Endure: Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 2 (Caustic)

by Brian Spangler

  The yard was different today. Declan quickly felt the same buzz here that had stirred in their classroom earlier. The declaration of the End of Gray Skies had reached a fevered pitch, and everyone had something to buy or trade before the world changed forever. One of the trading tables had a considerable number of buyers waiting in line. Declan immediately recognized the small bags that were passing over the table. They were selling potato juice, which had been a particular favorite of his father’s ever since his mother and sister had died. Although it was illegal, there was plenty of it available today.

  “They’re planning a celebration,” he mumbled, and the thought of a celebration lifted his spirits even more. He searched for Sammi in the crowd; by now she was far across the courtyard, beyond most of the crowds, and he could see her again. He watched as a trader jumped in front of her, pushing a feeble basket full of sheep-yarn gloves. Her tall red hair bounced and shivered while she negotiated the price.

  She’s gonna trade, he thought, knowing her affinity for anything soft that would cover her tender skin.

  “I’ll wear it, as long as it’s not scratchy,” she’d told him more than once. And just as he’d guessed she would, Sammi picking through the pile of gloves and settled on a pair. When the trade was over, she offered a polite nod of her head. Declan looked to the other side of the yard, where she was headed. Just a few people were waiting for the next carry-cage. If she hurried, she wouldn’t have to wait. The urge to yell out and tell her to rush was trumped when a market seller bumped his arm, shoving a plate of dried lizard tails in front of him, blocking his view.

  “Can I offer you some—” the merchant started to say.

  “Not now,” Declan snapped, stretching his neck past the man. But immediately, he regretted his tone. He offered a quick apology and turned his attention back to the old merchant.

  “Liz-tails? Good for them young bones,” the market seller wheezed. He was an older, stout man, with straggly hair that hung past his ears. He grinned at Declan, baring a few stray teeth, and eagerly jabbed his tongue, anxious for an answer. With beady, sunken eyes, the merchant stepped back, sizing Declan up. When he was done, he pushed the plate up again, winking an eye at him, and puckering his thin, crinkled lips.

  “Liz-tails are good for keeping things up those nights after you get chosen,” he exclaimed in a way that whistled some of his words. Declan rested his eyes on the plate of lizard tails, and then smiled at the old man. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to what the old merchant claimed.

  “No. No, thank you,” he answered, and pushed the fleshy lizard smell away from his nose. The merchant moved on to greet another passerby, just in time for Declan to see Sammi’s pile of red hair nearly at the carry-cage.

  “More rope!” one of the workers yelled from above as Sammi disappeared.

  Declan recognized the floor the man was hanging from. As a child, Declan had been introduced to a hidden world. He’d been shown a loose vent cover, allowing him to get behind the walls and move across the building’s floors.

  “I’d barely fit in there today,” he laughed to himself, and then thought, what if he and Sammi had kids playing in the ventilation system? He stopped laughing then, and realized why his mother was quick to scold whenever she’d found soot and dust on his coveralls.

  Living a lifetime in the same building didn’t hold much in the way of mystery. There were no secrets to be uncovered, and no treasures to seek in an adventure. He and Sammi knew just about every floor, and every great place to hide and play—except for the executive floors, of course. Those were off limits: reserved for workers with four or more bands on their arms. Declan lifted his chin until his eyes neared the top of their building. Protected by barriers, guarded at the entrance. Declan followed a path from the top balcony to the hard floor of the courtyard below. He grimaced, imagining the remains of the executive who’d recently leaped to his death.

  Why would he jump? Being an executive was a privilege. The floor was said to have polished metal, clean of the pitted reminders of what was outside. They also had private water closets, with smooth, round sinks, and an endless supply of clean, flowing water. Why jump? Executives even had their own farming and food reserves, with meats and cheeses and sweets. Or so he heard, and then wondered if it was true at all. Maybe it was all just rumors. He’d never heard his mother talking of such luxuries. Most days, she returned from the executive floors with nothing more than a weary look, her eyes often adrift, deep in thought.

