The Black (The Black Trilogy Book 1)

by J. M. Scarlett

  “Do what?” she asked, passing throngs of people heading off to their shifts, a rainbow of bodies, distinguished only by their color coded garments: agriculture wore green; engineering wore yellow; maintenance wore gray, and Karma wore blue, which stood for the medical ward where she worked.

  “Stop me.” Her grandfather choked up. He did every time she came to collect him and take him back to the lower levels, where the residential bunkers sat. A tear gathered at the corner of his eye. “You agree with them, don’t you? You think I’m crazy?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she lied. “Of course, I don’t.”

  Her grandfather’s face darkened. “I may be crazy,” he stated boldly. “But I’d rather be crazy than helpless and blind.”

  It was one of her grandfather’s famous lines, one she heard thousands of times before.

  She found an elevator that wasn’t too crowded and rode it down to level four that housed the sick and the elderly. Her grandfather once told her that in the old days before the Black, such places were called nursing homes, and even though she had never seen one (she was considered one of the “lucky ones” born and bred inside the silo) she understood well enough that her grandfather hated it.

  When the elevators stopped, she was greeted by two black uniforms, watchmen, protectors of the silo.

  “Well, well, what do we got here?” said Zinc. He had a thick, pockmarked face and an arrogant attitude. He, too, was considered one of the lucky ones. Most of them were. “Crazy, Old Man Arthur. Out for an evening stroll again, are we?”

  “Shove it, Z,” said Karma, lashing out like a snake. She didn’t like Zinc; didn’t like the way he treated her grandfather and the other elders. She once witnessed him stealing a dinner roll off an old woman’s tray.

  “Down, girl, down!” He jested toward her like a dog, and his comrade, Jax, who Karma actually did like, slapped him in the back of the head, quieting him.

  “Shut up, you turd,” Jax mumbled. “Show some respect, would ya?”

  Jax was young, attractive, and not to mention, Malik’s son, who was the head of security, though he acted nothing like him. Unlike his unapproachable father, he had always been kind and considerate, much like how his mother had been, according to those who knew her. Unfortunately for him, he had never met her. His mother had died at child birth, leaving him an only child and his father, who never remarried, a single parent. It was about the only thing they had in common.

  “Sorry about that,” Jax said, shooting Zinc a look. “He was supposed to be guarding the exit.” He pointed to a gold pin on his uniform. “I’m a captain now and will make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Karma tried not to blush as she thanked him and led her grandfather to his room. It was a simple space, made up of a bed, a dresser, a single nightstand and a pile of books. No one loved to read more than her grandfather.

  “You like that boy,” he said as she helped him into bed, pulling off his slippers. His feet were ice cold. She rubbed them to warm them. It didn’t gross her out like it did her mother or brother, Ben. Karma was used to taking care of people, especially from working in the med ward. She supposed that’s why half of level four recognized her when she first entered, waving to her or nodding their hellos.

  “Who wouldn’t?” she said, and her grandfather chuckled.

  “I remember when I met your grandmother,” he said, his eyes glassy with the memory of her face. “Did I ever tell you? You were—”

  “Named after her,” she groaned. “I know, Pops. You’ve told me this story a hundred times already.”

  “The island?” he blurted. “Did I tell you about the island?”

  “Yes, Pops. You told me all about the island and the weird experiments—"

  Her grandfather rambled on anyway, reciting the same asinine story that he already repeated a million times over about an island where they performed strange experiments on children. He wasn’t always like this, her mother once declared. After the breakout sixty years ago, her grandfather lived in the silo, fell in love with her grandmother, who she had been named after, and had a son named Jon. But it wasn’t until seven years ago, when they found their father’s limp body at the bottom of the stairwell with a suicide note tucked in his pocket, that her grandfather’s mind began to go. A jumper, that’s what they called her father. He wasn’t the only one, either. The old patriarch of the Nest, Mortimer Greenwood, had done the same exact thing many years before him, and so had a handful of others. Not everyone was meant for living in a silo; there were those who went crazy stuck inside its walls, limited to fifteen levels of freedom. Sometimes, she swore she was one of them.

  After rubbing his feet, she pulled back the blanket and helped him under the covers. “Now promise me you won’t leave again?”

  Her grandfather pouted like a child. “Why?”

  “Because it’s too dangerous,” she said. “You could get hurt.”

  “If I stay here, I’ll go mad,” he grumbled.

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him he already was; hence the nickname Crazy Old Man Arthur.

  “I’m alone here,” he blubbered, his bottom lip trembling. “No one cares about me.”

  “I care,” she said, tucking the blanket around him.

  “And your brother?” he said. She was afraid he would bring it up. “I haven’t seen my grandson in months. Your mother, either.”

  “Mom’s working hard in agriculture,” Karma explained. “She doesn’t get home till late and Ben is busy with training. I barely see him myself. He’s training to be a watchman, you know. Just like Dad.”

  She thought the news would make him happy, but it didn’t. Not by the scowl on his face.

  “Bah,” he spat. “Watchmen are nothing but bullies in black suits. Ben can do better.”

  “You were one of them,” she reminded him. Before he lost his mind and his son, her grandfather had been a great watchmen himself.

