The man was touching a piece of black glass that was wrapped around his forearm. Each time he touched it, the glass seemed to respond – colors, animations swirling around his arm. Jonah noticed that all of them had this black object attached to them, and realized that the mother was staring at hers as well, occasionally swiping it as if to remove a fly with a finger.
Sweat beaded on the father's forehead in the cool temperature of the room. Glancing up for a moment, he gruffly commanded the boy, “What have we told you? No eyetiles at the table! We're having dinner as a family.”
The boy sighed loudly as he removed the headgear, and then immediately started touching the glass on his forearm.
Over the boy's shoulder, now unobstructed by the boy's headgear, sat a girl Jonah's age.
Beautiful.
Her long sandy blonde hair was tossed around her shoulders, framing her pale face and green eyes. While her family was plump, their skin folding over the collars at their necklines, the girl had a small frame similar to those in his town. She held the physique of someone who knew the kind of labor his own family endured daily, but her pale skin was soft and hands uncalloused. Jonah’s eyes traced the edges of the clothing clinging to her body, his face hugging the slits of the surface between them, when she glanced up.
He immediately retreated, quickly dropping from the narrow openings.
He stayed down for a moment, assuming that the beautiful girl had seen him – but nothing happened.
Moments later, he heard loud sniffing from toward the end of the table.
“Dawkin, did you sanitize yourself this morning?” the mother asked.
“Ugh... Yes I did,” the boy whined.
“My nose tells me that you might not be giving me the truth,” she said, the loud sniffs continuing.
“Did too! Check the visual records from this morning from the hallway! You can't make me undergo another sanitization until my scheduled time before lights out.” The boy openly defied his mother, with no remorse in his voice.
The father's voice arose, alongside a new set of sniffing.
“Are you sure, Dawkin? I smell something strange too...”
Jonah knew what the problem was. Him.
The air filling the chamber was stale and sweet – but his body and clothes smelled of sweat. On the surface, it was expected. Down here, Jonah assumed the odor of work might not be common, judging by the frames of the three family members.
The boy squeaked his chair back from the table as Jonah peeked through the slits once again, making sure the green eyes of the girl weren't pointed in his direction – even though part of him wanted them to be.
The entire family was watching the boy stomp his feet over to one of the colored panes on the wall, tap aggressively, and turn around with his arms crossed. Jonah noticed that his round face had a look of indignation, and his nose was turned up. Dawkin, about the same age as Jonah's brother, seemed to have no resemblance to the beautiful creature that had been sitting across from him at the table.
The glass behind the boy duplicated the boy, showing him emerging from a room with wet hair, a cloth draped around his body. It was as if his identical twin was being watched through a window.
“See?! I told you!” he yelled at his parents. “You are so stupid!”
Jonah was taken aback by the volume and the boy's disrespect. He expected the parents to react the way any parent in his town would have reacted – with a swift smack to the behind. Or, to match the intensity of the defiance, a deserved slap in the face.
Instead, the father simply stated, “You're right - sorry. It must be the ventilation system acting up... I could bring it to the attention of the rest of the Regulation Committee, but if it's within reasonable levels we might get a complaint ticket... I'm sure someone will take care of it, so it might be best to wait it out a bit.”
“That's for the best, Quilen,” his wife said as her eyes returned to the arm glass.
The boy returned to his seat, beaming because of his parents' defeat.
Jonah's mouth was open in amazement of the exchange that he had just witnessed, taking in just how different the world was that he had stepped into.
The father puffed on a strange tube that glowed blue, releasing smoke through his nose.
The substance on their plates was anomalous to the Whitfields' meals. There were three different colored pastes sectioned off on the round platters in front of them in equal portions, each resembling the consistency of mashed potatoes that had been squeezed through a tube. He had the feeling that someone had ground each of the portions that were served, so that they would not have to be bothered with chewing their food.
Jonah watched the family as if they were a performance, like the traveling troubadours that would pass through his community, who would only ask for a meal and lodging for the night in return.
Except in those cases, the performers knew of the audience's existence, and would direct their attention to what they wanted seen. In this case, the actors were simply being, which was far more foreign than any of the plays he had ever seen.
The girl, completely out of place and with her plate still half full, sighed and softly requested, “May I be excused?”
Her voice, unlike her brother's, was polite and fragile. The words seemed to flow like silk through the slits in the wall in which Jonah was watching, gracing his ears like a gentle breeze. They held the sound of dissatisfaction, which was the only emotion in the room that he had yet connected with.
“And miss dessert?” the father scoffed, his belly bouncing only once.
“I'm... I'm not very hungry,” she answered, as if it wasn't so much that she wasn't hungry, but wasn't content with pre-chewed paste. Or the subject matter of the meal's conversation.
“One of these days you'll learn to appreciate the finer things in life – like dessert. There were times in history when people had to work assignment shifts all day for a reward like this,” he said as if reading a prepared speech. “Of course, if you want to visit a few housing sections away, you can find the laborers that still have to,” he chuckled.
