daynight

by Megan Thomason

  I awoke to my mother’s screams and my father’s panicked pleas for help from our neighbors. Unfortunately, they’d all left on a supply run as it was shipment night and the community rations would be lucky to last another week. From the light streaming through the makeshift sunscreen woven of canyon brush I could tell it was mid-afternoon.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” I’d asked.

  “The baby’s coming,” she’d replied, sweat streaming down her face, and blood covering her garments. Even though I had little sense of time, I knew it was too early for the baby to arrive. Scared, I’d climbed upon her matting and burrowed up to her, caring little that her long black hair was slippery with perspiration, and that the water my dad had sponged over her steamed into a stinky mist. I picked bed bugs from her face, squeezing them to their death before they could get to her mouth. Meanwhile, my dad paced furiously and cursed loudly as he’d tried to figure out how to handle our predicament.

  “Blakie,” he said finally, bowing his head in defeat. “I need you to go get Doc Daryn.” It took a lot for my dad to admit he needed help. He looked more exhausted than usual. I could tell because his hazel eyes usually sparkled, but looked cloudy and dull. I wondered if he had dared to swim in the ocean or if his bushy brown hair and beard were wet from sweat.

  “But Daddy,” I said. “Sun’s out.” I knew the way to Doc’s, but had never attempted it without my parents or during the heat of the midday sun. The thought of the ascent up the rope ladders alone scared the crap out of me.

  “You’re big now. You can do it. I have to stay with your mom and we need Doc to help your mommy with the baby,” he said. My mom pulled me closer to her, knowing the risk of me never returning to be high. But after my dad whispered something in her ear she’d reached over to retrieve a rare piece of cloth she’d been saving for the baby and wrapped it around my head.

  “This will protect you,” she said, kissing my forehead. I nodded, believing her words because the alternative was unthinkable. My oversized shoes couldn’t be used on the ropes, but my long sleeves and pants would cover my body. Only my hands and feet would be exposed. “I love you, little one.”

  “I love you too, Mama. I’ll get Doc Daryn, don’t worry,” I’d said.

  “Be careful and be fast, my good boy,” my dad encouraged. He draped a satchel of water over my shoulder before lifting my small body onto the ropes directly outside our cave. I choked on the heat, but spray from the waves below cooled me and gave me courage to press upward.

  I’d climbed as fast as my tiny muscles could, the ropes and sun singeing my hands and feet. My dad told me later I’d ascended more than two hundred feet to reach the top of the cliffs. The one time I glanced down and saw the dizzying distance between me and the rocky shore of the ocean below, I lost my footing. As I hung by one hand from the ropes, something kept me from releasing my grip. Whether it was love for my mother and baby sister, survival instinct, divine intervention, or the wind, I somehow swung my feet back towards the cliffs, looped them into a rung, and grabbed hold of the ropes with my other hand. The contact ripped open the blisters on my hands and watery fluid and blood dripped downward, but I kept going with renewed energy and focus.

  Once atop the cliffs, I’d collapsed from exhaustion face down into the dirt and rocks, making myself an instant target for fire ants. After several minutes of being stung, inhaling dust into my lungs and coughing it back up, I remembered my water satchel and thirstily drained it. I rose, batting away the ants, and ran as fast as I could across the rocky path towards the canyon. The ground was hot as coals on my feet, my back ablaze from the sun. Then it had been down another ladder and across a thin ledge to the doctor’s comparatively lush accommodations in the canyon.

  “Doc Daryn,” I’d yelled. “My mama’s having the baby. She needs help!” Doc’s Cleave, Linda, snatched me from the ledge, letting out a cry at the sight of me. The Doc knew it must have been bad for my dad to have sent me and quickly gathered his supply bag, tying it around his waist. He tried to leave me with his Cleave, but I’d kept screaming that I wanted my mama and daddy, so he’d slathered an ointment on my hands and feet before wrapping them with gauze. A minty cream I recognized as toothpaste—a rarity in our community—was caked on my face in effort to ease the burning sensation and swelling from the ant stings. At his urging, I clutched to his neck and twisted my legs above his belly bag. His Cleave secured me to him with a belt, doused us both with water, and then we reversed the path I’d just taken, passing several men guiding mules packed with newly procured supplies for our community.