  “And look what it did to me?” he said. He grew quiet for a moment, then pointed at a book resting on his nightstand. “My journal, dear. Bring it to me.”

  It was a tiny black book with numerous pages. “I didn’t know you kept a diary?” she said, handing it to him. He hugged it to his chest like a pillow.

  “It’s the only thing that keeps my mind right,” he declared. She flicked on the lamp beside him. He threw a finger into the air. “Did I ever tell you—you were named after your grandmother?”

  A soft smile touched her lips. “Yes, Pops,” she said. “You told me.”

  Her grandfather sighed, frustrated with himself. There were times when he remembered and times he didn’t, and every time he felt like a dolt.

  “I better go,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”

  When she reached the door, her grandfather called out to her. “A name,” he said. “It is the only thing you are given when you come into this world and the only thing you take with you when you leave it. Cherish it, Karma. Don’t ever change it . . . And make a good one out of it.”

  She looked at her grandfather. She didn’t understand what he meant, she rarely did anymore, and gave up trying to figure him out long ago.

  When she finally made it home to her family’s bunker down on level two, she found her mother in the kitchen, preparing their evening rations. Three placemats sat on the table. It used to be four before her father died.

  "He's at it again,” Karma said to her mother as she walked through the door. “I found Pops at the sanctuary, going off again about the island.” Holograms of tropical sunsets gleamed from fake windows, displaying mirages of white sandy beaches and palm trees blowing in the wind—Arlington, the only man older than her grandfather and ruler of the Nest, claimed that such illusions were healthy for the mind, especially being that they were buried thousands of feet beneath the earth. He came up with the idea after his father Mortimer Greenwood’s passing, insisting it would prevent more jumpers from happening, but it never worked. Illusions or not, not ev
eryone considered the Nest a safe haven.

  Her mother was at the microwave, her brown hair pinned in a loose bun, waiting for the timer to sound. For someone who spent her days and nights indoors, her skin was glowing, or maybe it was from the grow lamps in agriculture where she worked, designed to mimic the sun. Regardless, she looked pretty beneath the recessed lighting; her cheeks rosy, her freckles bright.

  "Again?" her mother moaned. "How on earth does your grandfather keep getting out? Aren’t they supposed to be watching him?"

  Karma plopped down at the kitchen table. It had been a long day, filled with cleaning bed pans, sorting files, and changing diapers in the medical ward.

  “Apparently not,” she groaned, kicking off her boots. “I talked to Jax about it. He said he’d take care of it.”

  “He’s still alive?” her mother jested. “I’m surprised Malik hasn’t run the poor boy into the ground yet. How is he?”

  “Apparently, just made captain,” Karma said, grabbing a pickled cucumber out of a jar resting in the center of the table.

  “Captain? I could’ve called that one,” her mother teased. “Next thing you know, he’ll be head of security. Not a bad catch, either, I might add—”

  “Mom!” she whined.

  “Just saying,” her mother mumbled. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him—"

  “MOM!”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” said her mother, busying herself with the potato peeler.

  “Speaking of watchmen,” said Karma, nodding toward the empty placemat beside her. "Where's my older, socially awkward half?"

  Jax wasn’t the only one in the Nest with a robust ambition to be the next head of security. Ever since Ben started watchmen training a few months back, her nettlesome brother spent more time with the watchmen on level fourteen, then he did at home.

  “Where do you think?” her mother quipped. “The boy’s barely eighteen and already he wants to leave the nest!”

  Karma raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what kids are supposed to do when they grow up?”

  Her mother shot her a look. “Wait till you have kids, and see if you still feel the same way—speaking of the devil . . .”

  Ben crept through the door, sulking as usual. Looking at them side by side, you’d never know they were related: Karma may have been named after her grandmother, but it was Ben who inherited her fiery red hair and green eyes, whereas Karma took after her grandfather’s side, obviously, one look at the old photograph hanging on the wall above the fake mantel in their living room, and you’d swear someone chopped off her father’s head and put it on her body, minus the beard, that is.

  “Look who decided to bless us with his presence,” her mother jested, but Ben didn’t laugh, not even so much as crack a smile.

  He tossed his gym bag on the floor and dropped his bottom in the seat next to Karma. “Where's the grub?” he said. It was an understatement. Her brother was all skin and bones. He propped his dirty feet on the table and lounged back. “I’m starving.”

  “Not so fast.” Their mother knocked his feet off the table with the wooden spoon in her hand. "Now go wash your hands,” she grumbled. “Both of you.”

  Karma beat him to the sink. They fought over the soap, and Ben nearly hip bumped her through the wall. Their mother hollered that the neighbors would call the watchmen if they didn’t calm down, and Ben reminded her that he was a watchman. In training, Karma wanted to remind him, but let it go. She could tell by his sour mood and the bruises he tried to hide beneath his sleeves that he had a bad day.

  “Very funny,” their mother scolded him and ordered them back to the table, where they feasted on buttered carrots, tofu steak, and potatoes; everything grown and produced and evenly divided by agriculture’s leaders, which included her mother.