As he spoke, he pushed the surface of the table with the tip of his finger, and a small opening appeared in front of him. A tube curved out of the hole, ending just above an empty section of his plate. After pushing once again on the table, a red gooey substance slipped out of the pipe, piling on top of the end of his fork. Dessert.
“You'll wake up and realize that everything you could have ever wanted has been here the whole time!”
The girl patiently waited until he had shoved a glob of the slime into his mouth, then repeated, “So, may I be excused?”
“Yes, Talitha, you may be excused,” her mother answered, barely looking up from her arm glass.
Talitha. The name echoed through Jonah's head like musical notes. That fits her perfectly.
She stood, grabbing her plate and a cup of blue liquid, and walked toward one of the windows that spanned from the floor to the ceiling. She pressed against the glass, and a large pane went black, the valley disappearing, and folded out toward her.
She tossed the contents of her hands – plate, silverware, cup, uneaten paste – down into the opened compartment, which closed slowly. As soon as it connected to the rest of the black wall, the scenery reappeared.
Talitha turned and walked out of the room, much to Jonah's dismay. He found that – even though he had just discovered a family that lived below the surface of the Deathlands, which should keep his interest for years – he was immediately bored with the three family members that remained in the room. All of them simply stared at different glass surfaces, not speaking, mesmerized.
Jonah slowly slid along the surface of his chamber, hoping that the slits he'd been staring through weren’t the only ones. He silently moved through the darkness, his years of patiently hunting aiding him in his motions. He found deviations in the path, but he thought it wise to stay straight – he could explore the other options when he was better prepa
red, and knew the pathway back.
It didn't take long for him to be peering through another set of slits – a hallway of some kind – but it didn't hold his attention. He continued to move.
Nearing another set of slits, he heard the girl humming a slow melody, the notes hanging in the air like clouds. He eased his face to the holes in the wall that separated, and watched her move about the room. He gathered that it was where she slept – alone – which was another surprise to him, as everyone he knew shared their rooms with their siblings, if not their parents, too.
Talitha laid down in the floor, and touched her arm glass gracefully. With each motion, something in the room changed. First, the doorway she walked through sealed shut on its own. Second, the bright lights that were coming from various parts of the room faded to nothing. Third, the entire room was covered in the night sky.
.- .-- .- -.- .
Jonah didn't know how long he had been staring at the girl lying in the middle of the floor, her chest rising and falling slowly from her breath, but he jolted suddenly when the seal over the entryway of the room broke, and bright light poured in. Her mother walked in.
“Looking at the stars again, dear?”
Talitha, who had obviously fallen asleep, rubbed her emerald eyes, waiting for them to adjust to this forced dawn. She paused for a moment before responding. “I wish I could really look at them.”
“But sweetheart, you are looking at them. That's exactly what they looked like before the Surface's End.”
“You know what I mean, mom. I wish I could go to the surface, lay on the actual ground. Breath fresh air, look at the actual stars—”
“You really should listen to your father,” her mother interrupted, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He's right, you know. You should enjoy the life that we have here, and understand that you have everything at your fingertips. Talking about the surface isn't going to change it. Fresh air... You wouldn't be able to choke out a single breath.” Jonah's face twitched in surprise. “You’ve seen the video feeds – it's not safe. Nothing but fire and radiation. You can see the good parts of the past on the digitiles, and you don't have to think about the bad parts of it. It's better than reality.”
“But what's the point?” Talitha sighed. “What's the purpose in reliving the same day every day. Is studying in classes about history supposed to frighten me into contentment? Training for a position in the Regulation Committee so that I can spend my life in a decision chamber, acting like my time matters. Everybody's busy, but nobody actually does anything – the Facility takes care of everything. Nothing anybody does actually makes a difference.” She looked down, slumping her shoulders.
“Talitha, I don't want to hear that talk from you anymore,” her mother reprimanded, her voice short. Her face held a look of indignation. “There are plenty of people who wish that they were the same status class as we are – that their children could automatically be appointed to the Regulation Committee. If your great-great-grandfather hadn't headed up the Complaint Committee, then you very well could've ended up as a laborer. And you definitely wouldn't get to complain about dessert.”
The girl sighed. “I'm not trying to complain about what I have, mom. I just... I...” She obviously didn't know what to say that would make it seem like she was happy. “Thanks, mom. Both you and dad do a lot to make sure that Dawkin and I are comfortable.”
Her mother looked pleased. “That's more like it,” she said, a smile curling up at the edges of her lips. “If I recall, you have a Historical Tax exam to study for before bed, right?”
Talitha stood up, stretching.
“Yes. I'll bring up the lectures on the digitiles.”
Her mother kissed her forehead and walked out of the room. Talitha touched the glass on her arm and the entry way sealed again but she then dissipated the stars and brought the lights up in the room. Jonah squinted at the immediate change, his eyes having been adjusted to the twilight that had been emanating from the room.
“Useless,” Talitha mumbled. “Why do we have to learn about how the Leaders saved us from the Surface's End through taxation, when there's nothing to tax now?”
Within moments, a life-size man appeared on the far wall, books surrounding him, and a voice announced “Twenty Second Century Taxation, lecture six.” The man on the wall, with a different voice, began droning about earning laws, and how, in some distant past, the rich were destroying the poor. Jonah started edging away when the voice lectured on how the Leaders leveled the playing field, and that taxes and redistribution were the only way that civilization could be sustained.
He pictured his home covered in endless flames, wondering what the other word her mother used – Radiation? – meant.
After only a few feet, he pulled out a piece of cloth still in his satchel and tied it on a small metal loop in the wall of the tunnel. He would definitely want to return to this place. He started his movement once more.
The thought occurred to him that he'd be content to simply watch the porcelain skinned girl for the rest of his time in the tunnels – and possibly his life – but realized that he needed to find out more about his new surroundings while he still had daylight above.
Assuming he still did have daylight above. He tried to estimate the time, knowing that if he were to emerge from the tunnel with only the moonlight overhead, he could wander in the Deathlands aimlessly. And camping in the Deathlands was only slightly less disenchanting.
It had at least been a few hours since he had descended down the glowing shaft, because his stomach was quietly declaring that his small breakfast was long ago.
Jonah glanced into the room in which the family had dined earlier. Where it once was bright, the dark glass covering the walls only faintly reflected dancing lights from deeper down the connected hall. When first looking upon the room, he was quite amazed that, underground, they were able to see a lush valley through the glass walls.
However, after seeing so many dancing images in both this room and in the bedroom of the girl he realized it was some sort of magic that all of the walls possessed. Much more miraculous than the cold, constant burning lights in the tunnel in which he descended to this world.
He crawled towards his origination in the 'duct,' as it had been labeled. The tunnel opened up, and he was once again standing on a grated floor. He passed the end of the tunnel, where he found the orange cloth from his shirt tied to the ground, and looked to his left to see the ladder. He instead turned to the right, grabbing an apple from his satchel.
He replayed the family's earlier conversation in his head, recognizing that they had talked of others. Others that must also reside in the series of tunnels. It seemed incredibly unlikely that anyone could survive in an enclosed area such as this at all, but even more impossible that they could survive alone.
The surprise that there were more people underground was less than the initial shock of stumbling upon the family. But still, he felt it was strange to be walking around, who knows how far underground, searching for people.
Between bites of his apple, he tried to stay focused on his surroundings, realizing that wandering aimlessly could result in a much longer stay than he anticipated.
When he took the last bite of his apple, he threw the core in his satchel and paused in front of an opening marked Resource Duct 35C (15).
He removed two more pieces of orange cloth from his bag, tying one to the grating in the main tunnel towards the ladder, and one just inside the duct, which looked to him as simply a new tunnel opening. Everything looked the same, so he knew that he had to mark every move he made – it would be unwise to assume he'd remember the correct numbers and letters associated with the different duct entrances.
Walking only a short distance, he noticed a faint smell in the air. In relation to the rest of the stale oxygen of the tunnels, or the sweet aroma near the family, it was familiar. But it was not to say it was entirely familiar – merely that the quality seemed more appropriate for the land near his home th
an in the metal cage he was currently in.
The further he walked, the stronger the smell. He couldn't quite place it, for among the recognizable odor was a concoction of something... else.
At a dead-end, he reached a window unlike the polished, pristine glass that he'd seen in the family's rooms – one with the dirt and fog that he was accustomed to. The liquid stains on it made it hard to see through, but he did see movement.
Jonah noticed that the window was set into a door, and that the handle to the door was barely soiled. Cleaner than almost anything he'd known on the surface, it still seemed dirty in this sterile environment – though it fit with the window.
He resolved to try to open the door as quietly as possible, hoping that he could still count on his hunter's instincts and patience to not be noticed. He placed his fingers on the handle, and slowly pulled it down, making sure that any squeak that it made would not compete in volume to a scampering field mouse.
Inch by inch, he reached the end of the handle's rotation, and barely cracked the door open.
And immediately vomited.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jonah had been around livestock all his life. When he was a child, barely old enough to walk, his mother would let him pet the pigs and chickens on the family farm while his father fed and watered them. Later, when the family would visit neighbors, Jonah would inevitably wander off to converse with the area animals – bleating with goats, mooing at calves – often resulting in a quick swipe on the behind by his mother and lectures on not wandering off.
As he grew, he involved himself in everything his father did. While the majority of that time was in the vegetable field, the beginning and end of the day was always spent making sure the animals had provisions or thanking the hens while gathering their eggs. When he was the age of eight, he was given the task of killing his first rooster.
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