Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance

Copyright © 2014 by Anthony Ergo

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Prologue

Sasha Hunter

I was born at 13:13 on the thirteenth day of the month and I'm thirteen years old today. Thirteen is the number of our house and the number of the bus I take to school. My full name is Sasha Jo Hunter ─ it has thirteen letters. The number thirteen won't leave me alone; I'm a walking bad omen.

It doesn't feel like my birthday, because Mum's not here. Before she left, she sat me down and explained why: a government assignment abroad. I don't really understand what she does for a living, but I know it must be super important for her not to be here.

Mum thoughtfully prepared everything before she left: the cake with candles, the presents and cards, and my favourite dinner of pizza and chips. Dad's here, but as usual, he's busy in his attic room. He always is. My parents are so consumed with work that they don't seem to have time to do the fun family things anymore. You wouldn't blame me for feeling a little self-obsessed and paranoid.

This house feels empty when my mum's not here. It's sandwiched between two other, much nicer, typical London town houses. Dad converted our attic into a study; his "man-cave" as we often
tease him. He's outnumbered two-to-one by girls, so it's become his personal retreat: somewhere to console himself when the bathroom is busy or when Mum and I are watching a chick-flick on TV. He's always told me not to disturb him while he's working in the attic, unless it's important. I can't find any batteries for the MP3 player I got for my birthday: I decide that this is important enough.

I climb the thirteen stairs to the attic and find the door ajar. Balling my hand into a fist, I'm about to knock when I hear Dad talking on the telephone.

"Just be careful, Ashleigh," he says, in a serious voice. "I don't want you to take any risks."

Dad pauses to listen to my mother on
the other end of the line. She's probably reassuring him; she never wants anyone to worry. I know it's rude to listen in on a conversation, but my good manners are overcome by curiosity.

"I never wanted you to do this in the first place. It's just too risky. You'll call me as soon as it's done, right? Sasha misses you. We both do. I was thinking we could─"

The lights go out instantly. Simultaneously, the TV downstairs has gone off too. In the time it takes to blink, the house is blanketed in complete darkness. The temperature drops, rising the tiny hairs on my arms. It feels like the cold blast when a freezer door is opened.

"Ashleigh?" Dad's voice
rises a notch in panic. "Ashleigh ─ are you still there?"

Is this
some kind of power failure? I hear a loud crash outside, like the awful sound of cars colliding, followed by screams. Whatever is happening, it's not limited to our house. I dash to the skylight and stand on my tiptoes to look out of the window.

I can't see
a thing in the total blackness, not even the orange glow of the city lights. Every street lamp has gone off and not a single house has a light on. A dog starts to bark; men are shouting for help and a woman screams hysterically. Then, in the distance, a thunderous boom is followed by a flash of flames, like a plane has crashed.

A chill makes its way up my spine and spreads down my arms, giving me goose bumps. What's happening? Before I can answer, the house lights come back on. The muffled sound of the TV downstairs resumes like nothing has happened. I grip the ledge of the skylight and peer outside hesitantly. The street lights are back on but before me is a scene of total carnage.

Cars are piled up across the road; a house is on fire; people are running and shouting and screaming. I've never felt so afraid. I push open the door to the attic room to find Dad standing with the telephone receiver gripped in one hand. A coffee cup has been knocked over on his desk and the dark liquid spreads across his paperwork; Dad doesn't seem to notice, or care. His hand trembles as he shouts into the telephone desperately.

"Ashleigh. Are you there? Are you OK? Ashleigh?"

The telephone drops from his hand and clatters onto the floor.

The blackout lasted thirteen seconds.

Chapter 1

Friday 13 September 9:46pm

3 years later

Ignorance is my new best friend.

It protects me from reality and allows me to breath.

On this day every year I hide in my room, away from the rest of the world. Since the night of Dystopia, I have clung to my oblivious state of mind, in denial over what happened that day. The TV is on; I'm looking at it but I'm only half watching. It's an anniversary special on Dystopia Day, interviewing people with bizarre conspiracy theories. For most, it was nothing more than a strange blackout: widespread power cuts, the crash of the Internet, the collapse of social media and global communication. For me, it was so much more.

My dad takes a keen interest in
the news coverage, reporting crazy theories ranging from natural disasters to alien invasions. It was labelled "Dystopia" by the press; a complete breakdown in society, a short-lived glimpse at how bad things can get.

I flick through the channels half-heartedly then turn off the TV in frustration. I don't care why or how it happened, or what it means to the wider world; for me, only one consequence matters. Dystopia
took place exactly three years ago to the day; it was my thirteenth birthday, and it was the day my mother disappeared.

Bad Luck is my old enemy.

It follows me around like a sinister shadow, a silhouette witness to my never-ending misfortune.

