After: Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse and Dystopia

• Title Page
  
• Copyright
  
• Introduction by Genevieve Valentine
  
• The Segment
  
• After the Cure by Carrie Ryan
  
• Valedictorian by N. K. Jemisin
  
• Visiting Nelson by Katherine Langrish
  
• All I Know of Freedom by Carol Emshwiller
  
• The Other Elder by Beth Revis
  
• The Great Game at the End of the World by Matthew Kressel
  
• Reunion by Susan Beth Pfeffer
  
• Blood Drive by Jeffrey Ford
  
• Reality Girl by Richard Bowes
  
• How Th'irth Wint Rong by Hapless Joey @ Homeskool.guv by Richard Bowes
  
• Rust with Wings by Steven Gould
  
• Faint Heart by Sarah Rees Brennan
  
• The Easthound by Nalo Hopkinson
  
• Gray by Jane Yolen
  
• Before by Carolyn Dunn
  
• Fake Plastic Trees by Caitlín R. Kiernan
  
• You Won't Feel a Thing by Garth Nix
  
• The Marker by Cecil Castellucci
  
• Afterword
  
• About the Contributors
  
• About the Editors
  

For Victoria Windling-Gayton and Isobel Gahan, two young women with indomitable spirits

W
ELCOME TO
AFTER
, A VOLUME OF BRAND-NEW DYSTOPIAN
and post-apocalyptic tales for young adult readers by some of the very best writers
working today—ranging from best-selling, award-winning authors to rising young stars
of the dyslit field.

Before we go any further, however, perhaps we’d better stop and define our terms…which
is going to put us in dangerous territory; for blistering arguments about what should
and shouldn’t be labeled dystopian fiction have consumed whole Internet forums, convention
panels, and book review columns. There is, alas, no single definition that all of
us who love this kind of fiction can agree on.

To some folks (including most YA publishers), dyslit is a broad, inclusive genre of
tales that take place in darkly imagined futures: ranging from stories that explore
the dangers of repressive governments and societies gone bad to books whose plots
unfold in bleak, savage, or oppressive post-apocalypse settings. In this usage, the
dyslit label conveys more about a story’s overall
tone
than its plotline (or subtext of societal critique): the worlds depicted are
dark
ones, in which protagonists must struggle for physical and/or moral survival.

Others folks (including most literary critics) reach back to the classical definition
of dystopian literature, which is far more specific: tales of utopias gone wrong.
In this view, post-apocalyptic novels are dystopian
only
if the narrower definition applies—otherwise they are a genre of their own, albeit
one that is closely related, and read by many of the same readers. “In a dystopian
story,” writes John Joseph Adams (editor of
Brave New Worlds: Dystopian Stories
, an excellent collection of traditionally dystopian fiction), “society itself is
typically the antagonist; it is society that is actively working against the protagonist’s
aims and desires.” Now, this may true in
some
post-apocalyptic tales, but it’s certainly not true in all of them, for many take
place in post-disaster settings where human society has broken down altogether. To
dystopian purists, such books do not belong on dyslit lists.

As for us, although we respect the purists’ view, we’ve chosen to take a broader road
in the creation of this anthology, including
both
dystopian and post-disaster tales (as well as stories that fall on the spectrum between)
in order to reflect the wide range of dyslit beloved by teen readers today. As the
popular dyslit author Scott Westerfeld has said (in his essay “Teenage Wastelands”
for Tor.com): “…in the YA universe, the terms ‘post-apocalyptic’ and ‘dystopian’ are
often used interchangeably. This grates the pedant’s soul, and yet is understandable.
From a teenager’s point of view, a blasted hellscape and a hypercontrolled society
aren’t so different. Or rather, they’re simply two sides of the same coin: one has
too much control, the other not enough. And, you may be shocked to hear, teenagers
are
highly
interested in issues of control.”

Exactly.

Our anthology sprang from a simple idea: to seek out writers who share our love for
dystopian and post-apocalyptic tales, and to ask them to please write stories for
us about what happens
after
.

After what?

A disaster of any kind: political, ecological, technological, sociological…the choice
was entirely up to the writer. It could be
after
a nuclear war or a medical pandemic;
after
a scientific discovery that resulted in unforeseen and dire consequences;
after
aliens land, or society crumbles, or the very last drop of oil runs out…It could
be after
anything
so long as the changes provoked are calamitous, fundamental, and long lasting. “We’re
not looking for tales focused on the disaster,” we said, “but tales that tell us what
happens
next
: what life is like for young people who are growing up in calamity’s wake, or in
‘perfect societies’ gone wrong, or in the ruins of their elders’ mistakes.”

