Finding Eden
Authors: Megan Dinsdale
Finding Eden
Megan
Dinsdale
Copyright © 2013 Megan
Dinsdale
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1484803165
ISBN-10: 1484803167
To Danielle
For
everything
.
Table of Contents
“Somewhere in between the crashing disasters and
thrashing violence,
I have found a peaceful silence in your love.
Among the barren wastelands of rock and sand,
the
oasis in your eyes has somehow provided me with
more
than enough to sustain.
The pain and agony that has surrounded me has somehow
diminished,
and
even if the fires of hell rise around us, our love will
walk
through the flames untarnished.
Lightening can strike the skies and earthquakes can rumble
the ground,
but
the fearsome tremors or electric shocks will hardly
sound
through the stability of our alliance.
No natural disaster or human defiance will ever conquer
this dustless paradise that you and I breathe in.
Even when the rest of the world
comes tumbling to pieces,
hellfire
and brimstone, bloodshed and treason,
you
and I can rest peaceful, ever after in our Eden.”
Cristi Taijeron
Author of
Endless Horizon Pirate Stories
[ Elle ]
I had thought my dad was going mad. It was clear his paranoia had finally gotten the best of him and when he had finally drained his entire savings account for his obsession, I knew he had finally lost it. He had gone off the deep end and there was absolutely, positively, no going back.
Richard Stevens had always been harebrained, but this time he had taken it to a new level. He was a prepper. The kind of person who thought the world was going to end because of a biological terrorist attack, an economic collapse, or even, as laughable as it sounded, a mess of natural disasters happening all at once. My mother, Laurie, went along with it at first. She always gave in to his little obsessions and schemes that came and went. My mom and I used to laugh about it behind his back, saying how silly he was, how he was going to laugh about it in a month or so along with us.
But then the bills came pouring in and the savings account was suddenly depleted. After that, my mom wasn’t too happy. Richard had pleaded with Laurie, showing her all of the signs of the imminent apocalypse—whether it was the lengthy summers, the short winters, or maybe the next week it would be the declining U.S. dollar. Filled with rage, she had ignored him for months. My mom, who was a loving wife and slightly gullible, eventually gave into it, and she actually started to almost believe the stupidity. And then, I had two
prepper parents.
Needless to say, my friends did not need to know about any of this, and they definitely didn’t need to know that I would help my parents can and dehydrate food, chop wood, or that I would go out to the desert with supplies every weekend where my dad had purchased land and dug an underground bunker to stow everything away. This was all on a need-to-know basis. Besides, I couldn’t tell them even if I wanted to. My dad made me pinky swear not to and I had always taken those seriously.
Our bunker had been stockpiled with enough food to last us at least a few years. After some research, my mom had perfected the art of dehydrating and canning different types of food, and she was more than proud of herself. My dad had installed an overhead ventilation shaft that let air circulate in from outside. I guess he was aiming towards an economic collapse rather than biological warfare. He invested in a water filter, a generator, and other crazy crap he didn’t need to waste money on, but he did, with my mother’s consent no less.
I was always a good daughter. I did my chores and graduated high school, and soon after, I took classes at the local college. I followed the rules of the house and rarely broke a single one.
However, that didn’t mean I helped my parents without protest. Oh no. I kicked and screamed. A lot. It was so bad that, after a while, they just left me at home.
It was summer in southern California and the world quickly grew hotter and hotter at an increased rate, a rate beyond abnormal, leaving scientists baffled. It was to the point where all my summer classes were canceled and people were told not to come into work—a “heat day.” The sun was a gigantic white orb in the cloudless sky. The temperature rose by the hour and people began to grow fearful. Soon the streets were vacant of all life. People escaped to their air-conditioned homes, sat on their couches, and glued their eyes to the televisions. Every channel showed the local news and before anyone could get an answer to the crisis at hand, the electricity went out. Everything just died—every appliance, including air conditioning, was rendered useless. All seemed hopeless until night came.
With the temperature at only a little over 100 degrees and the flesh-melting sun hidden for the night, my dad said it was time to bug out. Months ago, my parents had told me to get a “bug-out bag” ready, so I did as I was told. It didn’t have things like clothing or my toothbrush; everyday items like that were already stowed away in our underground haven. My bag contained food (energy bars and MREs), water, a flashlight, batteries, a first aid kit, a fixed-blade knife, matches, sleeping pad, and other things, like an emergency blanket and poncho, I was now sure I wouldn’t have any use for.
Grabbing what we needed, we quickly jumped into my dad’s SUV and sped toward our underground bunker, taking the quickest route possible. In reality though, that was any route. Other than stray vehicles parked haphazardly along the roadsides, the streets were desolate. Our headlights were the only artificial lights in sight. The moon was brighter than ever, reflecting the glow from the now impossible sun.