They say thirteen is the unluckiest of all numbers. If you're as superstitious as I am, it doesn't get any worse than having a birthday on Friday the Thirteenth. I celebrate by doing the safest thing possible: I shut myself away inside my bedroom. Not that I have much choice; following Dystopia Day, the
government imposed a curfew after dusk for minors. We're told that it's for our protection, but it feels more like a form of control.

I've turned sixteen today: old enough to do what I want, but young enough not to know any better. Now that school is over Dad wants me to go away to college; it's his way of helping me move on with my life. In one week I'll be leaving home to go and live in student accommodation. I've worked hard for this, thrown myself into my studies managed to earn good grades.

With my wardrobe scattered across my bed as I decide what to pack, I wonder how I'll fit into student life. I look nothing like the joyful, exuberant teens on the front of the college prospectus. All of my clothes are varying shades of black. It's not an intentional look; I just can't bring myself to do colour. Now that it's time to pack I don't know if I even want to go to away to college. Just because it's what my dad wants doesn't mean that it's right for me.

I'm different, and where I live, in a not so nice part of London, different is dangerous. For a start, I look different than the other teenagers; my pale complexion in harsh contrast to my jet black hair. I'm frequently teased for the crimson glint in my eyes, like the red-eye effect
in a photograph. Being different has cost me dearly over the years: I've had few friends and none that have stuck around. I can't imagine myself fitting into college life at all.

I start folding some
tops up, then give up and toss them into the open suitcase. People think I'm weird because I wear some of my clothes inside out. My mother always said that it's for good luck. Let's face it; I need all the luck I can get. I don't blame people for excluding me; it's safer for them not to be associated with me. But I do blame someone: Dad.

Where is he when I need him? Since Dystopia Day he's been a shadow of his former self. It seems as though every day he fades away a bit more, like an old photograph. I wonder if one day he'll fade away altogether and disappear, just like Mum. I feel closer to our Romanian housekeeper,
Katalina, than I do to my father.

It's my last weekend at home before I leave for college. You'd think Dad would want to be around. He works all the hours of the day, often weekends too
. I know that he works for the government but I don't know what he does day-to-day. Whenever I try to ask him, he simply shrugs and tells me, "It's complicated."

So here I am, spending my birthday evening alone in my room, sorting through clothes and
the other things I'll need for college. I should feel excited, but I don't. The sound of the door bell startles me. Who could it be so late in the evening? I don't want to leave my room, but the bell continues to ring insistently. Reluctantly, I head downstairs and open the door to find a boy on the doorstep.

Stepping back, he seems as surprised to see me as I am to see him. I'm guessing he must be at least eighteen as he's out after curfew. He's tall, with a well built physique like a gym instructor. Not bad looking, but I can tell he knows it. His teeth are white against his olive skin with the slightest of gaps between his front two.

"I'm looking for Mr Hunter," he says, with an awkward smile.

"Um. . ." I say. Not my most brilliant opening. "
My. . . dad?" I ask, stumbling over the one-syllable words.

The boy
steps back and looks up at the front of the house, like he might have the wrong one. In the uncomfortable silence we assess each other. Since the Day of Dystopia, this is what people do. Trust must be earned, and doesn't come free.

He has a parcel in his hands, but I can't bring myself to take my eyes off his face. His hair is dark, almost as dark as mine. He seems nervous, which makes me all the more curious about him.

"Mr Hunter is your dad?" he asks, frowning. "So. . . you live here too?"

This conversation is going really well. His dark
blue eyes are studying me. I'm suddenly conscious of my top being inside-out.

"I'm Sasha. Sasha Hunter." I tuck away the exposed label on the seam of my top. "Lou Hunter is my dad. I'm his daughter."

I didn't really need to add the last bit. I hope it didn't sound too sarcastic. How do I always manage to sound sarcastic, even when I'm not trying? Maybe I can impress him with my social awkwardness. He lifts his hand, decides against offering a handshake and makes a half-hearted wave instead.

"Nice to meet you Sasha, I'm Aaron."

I repeat his name in my head, making sure I don't forget it. There is an awkward silence and I realise I'm staring at him.

"So how do you know my dad?" I ask quickly.

"I don't," he answers. "I mean, I do, but not that well, clearly. Mr Hunter never told me he had a daughter. You look a lot different to him, beautifully different."

He did just say that, right? Or did I just hear that last bit in my head? His smile becomes more of a confident smirk now, like he's enjoying my embarrassment.

"Anyway, I'm just here to deliver something. I thought he was home, sorry to bother you."

As he starts to
back away I take a step forward.

"So what have you got there?"

I nod at the parcel, desperate to keep the conversation going. Was that too nosey? It was definitely a bit forward. I'm completely useless at talking to boys.

