by Greg Dragon
My feet are frozen to the floor. My knees lock, stiffen, disobey me and my father. I am ashamed. After all that my father has done for me, when it counts the most, I fail him.
One of the men lifts an arm and a gun. I hold my breath when I hear the shot, a dull thwap! that doesn’t sound like a normal gun. The man moves backwards slightly from the force, but his legs are planted firmly and he maintains his balance.
Father slumps to the floor. I feel my lips trembling, and my hand moves unbidden to my mouth. My frozen feet melt and I try to run to him, but a big body bars my way. I kick him hard, like my father taught me. My heel catches the Enforcer under his chin and his head snaps back. Like most people, he underestimates me.
The next Enforcer doesn’t.
The Taser rips into my neck and tentacles of electricity slam my jaw shut. My teeth nearly snap off my tongue, which is flailing around in my mouth. They don’t take it easy on me just because I’m a kid, or a girl—not after what I did to the first guy. Still stunned by the Taser, I barely feel the thump of their hard boots as they kick me repeatedly in the ribs. My eyes are wet, and through my blurred vision I see the arcing nightstick.
Strangely, it feels like destiny, like it was always going to happen.
I hear my sister’s screams just before I black out.
Tristan
A brief history of the Tri-Realms
They say the meteor was enormous. Any life left on the surface of the earth when it hit was wiped out by either the shockwave caused by the collision, or the resulting tsunamis unleashed across the world’s oceans. Humans were forced to move underground. Or so the story goes.
Secretly, government scientists expected it for years, using covert teams of miners to dig the world’s largest caverns in preparation for the inevitable. But still: There wasn’t room for everyone. It would’ve been terrible: the Lottery. Families ripped apart; friends lost; blossoming relationships cut off at the knees. Of course, key individuals, like politicians, doctors, scientists, and farmers received a free pass, but all others just got a number. The number gave them a one in a hundred chance of getting selected to move into the underground facilities.
All the rest were destroyed.
And that was just the United States. No one knows for sure what happened to the rest of the world. Perhaps they weren’t so prepared. Perhaps they were all dead.
Year Zero would have been difficult for everyone. Losing relatives who didn’t make the cut; eating from the rations of rice and beans and hoping it wouldn’t run out before the leaders and their teams of advisors could come up with a way to grow food underground; most people becoming miners; living in darkness.
Now all of that is just a part of everyday life.
These days, time is measured from the day the meteor hit. It’s 499 PM (Post-Meteor). Time before Armageddon is referred to as Before-Meteor, or BM. The funny thing about Armageddon: we survived. Well, some of us anyway.
Year Zero’s first president was Stafford Hughes. Things were run much like before Armageddon, albeit in a slightly more haphazard manner. The U.S. Constitution was upheld, laws were revised as required for our new living situation, new laws were created.
But it didn’t last. It couldn’t last.
Things were too different. People were too scared. There was too much chaos.
More structure was required.
The first Nailin was elected president in 126 PM. His name was Wilfred Nailin. He was my great-great (and a lot more greats) grandfather. At that point elections were still held regularly. Congress decided that given the state of America, elections should be held every five years instead of four, with the opportunity for reelection after the first term. But Wilfred wasn’t satisfied with ten years in power, so after his first reelection he pushed a new law through Congress that allowed for a third presidential term, but only if supported by the people, of course.
There were rumors of ballot-rigging.
After his second reelection, he passed a law that allowed him to remain in power indefinitely, assuming he obtained approval from Congress every five years. At the same time he passed a law that also permitted Senators and Representatives to maintain their elected positions indefinitely, unless the president released them from service. It was a circular system, one where bribery and deep pockets ruled. Who you knew meant much more than what you knew.
The people had lost their voice.
That wasn’t the end of it.
Wilfred’s next move was to secure his family’s future. He had one son, Edward Nailin. With the full support of Congress, Wilfred managed to pass a law that allowed positions to be handed down from generation to generation within each family, so long as Congress and the president unanimously approved it. Public elections continued to be held, but they were fixed so that no new contenders could infiltrate the inner circle of the government, which was holding all the cards.
It worked for a while. In fact, people seemed to like the more rigid and consistent structure. Soon, however, the gap started to widen between the classes. The wealthy began to take more and more liberties, much to the middle and lower classes’ frustration. The complaints started pouring in from those who were being disadvantaged, but they were largely ignored. It got to the point where fights were breaking out in the streets. “Elected” officials couldn’t walk down the street without being accosted by the poor and depressed. Something had to be done!
The Tri-Realms were created from 215 PM to 255 PM. First the Moon Realm was excavated, using the advancements in mining technology to create massive caverns deep beneath the original caverns, to build more cities in. Natural caves were used as a starting point, widened and heightened to the extensive size required to house thousands of people. Heavy beams of rock were used to support the caverns’ roofs, which were prone to cave-ins. Middle and lower class citizens were used to do the work, having been convinced by large salaries and the opportunity to “advance our civilization for the good of humankind.”
