The Luminosity Series (Book 1): Luminosity (6 page)

“Why?
What was it?”

“It
was a compass made of real gold, which is why they took it. Those assholes. You
know they don’t allow civilians to have valuables anymore,” she said, shaking
her head.

“Look,
mom, I don’t need something valuable to remember him by. I just wish I knew
more about him…” I said in a low voice.

“Your
father was a good man who did everything he could to protect this family. Sometimes
things happen in life that can’t be explained. But he loved you, Aubrey. And
that’s all that matters. Now, please let this go so we can move on from this.
For him,” she said. I blinked.

“Only
if you forgive me for leaving.”

“I
already have,” she said. She stared at me with a serious eye before giving me a
faint smile. In exhaustion, I nodded in agreement. I wanted to let it go, but something
about my father’s death didn’t add up. So long as they kept his death a secret,
it never would. And as she glimpsed out at the mountains in the distance, she
had the same desperate look, the same will to escape behind her eyes—the same
instinct we all had.

♦  ♦  ♦

The
next morning I woke to the summer wind whistling through the cracked bedroom
window. It was late August—a time when the heat of the summer solstice would
diminish, and the chill of autumn would arrive. Anxious to get out before the
sun rose, I snuck out the door before my mother woke. I began my walk along a
familiar path that led up into the mountains behind my mother’s old house—one I
used to hike growing up. But now, the trail was blocked by a weather-beaten
fence and a sign that read
“Trail Closed - Military Access Only - No
Trespassing.”

The
light of dawn glowed upon the horizon’s verge as I gazed at the steep path beyond
the fence. I had to hurry. Still uncertain I wanted to take the risk, I glanced
back at the house, second guessing my decision to venture into restricted area.
The warning was there for a reason—the trail ran parallel to the border wall,
and danger could be lurking along its perimeter, especially in the military’s absence.
But nothing was visible past it. Just the wasteland of abandoned cities,
mountains, and wilderness. And with my thirst for solitude, I pressed on.

As
I got higher up the mountain, the sight of the isolated town below struck me.
Its grim appearance served as a cruel reminder of what had happened to our country.
Colorado became only one of fifteen territories. The other states were
evacuated after the war, leaving most cities deserted. Now, only thirty percent
of our population lived within the boundaries of governed land. The remaining
seventy percent was unaccounted for, casualties of war, or living with the
rebellion. Our military protected those who dwelled on the inside. But many
rumored that our protection meant hunting the millions still out there
clutching to life—the image of it infusing me with endless nightmares.

When
I turned around to change my viewpoint, I became mesmerized by the unfamiliar
sight on the horizon. High atop the taller mountains nestling the town stood a
cluster of giant wind turbines, reaching hundreds of feet in the air. They were
hard to miss. Their white, angular, needle-like beams stabbed through the
morning mountain fog as if they could scratch the sky. After three years, the
frequency of solar flares knocked out power to the grid. So for now,
civilization relied on wind energy, batteries, and generators. But it was
unreliable, and it didn’t stop the disruptions, or the harsh geomagnetic
storms. And it would never stop people’s hunger for the luxuries of our
not-so-distant past.

Six
a.m. approached as I reached the top of the trail. I beamed at the horizon as
the sun lifted that morning, watching it glow in a straight line across the far
side of the sky. In the distance, military Humvees rolled in one by one along
the dirt road. They headed toward the fields in the north section of town,
creating tornadoes of dust behind them, much like the dust storms that plagued
the rugged, sun-scorched countryside. Within the walls, many underprivileged working-class
citizens were assigned to labor at the supply fields. Out there, the lower-status
citizens divided and shipped supplies to the colonies—food, water, medicine,
clothing, anything we could still produce locally. Most of the workers there were
men, much like our military personnel. But with added benefits distributed to
our military branches, many women considered enlisting. Doing so provided
higher chances at colony selection, even though joining the war wasn’t a
feasible option for everyone. Other civilian duties were limited to the hospitals,
clinics, and food shelves. But regardless of what duty you held, all lives
depended on it. Our efforts kept our society moving toward the survival of
future generations. Order, they claimed, was the only thing still keeping
humanity alive.