  Behind him, Declan heard the attendant of the building’s second carry-cage call out. This one led to his floor, and he was anxious to get up to his dwelling, and then back to the theater. The salvaged stainless-steel-and-wood frame was just big enough for a handful of people. The floor of the carry-cage wobbled once before the ropes became taut. Then with the creaking sound of hard pulls, they were in the air and moving to the first floor. The attendant turned to ask Declan for a floor number, but then pushed his chin up when he recognized him. The attendant turned his head, noting the bruise on Declan’s face.

  “Celebrating today?” he asked, and then licked his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue.

  “Isn’t everyone?” Declan answered him. “It is the End of Gray Skies, after all.”

  “Right, you are,” the man answered with a nod, stabbing his lips with his tongue again. “And in case you were wondering, the carry-cages will be down during the End of Gray Skies, so you’ll have to take the back stairs.”

  Declan shrugged a quick thank-you, thinking that he wouldn’t need the carry-cages or the back stairs. He’d be in the theater with Sammi.

  When they reached his floor, the heavy tone of a man’s scream echoed across the floor’s balcony, drawing Declan’s eyes up. He stepped clear of the carry-cage, and stopped to listen. As the doors of the carry-cage closed behind him, the clash of wood and metal momentarily interrupted the man’s cry. But as the carry-cage continued on its way upward, Declan saw the source of the yelling. His heart sank, and his mouth went dry.

  It was his father.

  Standing outside of their dwelling, Declan’s father clutched something against his chest while four guards from the executive floor held him against the wall. Two of the larger guards had pinned his father, while the others were prying at his arms.

  Declan started running, and he tried to yell when he saw a guard reaching for a battering club. The guards towered over his father; they towered over everyone in the Commune. No one ever chose to be a guard for the executive floors: they were chosen for their size and strength. Dressed in their formal black coveralls, with thick belts hanging from their hips, they carried enforcements that only guards were allowed to have; they were an ominous sight. But why would they want his father? His mother was dead; so what business did the executive floor have with them now?

  They’re going to hit him. Knock him down for resisting. Declan tried to wave and yell again, but his father was hidden by the guards poised around him. Declan lifted his feet higher. Pain in his knee yawned awake, but he pushed against it and quickened his step. He heard his father’s raised voice again, hollering at the guards, declaring that they had no right to take what wasn’t theirs. Declan tried to swallow the dryness in his mouth, to say something, but these were the executive floor guards: a single word could demote you to a no-band citizen, or, even worse, have you exiled from the Commune.

  Blood covered his father’s nose and mouth, dripped from his chin. They’d already hit him. Heat flushed Declan’s cheeks, and he rediscovered some of his adrenaline from the earlier scuffle. His knee fell sideways once, and a rattle of what felt like crushed stone ground inside his kneecap, causing him to slow. Biting his lip, he held back a scream, and pushed on.

  One of the guards reared back and threw his hands into Declan’s father’s chest. The force pushed his father back against their dwelling. His balding head bounced against the wall, echoing with a dense thud. Declan picked up his legs and ran faster.

&
nbsp; “What are you doing?” he yelled at the guards. “Let him go!” His father’s body crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Blood trickled from his face, and Declan could see a bruise forming around his eye.

  “Declan, no!” his father wheezed. “You don’t understand.”

  The guard that had held his father against the wall didn’t say a word. He didn’t offer an explanation, or a nod of his head. Instead, the moment Declan arrived he pushed his gloved hand up and gripped Declan’s neck. All motion stopped as the guard squeezed his fingers. It was stronger than anything Declan had ever felt, and at once, the air he needed was gone, cut off.

  “Now, you should know better than to charge an executive guard,” the guard stated in a flat tone. “I remember that they used to teach courtesy and respect in class.” Pin-lights were forming in Declan’s view as the other guards rocked their heads up and down, agreeing. Two of the guards chuckled, while the third held an objection in his expression, but said nothing.