Once the caverns were complete, the workers were forced to take their families to live in them. Then the work on the Star Realm began, digging even deeper below the earth’s surface. Fewer resources were allocated to excavating the Star Realm, and therefore, the caverns were smaller, more confined, more densely populated. The poorest citizens were sent to live in the deepest caverns.
The top level was given the name of the Sun Realm.
Each of the Tri-Realms was split up into eight chapters, and each chapter into between two and six subchapters depending on its size, each of which was populated by between ten and a hundred thousand people.
Over time, taxes were increased annually for the Moon and Star Dwellers, as those living in the Moon and Star Realms were called, until the Sun Realm was receiving significant resources to improve their own caverns. Life was good for the Sun Dwellers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for anyone else.
The U.S. Constitution was legally abolished in 302 PM.
A Nailin has been in power for more than 350 years.
My father told my brother and me the whole story when we turned twelve. I still remember the smug smile on his face when he finished. He’s proud of what Wilfred accomplished.
I’m disgusted by it. Sometimes I think about it, and it makes me sick. Like now, lying in bed and wishing my mother was still around. I don’t know why I’m thinking about history right now, but I am.
Chapter One
Adele
Present day
Something’s happening to my body. There’s a dull ache in my skull and ripples of energy coursing down my spine. It all started when I saw him. I know I should hate him—everyone else around me does.
“Filthy mutt,” I hear one guy growl. “He should’ve stayed above.”
“Yeah,” another guy says. “I’m surprised he’s gettin’ his shoes dirty down ’ere with the rats.”
I’m sitting in the Yard. The Yard is what we call the expansive area outside the Pen’s main building, although I don’t know
who came up with the name, because it makes no sense. There’s no yard, just barren rock. Real yards—with grass, bushes, and trees—are magical places that don’t exist in our world.
The high fence surrounding the prison buzzes with electricity and threatens us with barbed wire. Through the fence we can see our town, subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm. And the non-prisoners can also see us, the convicted.
Even as I stare at freedom through the fence, the feeling gets stronger, like a tingling in the back of my scalp; but it really hurts, too—achy and throbbing. I feel…I feel drawn to him, in the most painful of ways. Now wait just a minute before you judge me, it’s not love at first sight if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s something else entirely, but I don’t have a name for it. I’d like to think it’s magic, like in the illegal fantasy books my grandmother used to read me, but there’s no magic in the dark, underground world we live in. Nothing but rocks and electrified fences and pain.
The parade passes the Pen, just outside the fence, so close, making all kinds of noise: people cheering, drums thumping, dogs barking.
And Tristan, smiling and waving.
All the girls in my old school are in love with Tristan. Obviously, none of them know him, but like any male celebrity, he captures the attention of young, naïve females. But I’ve always hated him, because of what he represents.
Now, stuck in the Pen, it seems like an awfully big waste of energy—to hate the son of the president, who I don’t even know. Perhaps if I hadn’t hated him in the past, none of this would’ve happened. Perhaps my family would still be together. Maybe it was bad karma. But no matter how much I try to wish it all away, my past is the zit that you pop, watch bleed, watch heal, only to see poking from your skin again a week later.
Tristan is the polar opposite of a recurring blemish. Blond, curly hair. Seventeen but already over six feet tall. Strong, solid frame. A princely face. Big, navy blue eyes. An addictive smile, with right-sized lips and ivory teeth. My brain is telling me to stop staring at him, but for some reason I can’t, like the pain coursing down my spine is only tolerable if I continue facing him. He flashes a smile.
The throbbing grows duller in my head, the buzzing down my spine sharper. My body is telling me something. The pull toward Tristan is getting stronger and more painful. But why?
There are about a thousand of his adoring fans outside the Pen, lining the streets, screaming his name and throwing flowers at his car. I even see one of them chuck her undergarments at him.
“You like him, don’t you?” a voice says from behind.
I turn, unable to stop the look of surprise that blankets my face. A tall, thin girl stands before me. Her strangely white hair is long and straight, reaching all the way to the small of her back. She has porcelain features, as if her face was drawn on by an artist. I can’t help wondering what a beautiful girl like her is doing in a place like this.
“Can I help you?” I say, somewhat rudely.
“I’m Tawni,” the girl says, sticking out her hand.
I stare at her slender fingers like they’re a nest of snakes, hesitate, and then eventually take them. I shiver at her icy touch, but her handshake feels surprisingly firm for how thin she is.
“Sorry. Poor circulation,” she says.
I chew my lip, considering her. “Have a seat,” I finally say with a slight wave of my arm.
Flashing a grin, she takes a seat next to me on the rock bench. “Thanks,” she says.
I grin back. I can’t believe it. I’m actually smiling. Well, sort of. I think it’s a pathetic attempt, but at least my lips are curled up in a crooked, awkward, I-don’t-know-how-to-smile-for-pictures kind of way. You know, like those kids in Year Three who always end up with the worst yearbook photos? The ones with the crazy eyes and fake smiles. That’s me trying to smile at my new friend, Tawni.
“Are you going to answer my question or what?” she says.