Faraway,
the familiar buzz of helicopters hummed through the air. But it didn’t alarm me
anymore. Most days, I’d hear it at least a dozen times. The sound was a signal
of our safety and protection. Comfort. Defense. Numbness.

Now,
the quartet of helicopters drifted in my direction, hovering in the sky. I stopped
in my tracks before continuing, my eyes widening before scanning the area of
places to hide. Getting caught trespassing along the trailside would result in
insubordination. Too many violations, and I wouldn’t stand a chance at
qualification. My odds were already slim enough.

Avoiding
the path, I darted toward the trees, ducking next to a nearby rock, praying
that my darker clothes would camouflage me against the tall pines and aspens shadowing
overhead. As the four of them passed, my hair whipped through the wind as they
disappeared toward the fields. Catching my breath, the memory of Evan hit me as
I stood up again. If he
was
still here, he’d either be a worker at the
fields, or in uniform. I hoped for his sake it was the latter.

After
increased reports of skin damage earlier that summer, new radiation warnings
were issued. Ordinances were now in place to limit our exposure to the sun’s
harmful rays. We couldn’t be outside during peak daylight hours for over twenty
minutes at a time without risk. The effects were permanent and in some cases, led
to fever and severe illness. But the regulations weren’t strictly enforced, so
many people ignored them. Fear could stop some in its tracks. Others would
never let it stop them from stealing their time in the sun, not while they
still had light to shine upon. But not everyone dismissed their prevention
efforts. Civilian labor workers installed metal roofing panels, sun-guarding
glass and giant overhead tarps to protect our city streets and buildings.
Guards wore polarized goggles and specialized, ultraviolet resistant uniforms.
It worked in their favor. It only made them appear more authoritative.

The
next morning, the aged American flag flapped violently in the wind above City
Hall. Standing up out of the car, the torn appearance of it chilled me to the
core. With military guards and police already waiting on the sidewalks, I
deliberated how I would sneak past the protesters lurking in the shadows of the
building. I swallowed before taking my first step. Protesters held up flags and
cardboard signs that referenced government and constitution. For others,
religion was a key influence in their decision to be there. Regardless of their
expression, we all had one thing in common—our lives were being threatened. But
as corrupt as it was within these borders, I knew it wouldn’t be any better on
the outside.

After
enduring their shouts, I noticed the entire lobby area had been converted into
a processing station. A long line stretched through the surrounding corridor.
There had to be at least a hundred people waiting.

I
sighed impatiently as the line inched closer, revealing a bearded man at the
clerk’s desk who appeared to be in distress. And before I could blink again,
the entire line became witness to his outrage.

“No,
this can’t be right! I have two boys at home to support! This number has to be
wrong! How in the hell do you expect me to feed them with this?” he screamed at
the clerk in a loud crescendo, slapping the paper he had in his hand against
the platform in front of him. I winced in surprise as his words pierced through
the hallway of people like a domino effect. And without warning, the sound of a
young child’s cries impaled me, setting off an eerie, nervous energy that
trickled down my spine.

“I’m
sorry, sir, but I don’t make the rules. Someone will go over the DOA’s
allowance standards with you in there. Now please find your seat in the waiting
room,” the clerk snapped, pushing her glasses up her long nose. After glancing
to her left, she gave him a stern look as he studied her answer through the
protective glass window.

“Next!”
Her voice echoed through the lobby. The man pounded his fist into the window in
an angry sulk before facing the line. I kept my eyes on the floor as he dawdled
toward the exit doors, examining the faces in line. Not far ahead of me stood
an older woman, pulling the whimpering child close beside her in protection.
She shook her head, her scolding eyes stalking the man. That’s when his echoing
footsteps stopped, and he turned around to confront her. With his uncontrollable
temper, he leaned his face into hers.