  The guard relaxed his grip just enough to let a shallow breath come to Declan, arresting the blackness that almost closed his eyes. Declan sucked in the air and steadied his step, removing the clumsiness in his legs. His father turned over, struggling, but got back to his feet. Declan saw what it was that he held: his mother’s satchel, the one that had been issued to her when she was promoted to four bands.

  She’d carried that satchel to and from work every day. It was a symbol; it was authority. But Declan thought that for his mother, the satchel had become a burden. Each evening, she placed it carefully in the corner of their dwelling, away from everything, leaving it alone until the next day. At times, he’d caught her standing over it, staring at it, her face empty of emotion, except for maybe disdain, leaving him to wonder if she regretted working as an executive.

  When his mother and sister fell ill with the flu, the satchel had remained in the corner, untouched until now. His father clung to the stained sheepskin and leaden buckles, his arms wrapped around it, protecting it.

  “He’s just a boy, leave him be!” his father pleaded. “He was running to me, that’s all. He wouldn’t charge an executive guard! He knows better, we raised him right!” Declan gasped and choked in air. Staggering forward, he reached his father’s side, and smelled the potato juice immediately.

  “He’s just a boy… my boy,” his father blubbered. His words were shamelessly broken up by drunken slurs. “Take the satchel. Take the damn thing!” Declan’s father thrust the satchel from his arms, and it slapped onto the floor. A sharp sound echoed across the building. Declan fixed his weary eyes on the guard who’d held him by his throat. More senior than the others, the guard pressed his lips and formed a cruel smile. He sneered at Declan’s father for having thrown the satchel. With his gloved hand, he pointed down.

  “Pick it up!” he demanded. A younger guard, eager to please, began to kneel.

  “Not you,” the elder guard chided. “One of them. Now, like I said, pick it up!”

  “Not our satchel—” Declan’s father began, but then hiccupped, and gripped his mouth as if to hide a laugh. The elder guard’s lips thinned until their color disappeared.

  “I can take you both to the detention floor; no need for cause. I can do it because I want to.”

  “Not our bag. Doesn’t exist, far as we’re concerned,” his father belched, his words falling through breath that reeked of alcohol. Declan wanted his father to shut up, to quit trying to prove whatever it was that he was after. Holding his hands up between the elder guard and his father, Declan stepped forward and knelt to pick up his mother’s satchel. He brushed the dust from the back of the leather bag and placed it in the hands of the elder guard. The man’s square jaw gave up another sneer.

  “You’re smarter than your old man,” he said, and then leaned forward to sniff at the air. “And more sober, too. You know, I could take your father in, but I won’t, if you get him inside. And that means get him inside, now!”

  Declan only nodded. When his father began to speak, Declan pressed his hand against his father’s chest and warned him with a shake of his head.

  The guards studied the satchel, turning it over to inspect the heavy, dimpled buckles. When they were satisfied with what they’d come for, they walked away without saying another word. Declan’s father was already opening the door to their dwelling by the time the guards left them. When Declan stepped inside, the smell of potato juice hit him, turning his stomach. Empty containers riddled their dwelling.

  His father stopped in the middle of the room, looking around as if he was expecting to see someone. Declan, too, half-expected to see his mother and sister at the center table, or in the nook getting food, but their dwelling was empty and quiet: an undisturbed space that once was home to their family. Declan’s lip quivered when he saw the picture of his sister on the table. The framed drawing sat on its side amid empty potato juice bags.

  Declan recognized the drawing immediately, and then remembered what day was coming: his sister’s birthday. Firsts were hard: first birthdays without them, first anniversaries without them, and first school days without his sister. There were many who’d joined them for his sister and mother’s cleaning, and their passing to the farming floor. They’d offered sympathies and condolences, but none of them had warned him about how utterly sad and difficult that first year would be.

