speech, the plague ensued. Like a demon, it stole the minds and bodies from seemingly healthy residents. It made no sense. It had to be the radiation. We fortified our impervious walls with an entire second layer of metal and filled every conceivable minute gap with innovative lead soldering. But the plague continued.

  We filtered water with manufactured solar splicing and stored it in impenetrable holding tanks. And yet the decline of humanity raged on. Even food products that had never seen the light of a natural day underwent strict irradiation techniques to squelch this radioactive killer. Yet death gained momentum.

  As I write this, the average lifespan has been reduced to forty short years. What will become of the second generation?

  Chapter Four

  “Come on Pete. We’ve played The Mad Hooligan for hours, and I’m getting hungry.”

  She shouldn’t have told Pete about Chan’s reader. In fact, Fran would have kept the secret to herself, had Pete not snuck up on her—again―while she slept with the reader hugged to her chest like a favorite doll.

  Busted.

  She had fallen asleep reading the diary, and now couldn’t wait to get back to the story. She’d kept the Diary of a First Gen to herself, pacifying Pete with The Mad Hooligan when he’d insisted on seeing Chan’s secret games. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now impatience gnawed on her nerves. Pete kept his eyes trained on the reader and continued to manipulate his avatar with one hand while holding up the index finger of his free hand.

  “I’m serious, Pete.” Fran whipped the reader from his lap, and the game timed-out. She shoved the reader down her canvas jacket and began to crawl away. Pete didn’t follow.

  Good.

  Although she’d warned Pete about waking her, she’d welcomed today’s wake-up call. Throughout the night, Fran had wrestled with nightmares of dragon-like creatures chasing her through a dark labyrinth. Then, the terrors morphed from dragons to zombie forfeitures who ravaged her flesh to steal her life. Pete to the rescue? Maybe, but he blew it by overstaying his visit.

  Fran wheezed a frustrated breath and coughed a little soot from her lungs as she snaked through the labyrinth. She whooped as she passed Folsom’s niche and soon emerged into the Agora.

  She hung unnoticed behind an acrylic art sculpture just as a trendy West Winger passed by and pitched a half-empty bottle of infused water toward a disposer. The bottle rested on the edge of the transfer, clinging to its precious life. Either the femme hadn’t noticed, or she didn't care. Either way, Fran arose the victor. Her eyes widened, and she licked dry lips. The plastic bottle balanced on the rim of the disposer and she knew one false move could suck it into the vacuum of the waste transfer. She snatched the bottle and gulped the sweet berry-flavored water. With dreamy eyes shut, she reveled in the delicious accident, sucking down every last drop until the bottle ran dry.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and, following a grunt and a throaty belch, lifted her lids. The passing residents came back into focus, including a few snobs who tsk-tsk’d her objectionable behavior.

  Whatever.

  As a nearby squawk rang out through the courts, Fran turned to check out the commotion. And then froze.

  The crazy body piercings. The garish makeup. The outlandish hairstyle. And riding a Drag-Racing, Air-Generated, Original Nanocycle?

  Moving walkways, for the super-lazy, lined the perimeter of each housing sector, so nobody—other than city workers or craggy Superiors—rode motorized vehicles. Except, of course, those being treated to an Allocation of Inequity. A night of ultra-decadence and hedonism. A gift bestowed upon the super elite. A reward for dedication to the Council serving a dual purpose: Incite jealousy and encourage submission.

  “A-O-I.” The words came out on a whisper.

  The bottle fell from Fran's grip and bounced onto the floor. She raced to a nearby bench, hopped up and scanned the court. The scooter, otherwise known as the DRAGON, tricked out with high chrome handlebars, spewed a brilliant rainbow from the luminescent exhaust. And Nissa sat upon the steed.

  Shrieks rang out from all directions as her sister-in-law circled the court, sans helmet, on the low-riding bike, whipping to and fro. Fran’s blood boiled. The careless witch even zipped past a new mother, almost clipping the edge of an electronic buggy without acknowledging the near miss.