“What
the hell are you shaking your head for? There aren’t enough resources to go
around because they’re withholding them! My four year old died of pneumonia
because I wasn’t given the proper dosage of medicine. You think your kid is
safe? Just you wait.” He spit out his words with conviction and pointed a
finger as tears formed in his eyes. My head snapped up in shock before armed
police guards near the door flung toward him, pulling him away from the woman
and her child. Everyone was silent with fear. The man put up a fight before
tearing the number on his card to shreds, giving the guards one last hateful glance
before accepting his circumstance. I swallowed, looking over my shoulder at him
cautiously. The shouts outside amplified as the doors to the entrance opened.
When they closed, the force of their slam created a bouncing shudder throughout
the hallway, signaling he left. I let out a breath, but the relief of his absence
didn’t ease my anxiety.

“Hi.
I need to get an updated citizen identification card and apply for labor duty,”
I told the clerk as I approached, watching her grab a series of papers and a
clipboard with a pen attached. Swallowing back my impatience, I tried not to be
rude as the heavy presence of police guards appeared out of the corner of my
eye.

“And
you brought two forms of identification, one being your social security card?”
I nodded quickly. “Fill these sheets out from top to bottom. Please include any
prescription drugs you are taking, and any other specialized needs or physical
and mental disabilities you may have,” she instructed in a rehearsed, robotic body
language.

“Okay,”
I said.

“The
waiting room is to your left. You will be called in in the order you arrived,”
she said, sliding a card through the window slot.

“Thanks,”
I winced.

“Next!”
she yelled. I jumped before pivoting to face her again.

“Can
you give me an idea of how long the wait is?” She gave me a long stare before pointing
to a sign on her desk that read
“Current Wait Time: 90 Minutes.”
Without
hesitation, I ducked my head as I walked away in embarrassment.

The
halls were lit with dim lighting that cast shadows on the walls between doors.
The air was heavy, like too many people had breathed within the building’s confinement.
I swallowed back the nausea as I reached
the end
of the hallway. Two guards stood beside the rooms, glaring at me, contemplating
whether to confront me for my indecisive manners, or allow me to figure it out
on my own. On both sides of the hallway were separate waiting areas, each
filled with the wailing of children’s cries. Uncertain of which one to choose,
I stopped.

“Over
here, miss,” said one guard, reaching out his finger to point to my right. I
didn’t even have to look to know how crowded it was, but I turned my head
anyway.

In
a windowless room sat dozens of people with tired, worried faces. Many were
homeless parents, sitting on the filth-covered floor with their restless
children. Their young eyes observed their surroundings, ignorant to the crisis
at hand. Suddenly, the thick air was more prevalent now.

“Find
a seat, ma’am. It’ll be awhile,” the guard ordered. I winced, the onrush of queasiness
overtaking me before turning back around. But before I could take a step
forward, he stuck his foot out to stop me. “I’m sorry, but we can’t allow
civilians to wander the halls.”

“I’m
not feeling well. Is there a restroom?” I groaned, blinking hard with
humiliation, desperate to get out of sight. The guard gave me an urgent wince.

“This
way. But you’ll need an escort.” I paused as the horror of his words hit me,
but I didn’t have time to react before he marched me down a long hallway to our
left. Shoving the clipboard into my messenger bag, I entered the ladies’ room.
Upon first glance, I detected a female guard standing at the edge of the wash
station. The invasive silence struck me as she stood there, observing my
ill-received glances in hesitation. But I didn’t linger. I rushed into the
nearest stall, covering my mouth before hanging my bag over the hook on the
door, slamming it shut in an urgent heave. After throwing up and catching my
breath again, I leaned against the wall. Since the beginning, it was as if my
body rejected reality.

“Are
you okay, miss?” Her voice rebounded off the walls. I snapped my eyes back
open, appalled of her motivation to spark a conversation at such a time.

“Y—yeah.
I’m fine,” I said before flushing the toilet and grabbing my bag. Feeling
examined, I hesitated to approach the sinks. After washing, she offered me a
set of hand towels. Her uniform represented military, her dark hair tucked in a
tight bun under the back of her cap.

“Are
you running a fever? Do you need a doctor?” she asked. My hands shook as I
dried them, wincing as I backed away from her.

“I
said I’m fine.”

“Ma’am,
we can’t have you go in there if you’re endangering other lives with your
illness,” she said. I glanced at her for a second before pushing my bag higher
up my shoulder, straightening my posture.