  Standing and waiting for a family that wouldn’t be there, Declan laid his hand on his father’s shoulder, and felt him trembling. In a few days, it was going to be the first birthday since his sister’s passing. It wouldn’t be celebrated, or even spoken of—but it would be remembered, and the two of them would silently experience the loss all over again. It had been the same way a month earlier, on his parents’ anniversary.

  His father reached to take a drink, then hesitated. Instead, he picked up the drawing. Declan rubbed his father’s back, and without a sound, his father turned to Declan and embraced him. The only thing Declan thought to do was hold him, too. When his father was ready, he pulled back, and offered an awkward smile as a thank-you. But his smile was brief when he saw Declan’s eye. Nearly forgotten, the swelling didn’t hurt like it had earlier.

  “Did they hit you, son?” his father asked. His voice sounded shaky and he slurred some of his words. “Did I… did I cause this?”

  Declan shook his head. “No, I got this one on my own,” he offered with a prideful smile. Thoughts of the guards kept the smile brief though, and his eyes darted back to the table. His father seemed to shrink away from him then, ashamed and embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time that Declan had come home to a room full of empty containers. He didn’t think it would be the last time, either.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” his father blurted out, quickly pushing some of the containers out of sight. His father stopped then, with forfeit on his face and in his eyes. “I need it, son. I just do.”

  Declan pressed his lips until they hurt, keeping what he wanted to say to himself. “Why did the guards come for Mom’s satchel?” Declan asked instead, changing the subject. “Why now?”

  Declan’s father stepped back; the look on his face disappeared as he glanced around the room again. His eyes searched the ceiling, floors, and the corners. “I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head, his expression turning to confusion. “I don’t understand how the guards could’ve known that I opened her satchel.”

  Declan’s breath stopped for a moment. His mother’s satchel was never to be touched, let alone opened.

  “Why would you open it?” he asked, but curiosity was already pushing the next question. He quickly waved his hands, not caring to hear his father’s reasoning, and hurried ahead to what he’d been wondering since the day his mother had first brought the satchel home. “What was inside?”

  “I didn’t think it would matter if I opened it. I really didn’t.” His father lowered his head, ashamed. “I was just looking for something…”

  “You were looking for vouchers, weren’t you?”
Declan cut in, his tone sharp and unforgiving. He picked up one of the empty containers, throwing it against the wall. “Dad, how are we supposed to eat if you use all of our food vouchers?”

  His father’s posture changed then: he raised his head, pushed his shoulders back. Suddenly, Declan was eleven again, and was about to be scolded for having resorted to writing on the wall after using all of his parchment allowance.

  “Don’t you talk to me in that tone!” His father tried to yell, but his impaired voice thinned, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m trying, son. I am. And I didn’t use all of our vouchers. I wouldn’t do that.”

  From the front of his coveralls, his father pulled out a few vouchers, handing them to Declan. Stamped with the Commune’s seal, the veneer resin-laminated parchment was still warm from his father’s pocket. Declan’s stomach growled, and he realized again that he was, indeed, hungry.

  His father heard the grumbling sound and chuckled. “Get yourself something to eat. Get yourself something good for the End of Gray Skies celebration, too. Go with Sammi, and spend it with her.”

  “I think Sammi’s going to choose me today,” Declan blurted, forgetting that he was angry, or at least trying to move past their discord. His father raised his eyebrows, and his lips stretched across his cheeks. Without a word, his father pulled Declan into his arms. Declan was taken by the moment, and he eased his hands up to his father’s sides. His father’s chest heaved, and Declan heard him whisper his mother’s name.

  “How I wish your mother and sister were here to see this,” his father choked, and then pulled back to kiss Declan’s cheek. His father’s unshaven growth felt scratchy.

  “Someone needs to shave,” Declan answered smartly. They were quiet for a moment, and then Declan solemnly admitted, “I wish they were here, too.”