Our intrepid writers went away with this assignment and came back with the amazing
stories that follow: frightening, fascinating, mind-bending stories about dark future
worlds that could be our own if something (sometimes the smallest thing) goes badly,
irreparably wrong.

These stories approach the “after” theme from a variety of directions—some of them
straightforward in the telling, and some of them sly, tricksy, and surprising. Like
the field of dystopian literature itself, the stories draw upon the tropes of several
overlapping genres: science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, surrealism, and satire…with
a bit of romance (
apocalyptic
romance, of course!) thrown in for good measure.

In the worlds conjured by the stories that follow, you’ll find floods, famine, and
pestilence; you’ll find monsters, horrors, despair, and devastation. And also, in
the darkness, bright sparks of courage and resistance.

Much like the world we live in.

W
HEN
M
ASON SHOWED ME THE SCRIPT SIDES FOR THE CHILD
soldier, I jumped on it.

“Think about this,” he said. “The segment could be huge. Is that how you want to make
your career?”

He talked a big game, but this segment was special. He had to know it, too; I was
the only one at our agency he’d even talked to about it.

I said, “I’ll take my chances.”

“All right,” he said. He looked serious, but I was pretty sure he was just full of
it.

The best gig I’d had so far was the front half of a black bear for a nature documentary.
It was on cable.

I’m not complaining—you have to pay your way at the agency, and rent be not proud—but
I needed to earn some more, soon, and “bear half ” didn’t set your career on fire.

Face time was an upgrade. And this wasn’t some bit part as a muddy orphan in an establishing
shot. This was the big time.

This was the evening news.

That night I walked under our painted motto (Let Those Who Would Be Fooled, Be Fooled)
into the dining hall, packed with kids from the Lowers that the agency hired out as
sympathetic faces on news segments for the Uppers to go watch when they were feeling
generous.

I sat down, grinning, next to Bree.

“I’m in the audition pool for a soldier.”

She barely looked up from her vegetable mash. “Oh? Congratulations.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s big. Investor backing for the cause, too, so the pay is pretty
solid.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “I was beginning to worry you’d aged out of your best work.
It’s nice they’re skewing older on something.”

I was sixteen. Bree was nineteen, and kind of a bitch.

“What’s the story?”

“My brother is missing,” I said, “and he was the last thing I had left of home. Now
I’m fighting the people who took him since I’m dead inside anyway, grenades exploding
on us any moment, blah, blah, blah. They wanted someone who can handle a gun, not
for crying or anything.”

Bree’s fork wasn’t moving anymore. “Is this for some newspaper?”

I grinned. “The evening news.”

Now she was looking up, her head angled by instinct to catch the best light on her
face. “What?”

“Yup.” I shrugged like it was nothing. “I was handpicked. If the segment breaks big,
they’ll probably have to retire me.”

Bree looked stunned. After a second, she recovered and said, “Dream big.”

“I’m going to get it,” I said.

She smiled. “I’m sure,” she said. “And if that doesn’t pan out, there’s always a place
for you on
Naturewise
.”

She was acting like I’d been the
back
half of the bear.

I stood. “I’m going to rehearse.”

“Break a leg,” said Bree, like she meant it.

When I was still a kid, Bree had gotten a gig as a grieving bride whose husband was
killed by government troops on his way up the stairs of the church.

(She was still in the dorms with me, then; she wouldn’t be a teacher until after that
segment.)

It was supposed to be a small part, a background tableau in the middle of a bigger
story, but Bree wasn’t a person who played small parts.

In the on-scene segment with the news man in front, she had clutched her veil in her
fists as she wept over the body of the guy who’d been her husband.

He was from some other agency. I hadn’t seen him since—she’d kept him in the spotlight
too long, and his face was too famous after that. She’d taken his career down. Bree
played for keeps.

In the grainy newspaper shots (meant to have been taken by a wedding guest), Bree
had cradled his head in her lap and lowered her mouth to his mouth, their lips almost
touching but not quite.

(“You’re not supposed to kiss before marriage in that country,” Bree told me the night
before filming, when everyone else was asleep.

“There’s nowhere to go with that,” I said.

Bree said, “Watch me.”

