The Dawn: The Bombs Fall (A Dystopian Science Fiction Series) (2 page)

He lay down on his bed with nothing
else to do, the only sound the hum of the air vents and the adverts from the
televisions outside his room. They were offering additional numbers which could
be tattooed above your original branding for no more than thirty credits. He
listened as they offered radiation sickness tablets. New clothes, new toys, better
healthcare. Nothing he had credits for. He stared out from his corner window
with his hands tucked underneath his head. For a while he thought about
lounging on the beach, the heat blazing down on him, the sounds of the waves
creeping steadily in and out. But lately even these images were becoming blurry
and less defined. They no longer seemed real to him like they once had. So
instead he allowed himself a moment to watch the sky as it moved along,
wondering if he too might catch a glimpse of Leonard's lights peeking through
the clouds.

The hum of the strip lighting
softened as the lights dimmed, centrally controlled, signalling that somebody
had decided that the day had drawn to a close. He wondered if they were still
counting the hours. After five minutes of pointless staring at a sky no longer
consistent with life he stood up, no longer able to torment himself. Even if
there was light, even if the dawn really was about to break, what was there
left for him to go back to? There was nothing left for him in the old world. Delta
was all that he had now. Even if he could go back to that final day, the
moments just before the sky turned black when his life as he knew it ended,
would he even have the courage to do so? He wasn't so sure that he would find
the strength to get it right this time, or that he wouldn't just disappoint her
all over again? He secured his overalls with a belt, letting the top half of
them hang down from his waist. He checked the spare ration cards were still in
his pocket and then pulled on his deerstalker hat. He left his ration card in
the wall mounted box, his artificial presence in his quarters, and stepped back
into the noise of the corridor. Most people had retreated to their rooms, and
all the kids had been rounded up as he made his way through the lobby. It made
the adverts seem louder still, but when it was this quiet they offered him some
comfort, because they left no space in which to think about what a mess he had
made of the life he had lost.

One bag had been waiting like a
convict, imprisoned but ready for action in the wardrobe since last Saturday. Mother
had insisted. She had said there was no need for the warm clothes to stay
hanging up or stacked in dusty piles, the type that would be beneficial when
winter fell and refused to depart like a man-made Ice Age. She had spent the
last three days packing, things they needed, and things they didn't. Emily had
unpacked some of her stuff, like the T-shirt that had
PEACE
emblazoned
across it with the CND sign. This was the one she knew she was going to wear
when the time came.

Mother had left her to pack only one
bag, but she still hadn't done it. Now it was almost too late. It was the bag
for the small things that seem irrelevant but that matter because they belong
to you, and because the you that you know, the one you see when you look in the
mirror, isn't going to exist anymore.

Emily could still smell the coffee
from the breakfast they hadn't eaten as she stood staring into the void of the empty
bag. There was hardly any space. It was too small, but Father had told her that
was all she was allowed. She had spent hours looking through her belongings
over the last few days, trying to triage her items into important and
non-important. She thought at first it would be easy, but it wasn’t. She
thought she could look through her things and know what she wanted to take with
her, but it was evident early on that when you knew that soon enough you would
be left with nothing, everything became something to treasure.

It had been a normal Friday night,
movie queued up and popcorn in the microwave when that first call came. They
had finished a takeaway dinner of pizza with an extra topping of pepperoni the
way she liked it only half an hour before, amidst laughter and talk of the
coming weekend. Maybe they would go hiking on Sunday? Who fancied a trip to the
theatre? Whose turn was it to load the dishwasher because it was the cleaner's
night off? Life before that call had been normal. Happy. Emily was shouting
from the living room, calling for them to hurry up with the popcorn. Mother had
been telling her that she hadn't done her chores and that the plates were still
waiting to be loaded. But then the telephone rang and there was silence. It was
only minutes before Mother came running through, telling Emily that she had to
be quiet, that Father was taking an important call. Important calls were
nothing unusual, but her mother's behaviour became erratic, drawing the
curtains as if they were living through a wartime blackout. She began turning
out unnecessary lights like they were a family of fugitives on the brink of being
seized. Mother sat down on the settee, told Emily to come close, not to panic,
all the while smoothing out a tissue over the top of a jittery knee. She
stroked Emily's hair as if she were still a baby who needed comforting, but it
was her mother who was brimming with fear. Her father came in and stood with
his back against the door. He noticed the dark and turned on a lamp. He too
checked the curtains. Silence. It was Emily's mother who broke it to ask if it
was time, and his only answer was to look away. After he had calmed her down it
was he who had the most to say. Her mother had been unable to stop whimpering
long enough to work a sentence together. She sat with one hand resting on
Emily’s leg, the other dabbing a wrinkled and soaked-through tissue at her nose
and eyes. She kept saying everything was going to be all right. Not to panic. Whatever
her father said was met by her mother telling her that everything was going to
be all right. Emily knew straightaway that it wouldn't be.