  By the time we’d descended to our cave, the sun looked like a giant orange resting upon the water, the sparse clouds glowing crimson. The heat had subsided slightly making the air more breathable. Poor Doc was panting from the extra weight of his supplies and me. My daddy broke down with tears of relief to see the two of us. Mom looked so pale and weak that I wondered if she was dead. But within moments she screamed bloody murder as she tried to eject the baby with a long contraction.

  “She’s been pushing for an hour, but something’s wrong. The baby’s not coming,” my dad had said. Doc put me down and dug into his bag. My dad attempted to shield me from seeing the events of the next hour as the doctor used tools to remove the baby and try to stop my mom’s bleeding. Doc tied the baby’s cord, cut her from my mom, and then swaddled her in an old rag from his bag. He handed me the crying, writhing little girl, so my dad could help him save my mom. Ten tiny fingers and toes, a black patch of hair and creamy skin, and facial expressions that shifted continually finally helped distract me.

  Thanks to the Gads, my mom lived for eight months following Leila’s birth. Long enough to nurse the life out of her, saving her baby girl, a gift she’d willingly given. Doc didn’t think she’d make it through that night, so the extra time was a blessing. She’d been too weak to leave the cave, so we’d made do in space smaller than my current bedroom. My dad filled the time with stories of a fantastical place of plentiful food, beautiful trees and flowers, luxurious homes, and daylight play without being scorched or burned. On her deathbed my mom had my dad promise to deliver us safely to the place of his stories and never let us return.

  My dad honored half that promise, but by forcing my participation in his plans of revenge, we’re both about to dishonor the other half. As I remember my mom’s blazing eyes as she demanded this of my father, I shudder and whisper for her forgiveness. No, my sister will never understand the sacrifices, including the one I’ll be undertaking shortly to avenge my mother’s death. Leila remembers living in a ‘really hot place,’ but that’s the extent of it. She adapted quickly to life in San Diego, and our favorable circumstances here.

  I have too much to do to deal with her crap, too much to prepare, but I wind my truck through the Ranch, at ease in the darkness of the hour.

  I wonder if I’m the only Carmel Valley High student who didn’t attend the Winter Formal. Bailey-branded losers like me don’t get dates. When we first moved to the area, I tried to fit in, to blend in more. But I don’t blend. I can’t stand to make attachments, to care about people who have no place in my future. So after the Bailey fiasco, I withdrew from the pack, hiding behind the protection of my hood and a skateboard, despite—or perhaps because of—the inherent negative stereotypes associated with skaters, and made peace with my solitude. Boarding’s as natural as walking to me, so the subterfuge worked its magic.

  I slow as I approach my destination and turn into the Goodington’s driveway. My brain catches sight of someone in my path, reacting before I can fully process, and I swerve out of the way and slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a eucalyptus tree. Shaking from the near hit, I yank my hood up over my head and get out of the car. My averted victim is none other than Kira Donovan, who appears sober, dateless, and is yelling at her cell phone. She looks like a freaking Disney princess with her hair up in curly-qs and body perfectly shaped in a long green dress.

  “Trying to get yourself killed
? You about gave me a heart attack!” I say.

  “Not at all. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get a signal on my cell phone to call my parents for a ride and wasn’t paying attention to where I was standing,” she says. Then pay attention. You’re no good to me dead.

  “Well, I didn’t see you until the last second. You were right in the middle of the...”

  I stop mid-lecture, as I see a series of bright flashes and then watch the Goodington house explode into flames—there one second and completely gone the next. The force of the blasts knocks Kira into me, and then both of us to the ground. My first thought, wrongfully so, is “Bye-bye Bailey. Karma found you after all.” But then I realize that it’s not as satisfying as I thought it’d be and that I’m a victim to Karma’s whims myself. Painful hunks of crap have penetrated my skin, some of them burning. I know all about burns, my mind reverting to the weeks of treatment I required after my journey to fetch Doc Daryn. It takes a couple days for the burns to ‘set,’ the skin still cooking like a Thanksgiving turkey removed from the oven. The ointments, the searing pain, the oozing of the wounds. Is this what my sister will have to experience if she makes it out?