My dad told me to close my eyes while we were driving down what used to be a busy street, but I didn’t. I was curious and he didn’t give me a reason why. There were bodies...so many bodies. I saw men, women, and children on the sidewalks, covered with atrocious burns and bubbling red skin. I could see bodies trapped in the vehicles that lined the streets. They thought their cars' air conditioning could save them, but they had been wrong. I looked away and tasted acid as it rose from my stomach. My dad was right; I should have closed my eyes.
He had been right about everything.
And then the earthquakes started—one after the other. It felt as if the entire planet would shake off of its axis. Our car almost tipped completely over several times, but my dad seemed to know just how to maneuver it to keep it on all four tires. I saw buildings all around us crumble to the ground. The newly formed dust clouds chased us down, threatening to consume us. It came through the vents and I began to cough, knowing it would soon choke the life from my parents and me. My mom and dad quickly closed the vents. We were safe for the moment.
Suddenly, I saw the ground open up and cars tumbled into the earth as if they were weightless toys being kicked around by a child. They fell into each other; the sounds of crunching metal and breaking glass assaulted my ears. The waterlines then began to break, followed quickly by the gas lines. Fires erupted in the distance—burning, choking flames that refused to be dampened by the exploding geysers. My dad raced through front yards and back yards, through fences and into mailboxes. He seemed compelled to do anything to help us safely reach our destination.
Over and over in an unsteady rhythm, my dad punched the gas and then laid on the break, and we soon found ourselves speeding down the 8, an empty highway and open road that would lead us towards the desert. There were dips and fractures in the road that my dad had to find his way around. My mom kept her alert eyes on the highway, warning him of hazards she thought he hadn’t been aware of. Thanks to her, we barely missed a rock-slide as we drove through the narrow and perilous grade between the desert hills and mountains.
I was paralyzed in the back seat. My right hand was tightly wrapped around the door handle; my left fingers were digging into the soft seat cushion. Suddenly, all I could think about were my friends and how I should have told them. Maybe I could have said something in a sarcastic, laughable manner, and they would have laughed too, but maybe they would have secretly prepped—just in case. But I knew it was too late for them, if not tonight,
then tomorrow when the sun returned with all its vengeance. Yes—by then it would be too late. They would be dead—ashes that would soon fall into the cracked and pitted earth, and there would be no one to remember them but me.
Without thinking, I screamed at my dad to turn back, to get them because they didn’t know any better. They could still be alive, I yelled. Tears streamed down my dust-caked face. Pleading and crying, I shoved at the back of his seat and shook my mom by her shoulder.
I was filled with joy as my dad stopped and drove behind a large patch of ocotillo. I thought he was going to turn around and do as I pleaded, but he got out of the car instead. My mother followed behind him; he opened my door, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out. I was screaming for him to go back, but he just pulled me into one of his tight, all-consuming hugs that never ceased to comfort and calm me down. My mother joined in, and slowly but surely, my sobs disappeared. I then found myself being dragged by my arm for what seemed like miles until we reached our bunker. I vaguely recalled hearing my parents talk to me. I vaguely recalled feeling a warm washcloth wipe my face; I could almost remember my mother dressing me into clean pajamas and helping me onto my designated cot. I did, however, recall with complete certainty falling asleep to the gentle rumbling of earthquakes. They were my morbid lullaby, coaxing me into a deep slumber that I never wanted to wake up from.
[ Elle ]
Almost 5 Years Later
I woke up that evening holding tightly to Teffy. His name was really Teddy, but I couldn’t pronounce that when I first got him. He was a chocolate brown stuffed bear; my mom had embroidered my name onto his belly. I found myself unconsciously tracing the letters with my finger tip: the E, the L, the second L, and then the last E. The pink thread felt soft against my dry, calloused skin. Teffy was my only living friend. He was like Wilson, the volleyball, to my Chuck Noland. Luckily, I hadn’t gone quite
that
crazy yet, but I was positive I wasn’t too far off.
I remembered the day I got him, or maybe I just thought I did because of all the times I had asked my mom to tell me the story. It was my fourth Christmas and my dad was away on business. Though I rarely ever saw him since his career often called him away, I was very close to him. I guess my parents thought it would be funny to not tell me that he was coming home, so I would think I’d be spending another Christmas without my daddy. That morning, I ran down the stairs, excited as ever. All the presents under the big, green tree were for me; I couldn’t wait to rip them open and see what Santa brought me. There was one really big box, wrapped kind of haphazardly, like Santa was in a rush to get it to me and didn’t have time to perfect the folding. My mom had told me to open that one first, so I did as she said. I tore the paper off in one pull and out popped my dad with
Teffy. My dad wrapped me in his arms, gave me a big kiss on my forehead, told me Merry Christmas, and handed me my plush bear. Looking back, I think it was my happiest memory with my dad.