"Oh, it's nothing," says Aaron as he tucks the parcel protectively under one arm.

He seems a little caught off guard; maybe he's not used to girls being so forward with him? I bet he's normally the one who makes the moves.

"Is it for my dad?" I ask, encouraged. "Why don't you come in and wait for him? I could make you a cup of tea."

Wow, I'm impressed with myself. Next thing you know I'll be offering to show him the family photo album. Then I realise that I'm inviting a total stranger into the house when I'm home alone in the evening. It goes against all the government advice on personal protection and safeguarding your property.

"Look," he says, then he hesitates, like he's about to say something important but doesn't know how. My heart starts racing and I don't know why. He suddenly seems agitated. "Thanks, but I have to go, I shouldn't be here."

As he half turns to leave I grab the parcel. Our hands brush against each other briefly. I can't believe I did that and neither can he by the look he gives me. I feel my cheeks burning. His mouth opens slightly as though he's about to say something, or maybe he's just a little shocked. I've ran out of ideas, so I decide to end the awkwardness.

"Right, thanks then, bye!"

I close the door quickly and leave the boy empty-handed on the doorstep. I lean back against the door and scrunch my eyes closed. I can't believe how much of an idiot I am. I hear him sigh, followed by the retreat of slow, reluctant footsteps. I watch through the peephole as he backs away looking a little bemused. Then I look down at the parcel in my hands.

The padded package has my dad's name written on it, but it describes him as "Agent Hunter". A dozen questions fly through my mind:
What's inside the parcel? Who was that boy and how does he know Dad? And why is he referred to as an "Agent"?

Now I'm intrigued.

I carry the parcel up two flights of stairs and decide to leave it on his desk. I hardly ever go inside Dad's attic room. It's an unspoken rule that I shouldn't. But I'm sixteen now and I'm old enough to decide for myself what I can and can't do.

When I open the door and step inside
, a galaxy of dust makes me cough; it's not good for my asthma. I pad the wall for the light switch. I don't like the dark; it's a childish, irrational fear. Taking in a quick pump of my inhaler, I close the door quietly behind me. The attic is Dad's world when he's at home; it's where he works, eats, and often falls asleep. He is so secretive that not even Katalina is allowed in to clean up. And now here I am, inside Dad's private sanctum.

The gable-roof room is sectioned off at one end by two thick curtains. It's a lonely place, consisting of columns of bookcases and a tired-looking desk and chair. As I look around the unremarkable space, my first feeling is anger. What's so great about this room that it keeps him away from me?

Resisting the urge to trash everything, I place the parcel on his desk. The sticky strip comes loose and the end flaps open. I know I should walk away and forget all about it. But with Dad out at work and Katalina having left for the evening I know I won't be disturbed. I ease myself into the leather chair and examine the parcel. Just a quick look, what harm could it do?

I reach inside the package to remove what appears to be a
small portable safe. It's locked. Dad must have the key, unless he left it here in his attic room. My curiosity levels hit a new high. I decide to explore the built-in drawers of the old-fashioned desk.

The first drawer is full of thin cardboard folders containing maps, addresses and pictures of buildings. What does it all mean? The second
drawer holds a selection of small electronic devices. Some have LCD screens, some have dials. I've never seen anything like it before. Searching for the key, I sift through the various bits of equipment when I come across something sinister-looking. It's a dagger. I slam the drawer shut and pretend I didn't see it.

If I was meant to open the safe-box, then I'd have found the key. Or rather, that's how I justify giving up the search. I pick up a framed picture of Mum and Dad from the desk. They look young and happy. Dad has a few crinkles at the sides of his eyes now, but other than that he still looks good for his age. Mum's dark hair frames her pale, smiling face; I've inherited her looks and for that I'm thankful.

Something cold and metallic presses against my thumb on the back of the frame. When I flip it over I find a key taped to the wood. I peel it off and insert it into the lock on the safe-box. I inhale deeply as I turn the key and the lock clicks open.

It's not too late; I can turn and walk away and forget I've ever been here. Or I can open the box and uncover the truth. I hesitate, unsure about whether I really want to do this.

Leave it alone, it's not yours, part of me thinks.

You deserve to know the truth, another part argues.

I don't know which of my instincts to trust.

Some sec
rets are there to be discovered, I decide.

I lift the
safe box lid. It's empty except for a piece of old, yellowed paper with curled corners. As I unfold the paper I recognise a scrawled drawing straight away. . .

It's a game of hangman. The partially-completed matchstick man means that whoever is playing only has two lives left. Four incorrectly guessed letters have lines crossed through them — one for each part of the hangman. Of the two missing words, only a couple of letters have been correctly guessed
. At the top of the aged paper are three words written in unfamiliar, shaky handwriting: