Half Lives (43 page)

As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I was getting sick. I was nauseous and exhausted. I was sure it was because of the radiation. I dressed in one of Chaske’s T-shirts and covered
myself with Marissa’s Cheer Captain button-down. I wore Tate’s watch so that I would remember all three.

But then they came. They saw my fire and they made a pilgrimage to the mountain. It was a group of young kids about Tate’s age. They had been at one of those isolated schools for troubled
kids. All the administrators and teachers had abandoned them or died. These kids had survived in their compound, which was near Lake Mead. But then they’d seen my fire, and they’d
thought it was a sign.

‘You can’t stay here,’ I told them. ‘It’s not safe.’

They didn’t seem to hear me. They had hugged me, cuddled Midnight and warmed themselves by the fire. They were dirty and exhausted and I couldn’t turn them away, not yet. A few of
them were sick. I segregated them in the cave and brought them food and water. I made them as comfortable as I could and prepared myself for more death.

But these kids survived and thrived. I couldn’t explain it. They had what I assumed were the lingering effects of the virus that had ravaged the world, but these kids slowly recovered,
completely recovered, and no one else got sick. They thought that the mountain and I had cured them. Nothing I could say or do would change their minds. If I believed in such things, I might have
thought it was a miracle too. But I had stopped believing in anything but myself.

We organized into teams and I handed out assignments. We took turns venturing into the outskirts of Vegas and salvaging anything we could use. We built a gathering space, which I jokingly
referred to as the mall.

I gathered them together and told them stories about my journey to the heart of the mountain with a cheerleader and a rock star. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them about Chaske. He was
mine and mine alone. I told them my mum and dad would come one day because I wanted to believe it and I wanted to give them hope.

When I had finished my story, a little girl, who I had nicknamed Lola for her spiky hair and tough-as-nails attitude, asked, ‘Is this for real?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘this is for real.’ Even though my story was starting to feel like something that happened to someone else. ‘You must never cross the thorny hedge or
. . .’ I wanted to tell them the truth, and I would someday, but I needed them to believe me now. ‘If you cross and go up the mountain, something horrible will happen.’

‘Like you mean you’ll die or something,’ a boy everyone called Beckett asked.

For simplicity, I decided to go with their version. ‘That’s right. You’ll die.’

‘Freepy,’ Lola said, which made me laugh.

And they believed me. They obeyed me. They looked up to me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable and responsible and not human, but what could I do? I thought about telling the truth about
our home, about me, but we were all happier believing this mountain was special and that we’d survived for a reason.

I wanted to believe it too because I thought I’d be gone soon. My health didn’t deteriorate as fast as Tate and Chaske’s did, but my body was changing.

Over the next months I realized that my body wasn’t preparing for death – quite the opposite. I gave birth to a son. I called him Chaske after his father. I told them he was special
and he was. He was part Chaske and part me. This horror and tragedy had produced a precious, perfect life. He made me believe in miracles again.

Midnight and I watched over them for as long as we could. And I watch over them still . . .

‘It’s going to be OK.’

– Just Saying 301

BECKETT

B
eckett picks up Icie’s notebook. He rips out page after page, tossing each one like confetti into the smouldering embers of the Crown. He
throws the empty notebook shell on top. Black dots spread and eat into the paper. The flames take hold and the pages disintegrate.

He knows the truth. He will keep the Great I AM’s secret.

It’s funny but Beckett feels as if Icie is watching over him. And maybe she is. Maybe she gave him the vision of Chaske’s death. Maybe she blessed him with a birthmark
that mirrored the symbol Chaske etched on their wrists before he died. He will let these mysteries go unexplained.

Beckett vows to return to the Heart with Harper and close it for good. He will create an avalanche somehow. He will bury the Heart so no one can enter it again. He will scrape out the
infinity symbol until he has erased it.

As the sun rises, he Says to the Great I AM one last time. He thanks her for her sacrifice. He promises to carry out her mission – to do what she couldn’t.

Harper’s eyes open.

‘You’re going to be OK,’ he tells her. ‘We will join with Vega and we will leave the Mountain.’

‘What about Mumenda?’ Harper asks.

Beckett bows his head. He grieves for the loss of the Great I AM and for a girl who lost so much. ‘Mum and Dad,’ he pronounces it as Icie would have, ‘aren’t
coming. They are never coming.’

Harper looks up at him in surprise. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘I know, Harper. You’ll have to trust me. I just know.’ The weight of Icie’s secret weighs heavy on him, but it is a burden he is prepared to bear. He will let
Forreal keep the faith, but he will have to look within for inspiration. He will have to ask Harper and Greta for guidance. No more looking for signs.

Beckett looks out over Vega, just like Icie did once. He tries to imagine the time she walked on this earth. He would have liked to have known this person who built Forreal.

She wasn’t a god.

She was just a girl.

But it doesn’t matter. She has proven one person can change the future. Now it’s up to him.

In November 2009 my Little, Brown editor, Alvina Ling, dropped me a quick email. She was listening to a fascinating discussion on Slate.com’s podcast The Culture Gabfest.
She felt the topic could be the inspiration for a young adult novel. She wrote: ‘And then I was thinking, “But who could write this?” and I thought of you.’

Well, I was flattered. I dropped everything and read the article and listened to the accompanying podcast. The article was titled ‘Atomic Priesthoods, Thorn Landscapes and Munchian
Pictograms: How to communicate the dangers of nuclear waste to future civilizations’. It discussed how a United States Department of Energy (DoE) panel planned to label the site of an
underground nuclear waste repository.

(When last I checked, you can still find the article at:
http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/green_room/2009/11/atomic_priesthoods_thorn_landscapes_and_munchian_pictograms.html
)

It may sound a bit dry and boring, but think about it. Some types of nuclear waste are deadly for more than 10,000 years – that’s longer than the world’s oldest civilization.
Who knows what the world will be like even a thousand years from now? What language will we speak? What symbols will have meaning?

I never told Alvina – until now – that my first response to her suggestion to base a teen novel on this issue was
absolutely not
!

But the article sparked something in my brain and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The idea that we are creating a substance that will be deadly for tens of thousands of years definitely
seemed like science fiction, something right out of a superhero comic book. And then there was the added conundrum of how to communicate with future generations, which probably will not speak the
same language or understand our symbols. Fascinating!

That was the seed that would blossom into this story about the nature of faith and power of miscommunication – and above all the strength of the human spirit to adapt and survive.

The mountain and abandoned nuclear waste repository in
Half Lives
are fictional. I based my setting on both the deserted nuclear waste repository at Yucca Mountain in Nevada and the
ongoing construction of the Onkalo Waste Repository, a long-term storage facility for highly nuclear waste in Finland. Although my nuclear waste repository is located in Nevada, the mountain I have
created is not in the same geographic location, nor does it have the same geological make-up as Yucca Mountain. According to the state of Nevada, the Yucca site is nothing more than a single
boarded-up, empty tunnel, approximately five miles long.

The deterrent system outlined in the DoE report – titled ‘Expert Judgment on Markers To Deter Inadvertent Human Intrusion Into the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant’ – inspired
the crown of thorns and the rocky wall in
Half Lives
. But the actual recommendations created by the panel of thirteen linguists, scientists and anthropologists, at a cost of approximately
one million dollars in 1993, included a ridge with a salt core and granite monoliths.

And truth is stranger than fiction . . . over the course of the three-plus years it took to imagine, research and write
Half Lives
, the situation at Yucca Mountain changed. The Yucca
Mountain project was abandoned by the DoE. At the time of writing this book, the debate on where to house nuclear fuel rods in the United States continues – meanwhile, tens of thousands of
tons of radioactive waste are being held in facilities that weren’t designed for long-term storage.

This issue is not unique to the United States. Countries around the world with active nuclear power stations must find a long-term solution. At the time of writing, plans were being discussed
for Britain’s first nuclear research and disposal facility.

The bottom line is that
Half Lives
is a work of fiction. I have taken a few creative liberties to enhance my futuristic tale. But the issues it raises are real, and the debate is
ongoing.

For more information, check out the following resources:

Wishing you a long and healthy life!

Sara Grant

London, England

June 2012

First and foremost I should thank my Little, Brown editor, Alvina Ling. She planted the seed that would blossom into
Half Lives
.

I was also blessed with a wonderful editorial team in three countries – Alvina Ling, Amber Caravéo, Tim Sonderhuesken, Bethany Strout and Jenny Glencross. Not only are they
exceptional editors but they are also lovely people. Thanks are not enough for their editorial feedback and collaboration!

I’d also like to thank the amazing team at Orion for taking such great care of me and my books – with special thanks to Nina Douglas and Louise Court for helping spread the word with
such creativity and congeniality.

I must also acknowledge all the fine work by my champions at Andrew Nurnberg Associates – my agent, Jenny Savill, and her assistant, Ella Kahn. Jenny challenges, listens and encourages. I
couldn’t ask for a better partner in my literary life.

A special thanks to my dear friend Sara O’Connor for always being on the other end of the phone, text or email to offer advice, ideas and enthusiasm!

Every writer needs a support group – not only to offer editorial guidance but to talk you off the fictional ledges you sometimes create along the way. Thanks to my fellow writers and
friends, Kate Scott, Jasmine Richards and Karen Ball.

A huge thank you to Jim and Liz Boone. I found Jim’s website online –
http://www.birdandhike.com/index.htm
– when I was researching mountains near Las Vegas. Wonderfully and
bizarrely, he and Liz spent a scorching hot morning hiking the mountains around Las Vegas with a writer they’d never met before and answering all my strange questions.

I give eternal thanks to my American and British families and friends for their love and encouragement. Growing up, my parents provided a safe place from which I could let my imagination run
wild. A special thanks to Susan – my big sister and best friend – she is the person I know will always come to my rescue. And to Richard and Victoria for their continued enthusiasm!

Every writer should have a spouse like mine. He makes roast dinners when a deadline is looming. He brainstorms with me when I’m having plot problems. He’s read this and all my prose
countless times. He’s my cheerleader and my rock star!

This book is dedicated to my writing companion of seven years, Margaret Carey. She passed away in 2011, but not before giving me editorial guidance and endless support on
Half Lives.
Her time on this earth was cut short, but so many wonderful memories of her live on in the hearts and minds of her friends and family.