I go back to chewing on my lip. “What question?” I say, feigning ignorance.
“C’mon,” she says. “Do you like Tristan or not?”
“I don’t know him,” I say neutrally, internally considering whether she’s one of his crazed fans, obsessive to the point of throwing underwear.
The parade passes slowly—Tristan will be out of sight in a few minutes, moving down another street, probably heading toward Moon Hall, where the local politicians gather to do whatever it is that they do. Mostly screw us over. I crane my neck, trying to get a final glimpse of his smile.
“I don’t think he’s a bad guy,” Tawni says.
“Mmm, really?” I say, only half listening.
“No. I mean his dad’s a jerk, but I don’t think kids should be judged by what their stupid parents do.”
My ears perk up. I glance at Tawni. Her slight grin has melted. Her lips are pursed and thin. If nothing else, her statement has piqued my interest in her. Where she comes from, who she is, what she’s done to land herself in this hellhole. And why she cares about what Tristan and his father do.
Tawni ignores my look and continues watching the parade, so I turn back, too. The lead car, in which Tristan is standing, is about to turn the corner. He’s waving to his fans, smiling his mesmerizing smile, and then…
…he looks at me.
Right at me, like his eyes are gun sights and I’m their target. Despite the distance, it’s like they pierce my soul, sending waves of energy up my back and through my neck, slamming into my brain like a freaking sledge hammer.
“Arrr!” I cry out, flinching. I tear my eyes away from him and settle my head in my hands, massaging my pounding temples.
“What is it?” Tawni asks, putting an arm on my back.
Ignoring her, I glance up at Tristan, who’s still looking my way. The pounding in my skull comes back in droves, but not quite as strong this time.
As I stare at him, his face changes. Gone is the smile. Gone are his piercing eyes. All swallowed up in a frown. At first I think I was rude, that I’ve stared too long, or too crazy, because of my weird spasm, but then I feel a presence approaching from the side—a dark shadow.
Not good.
Chapter Two
Tristan
It feels like something’s gnawing on my spine.
Then I see her and an agonizing pang rips through me, but I manage to keep the fake smile plastered on my face. She’s just a prisoner—nothing to me. A random, dark-haired prisoner. And yet I can’t pull my eyes away from her. She’s pretty hot, but not train-stopping hot. So why am I staring at her?
And is she staring back at me? No. Not really. Not just her. Everyone’s staring at me.
An ache in my bones, a knife in my back.
The sensation is growing stronger by the second. My jaw clenches as I try to stifle the scream rising from the back of my throat.
She’s still staring.
Something’s different about the way she looks at me. The only way to describe it is intensity. I’m used to people watching me, but they usually only do so in one of three ways. First are the obsessive girls, the stalker types, who want to marry me and have my babies and wait on me hand and foot for the rest of my life. I think I saw one of their undergarments fly past my head during the parade—that would’ve been from one of the obsessives. I tolerate them, but unlike my brother, do not enjoy their affections. Next are the admirers. They think I can do no wrong, and are generally old, gray men who look at me with a respect usually reserved for the dead. Not that I’ve earned it. I haven’t done anything; except be born. Last are the haters. Simply put: they hate me. Want me dead. Stare at me with steely eyes, like they think if they stare at me long enough I’ll spontaneously combust. They’re the ones who sit at home with voodoo dolls of me and my dad and my brother, poking and prodding and twisting with needles. Hoping we can feel what the dolls are feeling.
Is that what this pain is? Is this girl using a voodoo doll on me? I wouldn’t normally believe in that sort of thing, but…
My fists clench
at my sides.
Her jet-black hair cascades around her face like a funeral shroud, and I find myself mesmerized. Her skin is a natural pale, the result of living underground her entire life, not like the fake-tanned bodies that parade around the Sun Realm. What the hell? Why do I care? She’s nobody to me!
And yet…yet I have this crazy urge to leap from the parade car and charge the electrified fence to get to her. It’s not love, it’s not lust—it’s something else.
There’s a flash of heat in my head, as my headache intensifies. I raise a startled hand to my scalp at the same time that she does. She’s not looking anymore, her head in her hands.
The parade car starts its slow arc around a bend; soon the Pen, and the girl, will be out of sight.
A big guy approaches the girl. His footsteps are malicious. His demeanor screams violence. Her hands are still covering her face. I have to warn her!
Look up, look up, LOOK UP!
She does, her eyes returning to mine.
Although I know I should make a warning motion of some sort, I don’t. Only my facial expression—a deep frown—alerts her to the impending danger.
Her eyes pull away and she sees the guy. My view is partially blocked by the edge of a building as the float turns the corner. Craning my neck, I see her twist away from the guy, say something to her friend. The guy says something to her. My view is nearly blocked. The headache rages in my skull.
She stands up and pushes him.
No! I scream in my head as subchapter 14 surrounds me. Then she’s gone. Although there’s nothing I can do now, my muscles are twitching, almost urging me to run to her, to save her, to do something crazy. It’s like I’ve lost control of my own body.
I fear for her, a girl I don’t even know.
Chapter Three