  I want to go in and save my little sister from the fiery inferno, but my survival instinct tells me that’s not an option, as the winds push the fire directly towards us. I can tell Kira’s in shock, so I load her thin body into the truck and snap the gears into reverse while dialing 911. Once back on the main road I hit the accelerator, retracing the path from whence I came, begging for help from the 911 operator. I pull into a parking lot and suck in a deep mouthful of air.

  As I look at Kira and the overwhelming grief I see on her face, a single thought races through my mind: ‘What has the SCI done?’

  I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.

  Vincent Van Gogh

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kira

  An unfamiliar female voice urges me to waken and be ready in 30 minutes, and I startle, searching for the source to no avail. There must be some sort of built-in speaker system. Barely conscious, I look around my room, something I wasn’t able to properly do in my drugged state last night. It’s larger than the average dorm room and has a twin bed, desk, dresser, closet, and private bathroom. I undress, locate what I assume to be my Recruit uniform and get in the shower. The hot water helps pull me out of my sleepy haze and I reflexively reach for my travel shower pack before realizing that I didn’t bring it, or anything else for that matter. Thankfully a corner shelf in the shower has shampoo, conditioner, body wash and a razor. I note that each product has an ‘Industrial City’ label, and the shampoo, conditioner and body wash have an unfamiliar ‘Theranberry’ scent, which reminds me of a lemon-strawberry-passion fruit combination, a suitable replacement for my Hawaiian products.

  After drying off and dressing in the white, short-sleeved, tight-fitting, silky top, and shimmery yet soft silver-toned pants provided, I stare at myself in the mirror to see that the dark circles under my eyes have Saturn-like rings. “Awful. There had better be makeup!” I say to myself. I survey the drawers and find lotions, makeup, and everything I might need, all with the telltale Industrial City markings I found in the shower. Everything sparkles as I apply it, making me feel like I’m preparing for a night at a disco, not an evening in the training center. I don’t bother to dry or straighten the curls from my hair, and instead pull it back into a ponytail, not wanting to be late.

  A knock at my door makes me think I’m tardy, but I check the clock and have fifteen minutes to spare. If I could just find my shoes, that is. The clothing I’d arrived in, including my shoes, has disappeared. This in itself would be fine if it didn’t imply someone had entered my room to remove the items. Creepy. Really creepy. I shudder at the thought of a stranger watching me sleep or climb into the shower. With some effort, I finally find the standard issue socks and shoes, put them on, and answer the second knock on my door.

  “What are you doing here?” I grumble at a surprisingly hoodless Blake Sundry. The last time I saw him I’d swear his hair was long, or did I just assume that? Maybe he did have long hair and cut it recently? In any case, his face is framed with dark, straight hair that has streaks of platinum highlights. His green eyes are flanked by dark eyelashes. He looks better hoodless and well groomed. But he’s not quite normal, his shimmery ivory skin being an anomaly, given we both came from such a sunny climate. Not that my slightly freckled skin tans easily, but his skin appears porcelain. I watch as he runs his hands through his hair. His hands are marred, as if they were transplanted off a burn victim. Abruptly, he pulls them into his long sleeved shirt and I realize I must have been staring.

  “I’m your flatmate,” he says as he motions for me to step into a small living and kitchen area. “We each have our own room, but share the kitchen and living room.”

  “We are sharing this place? This is where we’ll be spending a year?” I ask in a harsh tone. I don’t mean to sound snotty, given it’s pretty nice, but I’m just surprised and somewhat horrified that they have me sharing a suite with a guy. Particularly this guy. I hope the SCI drug-tested him and checked his background to make sure he’s not dangerous. Sure, he saved my life, but I hardly need a constant reminder of that night and I can’t see Blake without seeing fire, flying debris, and dead bodies.