“Emily, hurry.” The words travelled
emotionless like foot soldiers up the stairs. “You’ve got less than ten
minutes.” She heard her father’s shoes striking against the marble floor as he
walked away, barking more orders at the people who had arrived at the door. Emily
was already wearing her school uniform when the call came that morning. She had
refused to stay home and her father had reassured her mother that it was best to
keep living as normally as possible. He added that it would be easy to get to
her when the time came. Her mother had called it an irresponsible decision. She
added, almost like an afterthought, that it hadn't been his first.

The history, science, and English
books that had been in her bag were now strewn across the quilt cover. It was a
patchwork with a heart on it, and now it seemed stupid in a way it never had
before. She peered out of the window to see her father arrive on the driveway. He
completed a series of movements with his arms, instructions like semaphore,
left and right as if he was still in command of his destiny. The rays from the
low sun cast him in shadow, his form becoming a hazy silhouette that she almost
couldn't recognise, and she had to squint to shield her eyes. The three men who
remained nameless but who had been in the house since the night when that first
call came, set about loading the cars as if their life depended on it. Rather
than Emily's and her parents'.

Emily rummaged through the pile of
school books and grabbed the English text that she was currently reading. The
Handmaid's Tale. When she first started the book she had thought it
unbelievable that so many of the girls would go along with being handmaids, and
she had told her English teacher so.
No way,
she had said,
would a
girl who knew her own mind just go along with that. She would fight back. She
wouldn't let it happen.
Her teacher had tried to convince her that they
were trying to save their own lives. That they were trying to be strong in
their own way. That they would do whatever it took to survive. She had never
understood how cooperation could be somebody's only means to fight, or how the
bravest fight could be born of silence. She threw the book in the bag. She
grabbed a selection of jewellery, all cheap and worthless. Not good for
trading, but she was too young to think ahead. She didn’t like the diamond
earrings anyway. Why would she take them? There was a copy of Cosmo lying next
to the bed, so she snatched that up and shoved it in the bag.

“Emily,” her father shouted, his
voice angrier, as scratchy as nails on a blackboard. “Come on, get a move on. It’s
time.”

“Anthony, please. Stop shouting,” she
heard her mother reply, her voice stretched as if every fear was hanging from
the end of it. “You’re scaring her.”

Emily grabbed the drawstring of the
back pack and fastened the buckle on top. She held her wrist up and checked her
watch. 8:15 AM. She thought about Amanda sitting next to an empty desk
wondering why Emily was late. She picked up her mobile, dragged her finger
across the screen to check for any new text messages. Her prayers remained
unanswered. There was no stroke of luck that Amanda had sent her a message to
say that she was ill and hadn't made it to school. No last minute holiday
somewhere far away. There was nothing from Amanda. But of course there was
nothing. Amanda’s family didn’t know anything about what was happening. They
had no reason to run or hide.

Emily had considered betraying her
father's trust and telling Amanda. She had played out the conversation over and
over in her head. But what choices did Amanda’s family have? Where would they
have gone if they knew? There was no underground bunker waiting for them. No
man in a suit to pack their car. The last time Emily saw Amanda she had smiled
and hugged her, and Amanda had told her that she had decided to go on the date
with Richard Curtis from the year above. They had both known what that really
meant. Emily had told her to have fun on that Monday night, and as Amanda
skipped away laughing, Emily knew that she had lost her chance to do the right
thing. She had decided that telling her the truth could end up making things
worse. She threw the phone back onto the bed. There was no need for it now. She
reached into the nearest drawer and pulled out the T-shirt with PEACE on it and
pulled it over her white school blouse. She pulled her arms into the sleeves of
her blazer and picked up the bag looking something like a 1970s punk. She allowed
herself one last look at the phone. It was too late to do anything. She told
herself again that it was better that they didn't know. Who wants to know they
are going to die?

“That’s it, Emily, come on.” Her
father was standing at the bottom of the stairs waving his arms in giant
circles of encouragement. “Go sit in the car.” His feet were tapping, and her mother
was turning around in small circles behind him. She looked like a jewellery box
ballerina that had become detached and lost its way.