“Trust
me, I’m the least of your problems.” I raised a brow in annoyance before
rushing out the door. The guard outside had to chase my pace, but I was too
angry to wait.

In
the waiting area, I took an empty seat between two families with children. I
finished filling out the paperwork before the same looks of desperation arose
on the faces of those just entering the room. After that, I knew I wouldn’t be
the only one to receive devastating news that day.

♦  ♦  ♦

“So
we’re applying for a citizen identification and labor duty, correct?” the man
asked. His loud, authoritative voice rang throughout his office as his rigid,
hooded eyes glanced at me in a patronizing manner from across his desk. He was
older, and had a weary impression to him, like he had already seen the darkest
of days. As he awaited my answer, I sensed he had a low tolerance for ambiguity.

“Yes.”
I swallowed down the burning sting in my throat.

“Okay.
Let’s see what we got here,” he muttered, squinting into focus as he scanned my
citizen report card. “Judging from your profile, Aubrey, I see you have earlier
work experience at a local old folks home here when you were seventeen, is that
right?” he asked.

“Yes,”
I replied.

“But
you have no other formal training or education?”

“No.
I never had the privilege,” I explained, biting my tongue as I distinguished
the sizzle of sass originating in my voice.

“And
your previous labor duty was serving food to civilians at the food shelf in
Grand Junction, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well,
based off of this information, it only makes sense to place you in the local
hospital. They’re in dire need of caregivers to help with the increase in patients
there on the late shift. Other than that, the only other openings are at the
labor fields loading supplies, and I’m not sure you’d have the strength they’re
looking for,” he said. I tried not to take his assumption of my physical
abilities as an insult. But I swallowed in shame at the thought of my mother’s
reputation.

“What
would I do at the hospital?” I asked dreadfully.

“That’s
the hospital’s call. Since you’re not qualified as a Registered Nurse, I’d
imagine you’d just assist in giving the sick patients medication, serve food,
check in on them, things of that nature,” he replied.

“And
what will my benefits be if I do that?” The man took in a deep sigh.

“The
benefits are figured by your age, family status, and education. But since there
are gaps in your work experience, this will decrease what you are allowed.
Unfortunately, this also lowers your chances of qualifying for a spot within
the colonies.” I looked down in disappointment, unable to withstand the truth
of his analysis. “But I don’t want this to sound like a death sentence. Your
age is a main factor, and being at the prime age of twenty-three, your odds are
greater. Effort is admirable too. If we see you are going above and beyond your
line of duty, this will significantly increase your chances. So I suggest you
do the best you can. Your status in the colony qualification will fluctuate
based on your labor contribution. Is that understood?” He handed me the papers.

“Okay,
yes, but… to be fair, I was under the care of a mental health advisor during
the time of the collapse. I was told I couldn’t work labor duties the first few
months due to PTSD,” I hesitated to say, knowing he’d judge me.

“That
may be, but you still agreed to surrender your previous labor duties upon
moving here. There are rules in place for those who transfer outside their
original assigned cities, and sympathy isn’t one of them,” he said, looking me
over as if he was trying to decide for himself whether I was worthy of pity or
not.

“That’s
it? So my benefits get cut because I want to be with my family before the world
ends?” I grimaced in fury.

“Citizens
must understand the risks of transferring between cities. You’re lucky to even
be assigned a labor duty in wake of your decision, let alone be among the
fortunate population with a roof over their head,” he said. I scowled, letting
out a breath of defeat.

“What
was I supposed to do? I didn’t ask for this to happen.”

“You
still had the freedom to choose, Ms. Adams. You left. No one forced you to. You
have to take responsibility for yourself, or else you won’t make it long here.
Now, I need you to read over the information and sign at the bottom, stating
you understand everything that is written here,” the man told me. I stared at
it, my eyes centering in on the line circled in black ink, showing me where to
pen my signature. But as I looked above it, my heart pulsed when I examined the
small list of weekly supplies I was eligible for—a staggering lack of
necessities I’d have to survive off of until the evacuation.