  I must have allowed a nasty look onto my face, because Blake grimaces at my reaction and says, “Just the first week, apparently, while we are in training. They plan to transfer us to our long-term residences Saturnight.”

  “Saturnight?” I ask. “You mean Saturday night?”

  “Whatever, uh yeah, just repeating what they said while you were passed out,” he responds, looking at me like I must have missed a couple-hour briefing that he doesn’t intend to fill me in on. “Anyway, I made some breakfast if you are hungry.”

  “Awesome,” I say, figuring he must have popped some pre-made waffles in a toaster or something. “How long have you been up?”

  “Our wake-up call was at the same time, but I’m a guy so it only took me 5 minutes to get ready. And I was starving, so yeah, I made eggs.”

  “Cool, thanks. I’m hungry, too, though honestly it feels like we should be eating dinner, not breakfast.”

  “Maybe because it is 1850 hours? 6:50pm,” he says, reminding me that for some reason our training is happening in the evening.

  “What’s up with evening schedule, anyway?” I ask. “And what else did they mention while I was passed out?”

  He shrugs and says, “Nothing they won’t cover again in training, I’d assume,” and then walks over to the small table to eat his own breakfast.

  “They didn’t mention anything about interplanetary travel?” I say. He rolls his eyes and I join him and marvel at the simply executed ham and cheese omelet before me. It’s a little rubbery, but I quickly inhale it. In the last 24 hours I’ve only had a stale bagel and cup of juice.

  “Do you also do dishes, cleaning and laundry?” I joke when I’m done.

  “Don’t push your luck, gorgeous,” he says. I grimace. The complement makes me feel uncomfortable, since the last person to call me gorgeous was Tristan. I don’t like being stuck in a suite with Blake or being around any guy for that matter. It makes me feel like I’m cheating on Tristan, even though I can’t cheat on a dead boyfriend. Not that he was a great boyfriend in the end, but it’s not like I got to resolve the whole cheating issue before he died.

  Blake must see the displeasure on my face and adds, “Give me a break. It’s not like I’m trying to hit on you, Kira. I don’t even know you. We’ve been assigned partners for training, that’s it. But don’t ask me to pretend like you aren’t beautiful and probably used to having everyone bend over backwards to cater to you—which, by the way, I was not trying to do by making your stupid breakfast.”

  Pompous much? I plaster on a fake smile, get up from the table and without response to his insult, take his plate and mine, and hand wash them in t
he sink with some Industrial City dish soap. That insult was so uncalled for, but I’m going to ignore it. Once done with the dishes I slip past Blake and try to leave through the door to our suite, which won’t budge, and has no easily apparent way to unlock it. They locked us in. I wonder why? Don’t want the new Recruits exploring? That sucks since exploring seems appropriate for our supposed arrival on alien land.

  “It’s locked,” Blake says. I continue to smile, but in my head roll my eyes and give a sarcastic ‘thanks.’ Couldn’t have figured that out on my own. Still upset by Blake’s inflammatory comments, I retreat to my room to look for my watch, which I swear I was wearing when I went to sleep. Mine has vanished, but an ‘Industrial City’ issue has been placed atop the dresser. I put it on and notice it is 18:59. As the time changes to 1900 hours I hear a click and our escort arrives to release us from captivity.

  We follow the man—who doesn’t even bother to introduce himself, exchange pleasantries, or respond to questions—through a winding maze of hallways painted different bright neon colors to a door marked UNIT 27 TRAINING CLINIC. We’re ushered inside and greeted by two nurses who separate Blake and I into separate white-walled examination rooms.

  The nurse asks me a series of questions about any unusual symptoms or issues I might have had since our arrival. Other than feeling ill and parched when I first entered, and the lump on my head I got while trying to leave, I haven’t had much time to experience any issues, as I was drugged and forced to sleep for hours, I tell them. Yes, I was able to get breakfast down. No, I never vomited. Yes, I feel fine now. No breathing issues, no rapid heartbeat, no intestinal distress, no seizures or convulsions, no skin lesions, no dizziness, seeing spots, or fainting. Seriously people, what were you expecting?