“Oh, Anthony, stop it,” Mother begged
again.

“Helena, she has to understand that
we have no choice,” he said, not once taking his eyes from Emily. “Everything
is packed, Emily. Go and wait in the car.”

“Not everything is packed,” Emily
said, her bottom lip sticking out, her jaw clenched shut. She fiddled with her braid
for a distraction. Her hair was soft like golden leaf, and when it hung loose
the breeze caught the ends and tousled them like embers blown from a bonfire. Rapunzel,
her mother called her.

“Emily, darling. Your father is
right. Please hurry.” Helena Grayson turned to Anthony as she edged her daughter
towards the door. “This is all your fault, you know that? You are responsible
for everything.”

“Helena, not now,” he barked. “Go on,
Emily, we are right behind you.” Emily arrived at the front door and slipped
her hand into the pocket of her school blazer. She stopped when she found the
pocket empty and swung back towards the stairs. Her father snatched at her arm
to stop her. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, as the tartan rucksack
slid down to her wrist, swinging like a pendulum between them.

“I forgot something. I have to go
back.”

“Emily, no!” he shouted, but she had
wriggled her wrist free, snapping it back like a catapult released. “Get back
down here now,” he said, charging up the stairs behind her, almost tripping on
the rucksack which had dropped to the ground. She stood at the door to her
bedroom with her hands on the doorframe, her father bellowing behind her, her
mother still whimpering. “Emily, hurry up,” he said, followed by something
inaudible from her mother. But Emily wasn't listening.

She raced into her bedroom and grabbed
the iPod from her nightstand. She breathed a sigh of relief as she wound the
earphones around the old click wheel device before she stuffed it into her
pocket. She couldn’t believe that she had nearly forgotten it. She turned to
leave the room, but as she did she saw her pin board facing her. “Emily Grayson,
if you are not down here.........” She heard her father's voice resonating up
the stairs, followed by footsteps on the marble staircase. His words were
disappearing into the reality that she could feel slipping away from her, a
place she could no longer reach. Her eyes surrendered to the pin board in front
of her and as they travelled across the mementoes from her past, they settled
on a strip of images taken in a photo booth. In one, Amanda was sticking her
tongue out, in another she was cross-eyed. That day they had been to the
cinema, a forgettable movie about a loser boyfriend and a stupid girl who
always took him back. They had laughed together as they promised themselves that
they would never be like that. They would always have each other. They promised
that they would never let each other down. Emily knew that she had failed to
keep her promise. She could have told Amanda yesterday. She could have warned
her in time for her to do something, to hide, to run, to try. But instead she
did as her father instructed her to do and said nothing. She had no right to
feel sorry for herself. She was no better than he was.

Emily pulled the photograph from the
board and folded it in two just as her father arrived at the door. He didn't
say anything but instead he snatched at her wrist and began pulling her
downstairs. Emily ran to keep up with him but her footing was unsteady.

“Dad! Dad, you're hurting me!” she
said, sliding the folded images into her skirt pocket. His fingers gripped her
arm like the sharp claws of an eagle and she could feel his skin rubbing
against hers as if it was sandpaper. His skin was red hot, his face as brilliant
as the brightest flare, and he didn't loosen his grip until she was in the back
of the waiting car. Her mother was already sitting on the back seat trying not
to cry. Emily rubbed at her sore arm, her skin marked by four finger shaped
welts. She turned to her mother, her common alliance when her father got too
rough. Her mother's instinctive reaction was always to stand in Emily’s corner,
an unflinching buttress of support. Her parents would trade insults, and Emily
would cocoon herself in her bedroom until the shouting diminished to a distant
moan, like the call of the whales from the ocean. But today nobody seemed to
notice what had happened. If they did, they didn't care.

On the way through the streets Emily
was surprised at how normal everything appeared. There were people eating
breakfast in cafes which made her empty stomach grumble, queues for coffee
served in takeaway cups that snaked out of shop doorways as people hurried to
work. They passed a school and it was full of children playing in the courtyard
without a care in the world. There were girls skipping, and another group was
playing hopscotch. Emily imagined them in flames, charred and burnt like a
movie she had once seen. Emily knew she didn’t belong here anymore, her place
in this life sacrificed by her secrecy, her right to mourn relinquished by her
choices. These people were not like her. They didn’t know what was coming. Not
even those she loved. She looked down at her T-shirt and suddenly felt like a
fraud, taunted by the CND sign as it pulled on the strings of her guilt. She wrapped
her blazer closed and held herself in her own embrace.