  And then she spied him. Curls fell about his face, almost hiding his easy-going brown eyes. Her chest squeezed as she remembered his gentle kindness. His classic good looks, as well as amiable smiles and nods, seemed to sooth the victims of his wife’s mishaps.

  Fran’s eyes welled. “Ted.”

  The thunder of the second scooter sounded close by, and Fran flicked a gaze back to Ted’s wife. Although she’d almost rammed her roaring DRAGON into a café table, Nissa tossed her head back and howled with laughter. The café patrons scattered and others ducked and swayed as she whipped around the courts. Although annoyed, Fran used the opportunity to her advantage, pocketing a few table scraps while the dynamic duo entertained the crowd. For the grand finale, they each threw their ride into hover mode and jetted high above the heads of their audience to the awaiting elevator. They dismounted and finished their departure aboard the glass-enclosed lift—up six stories and through the doors of the very ritzy Waltonian restaurant.

  Fran heard a few sighs and snickers from the crowd before reverence gave way to chatter, and the court slipped back into its usual state of chaos. Loaded with enough food to slake her greedy appetite, Fran returned to the hidden venting and burrowed into the guts of the city.

  As she wriggled through the darkness, she couldn’t stop processing the scene. Ted and Nissa lived in the West Wing? No wonder she had never found him. She hadn’t bothered to entertain the idea they were over there. She inched along, lost in thoughtful annoyance.

  After a few moments, when her brain emerged back into the here-and-now, she felt Chan’s reader digging into her skin. How could she have forgotten? Prickly excitement tingled the bottoms of her feet, and she welcomed the distraction as she pulled the reader from her jacket. After waving her hand over the surface, she dragged a finger to the image of a green and blue globe—a supposed picture of how the earth looked from outside―her icon for Diary of a First-Gen.

  I stare at the calculations on the screen. It’s safe out there… It has to be safe. I toggle over to the latest readings. Gamma rays, alpha particles, beta particles… the numbers all line up. Yet without a doubt, the Quality Factor Reading is not even close to the safe level.

  I
t’s been over twenty years in this bunker. How I yearn for the aroma of fresh cut grass on a warm spring day. Yet, I can barely recall the scent of a single blade. Will I even live long enough to see the re-emergence?

  We hadn’t anticipated being down here more than ten years. And the longer this bunker remains our home, the more bells and whistle Marcus creates to keep the masses happy. Every time we blast through another chunk of the earth to make room for more residents, we seem to discover more building material. Of course, it was planned that way, but I never really thought we need so much room… or that we’d have so many mineral-rich rocks at our disposal.

  We’ve had many new lives born into the bunker—a second generation of inhabitants. Some are already calling their children Second-Gens, as if there will be more. Yet the number we are able to house at this same level of opulence remains to be determined.

  Recently, I thought on my days at MIT, twenty-something years ago. Back when I had two trains of thought: Beer and nuclear disasters. I was the designated beer-guy. At the liquor store checkout, I had felt cocky and told the cashier that I was crashing an AA meeting. She gave me the stare of death until, with the smugness of youth, I added, “I meant, Apocalyptic Analysis, ma’am.”

  We thought we were something back then: The few… the proud… the physics geeks.

  Science club may not have been a popular after-school activity for most, but we, fascinated with the idea of nuclear catastrophes, had spent hours of free time tinkering with apocalyptic disaster mock-ups.

  We had saved mankind and rebuilt the earth with great success several times. Of course, over the years, as we moved through our undergrad and then graduate studies, we created more complex situations. Nonetheless, no matter the consequence, a decade had always been the longest cooling-off period before the rebuilding phase.

  Now, here I sit in real time—Second Generation Post Apocalypse—without an end in sight. I’m the last Mohican of the original AA’s. I often wonder if I will ever smell the summer grasses again.