At the time I hated that we shared a dorm. Our beds were pressed up against the walls,
separated except for her voice, and I was trapped listening to her; but there was
no question that the advice had done me good.)

The bride segment had been aimed at a regional station, to drum up sympathy for the
insurgents in a couple of key cities, that could be pushed over the edge of public
opinion by a sob story on the news.

(Stations hired out their news stories now. It was easier and safer than going looking
for news, and our stories never went sour on you the way they did if you trusted them
out in the wild.

And it’s not like audiences knew the difference. To the Uppers, one tragedy on their
television was as surreal as the next. Let those who would be fooled, be fooled.)

Bree was paid for a segment on the independent channel, and a picture in the locally
edited newspaper.

She ended up on the cover of
Planet
magazine.

(“The segment tested so well they’re thinking of extending the war,” Bree told me.
“The Uppers love to watch a cause they can donate to.”

Her voice sounded strange.)

She had one of the first editions framed above her bed. It was a close-up, her tear-stained
face half hidden by a gold silk veil; her gaze sliding sideways with smeary, kohl-rimmed
hazel eyes looking out at the viewer.

The headline: the Weeping bride on the mountain path.

The article was ten pages about the plight of the fleeing insurgents. The quotes came
from the insurgents, too;
Planet
was classy enough to do research like it was still real. They’d even called the agency
to get quotes right from Bree and not from our publicity office, because Bree had
done such a good job with the part that they didn’t want the performance to be diluted.

(I listened in, of course. I hated her, but I knew when to take notes from a master.)

“I can never kiss him, until we meet in Heaven,” Bree had sighed into the office phone,
her voice shaking, and on the other end of the line the
Planet
guy muttered, “Holy shit, that’s great,” and started typing.

(Her hands were shaking, too; Bree never did anything by halves.)

The article won a Pulitzer. Before the year was out, that government fell apart, and
the insurgents got the revolution they’d paid for.

At the agency, they treated Bree like she sweated gold nuggets, and added the leader
of the insurgents to their list of references for when the next guys called up the
agency looking for the kind of story that couldn’t happen by accident.

They had pulled Bree out of the audition pool for good after the story faded, because
there was no way people would ever forget her face after that.

If you ask me, she was doomed from the beginning with eyes like that, anyway. No hiding
those; I don’t care how big your crowd shot is.

Now Bree had a look like she thought this was all beneath her. She shouldn’t: she
was still here, teaching. (The insurgents were good for publicity, but they hadn’t
paid so great. Wherever the Uppers’ money had gone, none of it had made it to Bree.)

She was the only person at the agency who had ever been retired because of success.

So far.

Bree knew how to act above it all, but everybody has their tells, and I knew I’d gotten
to her when I saw she’d signed up for phone privileges.

She made a lot of calls; she was a Lower, but she had parents on the outside. They
came to visit once a year, and brought books for her (Bree could read), and told her
how happy they were that she had done well for herself.

It hadn’t made her any friends, but I guess when you have parents, you can take or
leave the rest.

I pulled a muscle in calisthenics to get out of the session early. It took some doing
to wrench my arm without breaking it, but it was my only option. No good faking anything.
The downside of working in a casting agency was that everybody was on to your act.

“Ice that down at the nurse, now,” said Miss Kemp, as I headed out. “You’d better
look like you know how to carry a gun at the audition tomorrow.”

I wasn’t worried. I was tall for a girl, and wiry. I could carry half a black bear
suit; I could manage a gun.

“Don’t worry,” I told her, and grinned. (I had all my teeth. My smile was priceless,
even on Miss Kemp.)

The phone room was on the office floor, so it was easier for snoopy adults to catch
snoopy students. Not that it mattered. With Bree, you never had to get any closer
than the landing.

“Mother,” she was saying, “you’ve got to do something about the part they want this
girl for.”

Bingo.

Her voice, tense and serious, echoed down the hall. “It’s not fair. She’s sixteen,
but she’s never done anything! I don’t know why they’re doing this at all. There’s
got to be someone else who could use her.”

One success can really turn a petty person sour, I thought.

“Yeah, she’s good enough,” Bree said. “Can’t you buy her out? She’ll find some other
way to earn out of her contract.” And a second later, meaner, “Well, decide faster.”

I snuck back down the stairs before the call was over. Listening to someone jealous
themselves into a heart attack wasn’t as fun as I’d thought.