فصل 4

CHAPTER 4

I dashed out of the Guardian Wing. Two minutes later I rounded the last corner and plowed full force into a body. My feet went out from under me, and I landed hard on my butt. I gazed up into the disapproving eyes of General Ron Kennedy.

“Late again?” he asked, pulling out his port to make a quick notation. “That makes the fourth time this month.” He glanced down at his port and then raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Maybe a full week of work detail will make you be more punctual.” I just stood up silently and brushed myself off. The six other people standing behind Kennedy wore coveralls that matched mine and were studiously ignoring me, although I saw one woman smirk. Most of the time, I was proud of being a member of North Compound. Even though I was held at arm’s length by almost everyone, it didn’t change the fact that we were survivors—the scrappiest and toughest of the human race. But at times like this, I wished there was somewhere else I could be. My mind flashed to the few minutes I’d spent topside just that morning: the way the sun had felt on my skin, the smell of earth and pine in the air. A traitorous part of me wondered what it would be like to leave the gray compound tunnels behind. But I shook off the thought. Life topside might seem wonderful, but I knew all too well that it was deadly. I wiped a hand across my face and discovered I’d gotten a bloody nose from the impact.

“Don’t get blood on your coveralls,” Kennedy snapped. “Or you’ll have work detail for the rest of the month.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. As he turned and walked up the tunnel, it took everything in me not to make a face at him. Instead, I followed as he led us toward our work assignment for that night. During the day, all the adults in North Compound reported to their various day tasks, tending the farming plots, fortifying the tunnels, cleaning the public areas, or teaching. In the evenings, those who had the misfortune of earning work detail reported for duty.

Work detail could be assigned for anything—being late, not putting forth adequate effort at your job, offending a government official, being found with contraband in your apartment, not taking care of the compound resources. It usually lasted around three hours, and was led by one of the compound’s marines. The job could be something simple, like delivering the mail that was dropped that morning, or searching one of your fellow citizen’s quarters, or harder, like moving rock or chiseling out a new bench for public use. Everything was done for the common good. It was one of the things that Shawn and I both valued about compound life. It could be brutally hard, but everything was done to ensure that the human race survived another day.

For the last two weeks, my work detail had been rock removal. There had been a tunnel collapse in the southern corner of the compound, and all of the fallen rock needed to be carried up the tunnels to a removal site. I usually didn’t mind work detail. It gave me time to think, to use my muscles, and I liked the feeling of accomplishment that came from a job well done. But I knew that with General Kennedy overseeing us, this particular detail would be anything but enjoyable.

I grabbed one of the wheelbarrows leaning against the wall and made my way over to the mound of rock and rubble blocking the tunnel. Luckily, this one had been empty when it collapsed. Without the ceiling above, I was able to look up through three levels of tunnels. It was an eerie sight. This tunnel had been one of the newest additions to North Compound, chiseled out of the rock to create a shortcut from the business section to the residential tunnels. Unfortunately, many of the engineering skills for constructing tunnels like this had been lost over the years. Grabbing a rock the size of my fist, I threw it into my wheelbarrow. It rang hollowly against the metal, sending echoes up and down the tunnel. Mine was the first one filled, and I turned it around, careful not to bump into anyone, and began the arduous task of pushing it back up the tunnel.

“Hold it,” General Kennedy said, coming over to inspect the contents of my wheelbarrow. “That’s only half full. Fill it the rest of the way before you head up to the drop site.” I thought about telling him that if I filled it any more it would be too heavy to push. But I knew a hopeless case when I saw one. So instead, I rolled it back around and headed down to retrieve more rocks. I felt his eyes on me as I worked. General Kennedy had been the one who led the search of our apartment on the night my dad disappeared. I was the daughter of a traitor, and he wasn’t going to let me forget it.

When I returned to my room two hours later, my muscles burned and my hands were covered in broken and bleeding blisters. I was about to flop down on my bed when I noticed that it wasn’t made. A prickle of unease raced up my spine as I looked around my room. My school uniform was no longer in a pile by the foot of my bed but rather shoved haphazardly into the corner. My dresser drawers stood open, their contents spilling out. Thankfully my light was still screwed tightly into the ceiling. Sighing in relief, I sank down onto my bed. I’d been searched, again. Just then the lights blinked out and the lock on my door clicked.

“Well,” I grumbled. “That’s just perfect.” I spent the next half hour putting my things back where they belonged. Compound searches were done randomly, but I got the feeling my room was searched more often than most. No one trusted the offspring of a traitor. I finally climbed into bed, too exhausted to even change out of the work jumpsuit, and fell asleep almost instantly.

When I woke up the next morning, I stared at the ceiling of my room, trying to ignore the fact that every movement sent pain radiating down my arms and legs. I stood up and unscrewed my light. Pulling out my journal, I plunked back down on my bed. It was time to finish updating my information on the deinonychus.

The journal had been a gift from my dad for my seventh birthday, three days before he had disappeared. I’d woken up that morning to the sound of him singing. He had this big booming voice that always seemed at odds with his tall, slim build. That morning, it had been a rendition of “Happy Birthday” in French. I’d smiled and rolled over, pretending to be asleep as he switched to singing “Happy Birthday” in Russian. My dad collected languages. In a society where we owned nothing and shared everything, knowledge was one of the few things left to collect. He spent all his free time away from the lab, where he worked as a technology expert, studying any language he could get his hands on. So far he was fluent in ten of them and knew five others well enough to sing “Happy Birthday.” A fact he demonstrated as he switched from Russian to Chinese. This was too much, and I giggled.

“Is the birthday girl awake?” he’d asked, and I felt the soft bristle of his beard brush my cheek as he bent to give me a kiss. I giggled, and he flung my covers onto the floor, laughing when I squealed in protest. “She can’t sleep the day away! Up! Up! Or you won’t have time to open your birthday present.” He started another round of “Happy Birthday” in German, and handed me a small package wrapped in one of his gray lab coats.

“What is it?” I asked, sitting up.

“A gigantic spider,” he teased. “I found it wandering around the lab, and thought, I know who’d love this. Sky!”

I rolled my eyes. My dad knew how much I hated bugs. “What is it really?”

“Open it and find out.” He laughed.

I carefully unfolded each of the corners of the lab coat, revealing the soft leather cover of a book.

“But, Dad,” I said, stroking the cover reverently. “We aren’t allowed to own books.”

“Which is why it’s not a book.” He smiled, and lifted the cover to reveal thick ivory pages, each one blank. “It’s a journal.” “A journal.” I’d repeated the unfamiliar word, trying to hide my disappointment. I’d hoped it was a book. There was nothing better than the feel of a real book. It was so much better than a port screen, but North Compound had strict rules requiring that all books stay in the library for safekeeping. It made sense: just like everything else in the compound, we had no way to replace them, so we had to preserve and protect them.

“You must never show anyone that you have this,” my dad cautioned. “It’s very valuable, and just like the books, individual citizens aren’t allowed to own them.” “Is it like your compass?” I asked.

“It’s exactly like my compass,” my dad said, pulling it out of its hiding place inside his jacket. “We don’t show anyone or tell anyone that we have it.” I looked down at the journal with newfound appreciation. I’d always been a little jealous of my dad’s compass. It was broken, but it was his. Now I had something that was mine. I liked the feeling.

“How did you get it?” I asked.

“I have my ways.” He winked. “And it’s even more valuable than a book in our library.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because it’s going to contain the great and wonderful thoughts of Sky Mundy.” He smiled.

I studied it for a moment, flipping through its blank pages as though they might shatter if handled too roughly. “Thank you,” I said.

“Anything for you, my dear,” my dad said, hugging my shoulders. “Anything for you.”

Three days later, my dad disappeared. He’d tucked me into bed, and the next thing I knew I was waking up to the marines searching our apartment. One of them had grabbed my compound-issued backpack and stuffed some of my clothes into it before making me sit outside in the tunnel. I must have been a sorry sight: seven years old, terrified, and crying so hard my eyes had practically swollen shut as everything in our apartment was confiscated. No one searched my bag, though. It went unnoticed in the chaos. If they had, they’d have found the journal, cleverly concealed within the lining at the bottom of the bag. My dad had managed to hide it for me, in the one place the marines wouldn’t think to look or confiscate. It had been so well hidden that I hadn’t found it until weeks later when I noticed that my bag was heavier than it should be. I could still remember how excited I’d been.

I’d opened the journal eagerly, expecting a letter from my dad explaining why he’d left the way he had, and when he was going to come back for me. But as I paged through and found it blank, my heart sank. He had left me nothing.

It wasn’t until I reached the back half of the journal that I discovered its secret, and I gasped at what my dad had done to my birthday present. A rough circle had been cut out of the back half-inch of pages, creating the perfect hiding spot for his worn brass compass. I gingerly pulled it out of its paper nest, rubbing my fingers across the worn brass. The lid of the compass had long ago broken off and the small dial inside that was supposed to point north was stuck halfway between south and west. I’d flipped through the remaining pages, each with a gaping hole in its center, but every single one was blank. No note. No explanation. What good were hundreds of blank pages if he couldn’t even fill one?

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut, and for a moment, I almost believed the marines. Maybe my dad really was just a selfish criminal. Maybe he didn’t have a reason for leaving the compound, and me, behind. I’d squeezed my eyes shut and let the pain and anger roar through me until all that was left was a hollow pinched feeling in my chest.

But then I’d opened my eyes, set the compass back inside the journal for safekeeping, and pushed away my doubts. Although I’d still been bitter that he’d had time to hide his precious compass but not to write even one word to me, I knew my dad. He wouldn’t have left me unless he absolutely had to.

After that day, I’d begun researching dinosaurs and putting my findings onto those empty pages. We knew about the dinosaurs of a hundred and fifty years ago, but no one was brave enough to do any kind of extended study on the dinosaurs that roamed our world now. So I researched the few books we had in our library, trying to understand what my dad might have faced when he left the compound to survive topside.

Surviving topside. The statement alone was one of those oxymorons, like friendly takeover or loud whisper. No one could survive topside. The human race was no longer at the top of the food chain. In fact, we were somewhere near the bottom these days. And after centuries of being the predator, we weren’t very good at being the prey. The thought of what my dad had encountered up there terrified me. If I was brutally honest with myself, I knew the odds were against him surviving very long, but part of me was unwilling to give up the hope that he was out there somewhere. So while I waited underground, desperate for answers, I researched the creatures that made the topside world so deadly.

I opened my journal to the beginning and glanced at my early sketches. I couldn’t help but notice that my drawing skills had really improved. The first dinosaur I’d drawn was weirdly disproportional, and a little froglike. The compound buzzer sounded, and I jumped guiltily. School, I’d forgotten all about school. I ran a hand through my disheveled curls, making them stand up and frizz out alarmingly. I was still wearing my grimy coveralls from the night before, and I looked awful and smelled worse. A shower was not optional this morning. Grabbing my towel, I threw open my door, and yelped in surprise to find Shawn standing there, his hand poised to knock.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, putting my hand to my pounding heart.

“Hello to you too,” Shawn said. He looked me up and down, an eyebrow raised. “Although I have to admit, you’ve looked better. Trying out a new unshowered crazy person look I should know about?” “I was just heading to the shower,” I said.

“I thought you said that you needed my help?” He glanced up and down the tunnel to make sure it was clear and then leaned in conspiratorially. “A certain scan plug you wanted looked at?” “Right!” I said, feeling excitement bubble up in my chest. “Did you bring it with you?”

Shawn nodded and came inside holding up the port screen. Unlike our standard-issue port screen, his was one of the bigger, older models that had been retired years ago. I jumped on my bed to retrieve the scan plug, but no sooner had I unscrewed my light than it flickered and died. Sending us into darkness.

“Not again,” I groaned, reaching for the flashlight by my bed.

Shawn glanced up at my light and shrugged. “It’s probably just one of the wires coming loose. It wasn’t really meant to have someone pulling it out of the ceiling every day.” “Says the boy who showed me how to do it,” I said, feeling indignant.

“That wasn’t my point,” Shawn said, climbing on my bed to remove the metal panel on the side of the light. “All I’m saying is that none of the compound systems was built to last as long as they have. It’s really pretty impressive when you think about it.” “What I don’t get,” I grumbled, interrupting him before he could get any momentum in his admiration of the Noah’s ingenuity in shared resources or compound sustainability, two of his favorite topics, “is how we get new port screens and holoscreens every few years, but we can’t get new lights?” “Well,” Shawn said, inspecting the guts of the light, “our government values port screens and holoscreens. They are small, and West Compound has the equipment to manufacture them. The Noah’s plane can deliver them. They are what you call portable.” He began pawing through the inside of the light, twisting here and tightening there. “Industrial-sized lights,” he went on, “aren’t exactly portable. And since updating them isn’t vital to our survival, no one is spending precious time and energy making new ones.” He was right. I hated the technology disconnect in North Compound. So many of the things we used were just patched-up versions of what the original survivors had brought with them.

Shawn twisted something inside the light, and it flashed back to life. Grinning broadly, he jumped off my bed and took the massive port screen from my hand. Shawn had found it during one of his work details sorting for recyclable materials in the compound’s trash heap and, after months of work and scavenging parts, had managed to get it up and running. I hadn’t really understood the point when we each had working ports, but I’d quickly changed my tune when I realized that, unlike our ports, his was off the grid.

I handed the scan plug to Shawn.

“Can you get it uploaded while I shower?” I asked.

He grunted absentmindedly, perching on my bed to tap at the screen. Shawn loved these behind-the-scenes glimpses of the inner working of the compounds, the coming and going of supplies, the nitty-gritty details that went into keeping the remains of the human race alive. After I’d had a chance to look it over for any information about my dad, he would spend days poring through the files. I could picture him as a top compound official someday, or maybe even the Noah. The thought filled me with pride.

Trying not to get my hopes up, I grabbed my towel and dashed out the door for the bathroom. Three minutes later I was back, and I found Shawn frowning at the screen of his makeshift port.

“Anything good?” I asked, plopping down beside him. I ran my fingers through my wet curls, and he made a face at me as the motion sent droplets of water over his screen. He gingerly wiped them away with his sleeve.

“Maybe,” he said. “It looks like we’re going to have a mandatory assembly in a couple days. Something about the compound entrances.” I waved my hand impatiently. “I meant anything about my dad.”

“Nope,” Shawn said.

I sagged in disappointment. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he nodded, shutting down the port. He glanced at me, taking in the disappointment on my face, and frowned. “Don’t look so down,” he said.

“But I am,” I whined, flopping backward on the bed to stare glumly at the ceiling. “It’s been five years. I’m never going to know what happened to him. He left me a stupid blank journal and a stupid broken compass, and I was stupid for thinking I could find out anything from the compound’s stupid information boxes.” “That’s a whole lot of stupid you’re slinging around,” Shawn quipped.

“I feel like a whole lot of stupid.”

Shawn reached over to snatch my journal off my bed. He opened it and paged through as I stared moodily at my ceiling. My rusted light still hung garishly from it, like an eyeball flopped loose from its socket. Shawn had known about my journal for years. I’d thought my journal was so special, but he’d informed me that most people in the compound owned at least one thing. He had his recycled port and an old music box from his mom, and I’d been shocked to hear that even his aunt had a silver wristwatch. I guess it was human nature to want something to be yours and no one else’s. When I finally sat up and peered over Shawn’s shoulder, he was looking at a drawing of Stegosaurus I’d done a few weeks ago. It was one of my better drawings. I’d even drawn a person standing next to it for scale.

“Is that me?” Shawn asked, pointing at the tiny figure.

“No,” I said, but then I paused. There was something about the nonchalant way the figure was standing, with the shaggy hair and arm positioning that was vaguely Shawn.

“Oh,” Shawn said. “It looked a little like me.”

“I should just throw it away,” I groaned, collapsing back on my bed.

“Let me guess.” Shawn laughed. “Because it’s stupid?”

“Yes,” I frowned, as the bell rang, signaling we needed to be on our way to school.

“Well,” Shawn said, “let’s get going to that stupid school of ours.”

“You aren’t funny,” I grumbled.

He stuffed my journal, the scan plug, and the flashlight back into their hiding spot before screwing the light back in place. “I am, actually,” he countered. “You’re just in a bad mood.” “You can say that again.” I sighed as I followed him out the door for another day in North Compound.