  They hadn’t been seated for more than a few minutes, when her mother said, “You know, your grandfather got out again. Since you’re a watchman now, can’t you do something about it?”

  Ben’s smile faded. Unlike Karma, he was embarrassed by their grandfather’s reputation, ashamed when others called him crazy. Losing his father was bad enough, but when their grandfather lost his mind, it had been the icing on the cake. Ben had a good heart, he did, but his strongest flaw was caring what other people thought about him too much.

  “They should try putting him on a leash,” he mumbled.

  “Ben,” their mother scolded. “That’s enough of that.”

  “It’s true,” said Ben. “Do you know what they call him? Crazy Old Man Arthur. And if they’re not laughing at him, they’re scared to death of him—"

  “You’re so selfish,” Karma hissed. “How can you say that about Pops?”

  Ben snorted. “Selfish? How am I being selfish when they’re the ones laughing behind our backs? Don’t you get it? We’re a laughing stock; all Harper’s are because of him.”

  Even though Karma knew it was true, it was still hard to hear. Her grandfather, before he lost his mind, was someone people once looked up to, someone they admired, a great general during the time of the outbreak, and now he was someone they exiled, laughed at, and ridiculed. All because he couldn’t deal with the anguish of losing his son. Sometimes she felt the same way, like the pain of her father’s loss was so great that it would eventually consume her, but as the years passed and the days drew on, the torment didn’t disappear but lessened, teaching her one valuable lesson: Family was more important than any petty squabble. The sad part was, not everyone saw it that way.

  “Ben,” her mother warned for the last time. “I mean it—that’s enough.”

  Ben pouted and finished his meal in silence. He didn’t mean half of what he said, Karma knew, but it made no difference to their mother. Pops was family, and you didn’t talk bad about family. Period. The phone rang. Without a word, their mother rose from her seat and walked over to the intercom. Considering Ben didn’t have many friends, Karma expected the call was either for her, probably her friend Varra looking to brag about the latest boy she had kissed, or agriculture for her mother, who ran the hydro-farms up on level twelve. But the look on her mother’s face said it was neither.

  Her mother mumbled something into the receiver and hung up the phone.

  “Everything okay?” asked Karma, shoving a carrot into her mouth.

  Her mother stood by the intercom, chewing on her fingernail, staring into space. “It’s your grandad . . .” she murmured. “He’s gone.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “What a shocker? Let me guess, he escaped again, and they can’t find him. Tell them to check the food storage locker. He probably broke into the sugar bins again.”

  “He’s not gone, Ben,” their mother murmured. “He’s dead. Your grandfather is dead.”

  Chapter Three

  A jumper, that had been Karma’s first thought. Her grandfather had snuck out of level four again and took the plunge just like his son had, like so many others—it was one of her worst fears—but according to Dr Carter, her mentor, it had been a heart attack that took his life. The next day, a vigil was held. People gathered in the sanctuary, their heads bowed, and hands crossed in prayer. Speeches were given, condolences exchanged, and candles lit. But nobody wept. Nobody grieved for their loss, no one but Karma and her mother. Even her brother seemed to be out of sorts, refusing to stay for the entire wake. When it came to death, Ben never handled it well, hadn’t since their father’s passing.

  As for Karma, she remained with her mother, shaking the hands of those who once laughed and made fun of her grandfather, thanking them for coming to his funeral. Despite her grandfather’s wacky reputation, just about the entire colony came to pay their respects, even the patriarch of the Nest, Arlington, who reminded her so much of her Pops with his white, wispy hair and wrinkly face, accompanied by the head of security, Malik. He looked just like Jax with dark skin and blue eyes, but older with less hair and bulkier muscles.

  “Poor Arthur,” said Arlington to her mother before he
departed. He wore a black uniform that made his white hair shine like silver. “I’m going to miss my old friend. Arthur was a good man, and one of the best generals of his time from what my father told me.”

  “Thank you,” her mother said politely. “I appreciate it, Arie.”

  Arlington and her grandfather had known each other ever since the birth of the Nest, but she wouldn’t use the word “friends” to describe their relationship. Truth be told, the two old men had never gotten along. Her mother used to say it was because her grandfather was jealous of the old ruler who was born to rule the Nest, but Karma wasn’t so sure. She doubted they would ever know the truth, especially now that her grandfather was gone.

  Several hours passed, people came and went, including her best friend, Varra, who was the classic image of a movie star with her blond hair, full of curls; blessed with a face that had just about every boy in the Nest drooling after her. If only Karma had those problems, but the only attention she received from boys was jibes and jabs about her family; her grandfather was a loon and her father was a jumper. But that never mattered much to Varra, who stuck by her side ever since they were children.

  “How are you holding up?” asked Varra, dressed in black mourning robes.

  Karma shrugged. “They said he had a stroke, died in his sleep.”

  “At least he didn’t suffer,” said her winsome friend. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  Her very presence was enough support, and Karma told her so. Just like Karma, Varra had been training in the med ward for the last six months, the two of them in direct competition to become the next head of the department. But that was several years in the making. It would be a long time before any of that happened, and besides, Karma wasn’t really worried. It was Varra’s inexorable obsession with boys that held her back.