Mini Brain Dumps

This is the beginning of my current work in progress. It is a dystopian sci-fi story set hundreds of years after a nuclear apocalypse forced humanity underground.

In Chapter One, we meet Laura, a teenager born in a place called Sanctum-1 — also known as Ashfall Haven — where generations have lived beneath the Earth, waiting for the surface to become livable again.

Here’s where it begins.

Chapter 1:

The first time the world ended was in water.

Oceans swelled like lungs gasping for air, the horizon blurred into an endless expanse of blue and darker blue, cities were forever lost to the depths.

Maybe you’ve heard of it? The Bible tells the story of Noah and the Ark, Mesopotamian history refers to the Epic of Gilgamesh, or in Hinduism there is the Matsya Avatar. In Greek mythology there is the story of Deucalion and Pyrrha. The Maori Flood. The Yoruba Flood.

You might be thinking, “But, Laura, these events are isolated to the eastern side of the planet.”

True.

Let me introduce you then to the Hopi Flood of North America. The Cree Flood in what used to be known as the Southern United States.

Once? A tragedy. Twice? A coincidence. But half a dozen references minimum over various histories, religions and cultures? Now that’s a bit harder to ignore.

Lucky for you though, we’re not here to talk about the first time the world ended. No. We’re here to talk about the second.

According to my great, great – way too many times to repeat – “great” grandmother, the second time the world ended was in a great fire. And, similar to the first time, the end was predicted long before it happened.

In Norse mythology this ending is known as Ragnarok. Hinduism called it Kali Yuga, Judaism the End Times. I guess you can throw in the Mayan Prophecy (although we all know that was wrong).

What’s in common, you ask? Well, let me tell you.

The world reduced to chaos. Complete societal collapse.

The first time the world ended it was said to be some divine intervention. The second, though, wasn’t divine. Just human.

In 2100, the fourth Cold War between the Atlantic States and The Slavic Federation began. Political powers postured with nuclear weaponry. This time, the bombs dropped. A catalyst of mass destruction. Proof that hell truly was hot.

Countries began bombing their rivals, each fearing that the other would strike first. It was a game of destroy or be destroyed.

The citizens bore the brunt of the destruction while those behind mahogany desks watched as each country blinked out of existence. They believed themselves to be the gods of this Earth. And we were just ants beneath their feet.

But they weren’t. Not really. And the real gods were not happy.

Those same bombs soon turned back on their masters. Grins gave way to wide-eyed terror. The steepled fingers vanished. Ashes scattered to the wind.

Gone was civilization.

Or, at least, that’s what everyone thought.

Little did they know, a sanctuary had been built thousands of feet beneath the Earth’s crust – Sanctum-1. Or, as we call it, Ashfall Haven.

We are humanity’s last hope.

Ashfall Haven was commissioned under the guise of a geological research facility, a collaboration between the remnants of old superpowers. But it had never been about science. Only about survival. For the chosen few.

They selected the brightest minds, the strongest bodies, the best of the best.

And the rest were left to choke on the pride of those who represented them.

I was born here. Underground. I will never feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, the real sun, not the simulated version that lives on screens and in the lights down here. The closest I’ll ever get is reading the descriptions of how it feels in my favourite books.

This is my life sentence.

Confined to the walls of this hell haven.

My way-too-many-greats-grandmother was so hopeful, and full of life. At least, that’s what I imagine when I read her small, neat and bubbly handwriting. Her family was poor, yet she managed to secure the continuance of her line because of it.

According to her journal, she was at the right place at the right time. When a spot was offered, as a lowly kitchen staff, she jumped at the opportunity. And thus, sentenced those of her family for the next 500 years to this metal prison.

It was a chance to live I guess. My mother always says that I was one of the “lucky ones.”

Lucky to breathe filtered air. Lucky to drink recycled water. Lucky…lucky…lucky…

And I would guess that my way-too-many-greats-grandmother would feel the same way.

But, this doesn’t feel like luck. It feels like a cage. A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.

Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better for the Garcia’s line to have ended topsoil rather than be trapped down here. But such thoughts are dangerous. Many people had been hung in Center Square because of what they called “treachery to the creator”, every rebellion quickly squashed, and always with bloodshed. A lot of it.

We studied the rebels in history class, a reminder that life is precious and to be valued, that survival of the human race is not without sacrifices.

Of course, my way-too-many-greats–grandmother didn’t know what she was signing us all up for – generations of oppression and exploitation. But I’m alive today because of her. And for that I should be grateful… I guess.

Here, deep underground, life continues. And we hold onto the hope that one day, our descendants will feel the warmth of the sun kiss their cheeks once more. That the human race will survive now, so they can live later.

I’m the nineteenth generation born underground. Born late enough that I can almost taste the freedom, but too early to ever see it for myself.

A hundred years… that’s all that stands between me and the outside world. A world that humanity has been dreaming of since the day the bunker doors were sealed. One that my children will see when they’re old and grey.

Perhaps their last breaths will be that of the unpoisoned atmosphere instead of the stale recycled air that mine will be.

At least, that’s all I can hope for.

It’s not like living in our bunker is that terrible.

We have indoor parks with real grass and trees, a walking track made of dirt, lights that emulate the sun, and screens that surround the place and are meant to simulate the “outdoor experience”. A way for the Creator, the leader of Ashfall Haven, to show us what our future would look like. To give us hope.

My family lives on the lower decks of the facility in a series of hallways crammed full of rooms that houses the blue collared workers of the bunker, lovingly named the Bunks. Our “apartment” consists of one large room and a bathroom with two room dividers that were used to create two bedrooms and a living area. To say it was cozy was an understatement.

My dad works in the water and sewage treatment facility. And ever since I can remember I’ve helped my mother in the kitchen. Typically, I was responsible for cutting vegetables or washing dishes. Sometimes, I would get to stir the soup. And when the breakfast rush was over, I would shove as much food into my face as I possibly could before running to my lessons for the day. When lessons ended, it was back to the kitchen.

Being younger, I wasn’t responsible to work the lunch rush because of school. It was nice to be a normal kid, at least for those six hours of the day. After classes were over though, it was a rush to the kitchen to prepare for supper. Most of the days I collapsed onto my bed and fell asleep the minute my eyes hit the pillow because of how exhausting it was.

Everyday the same routine, the same song and dance.

Except for Sundays, the one day of the week that I get off to enjoy myself.

On those days I remain in bed, tangled in my cocoon of blankets and sleep in. Then I usually catch up on homework before spending some time with my friends or volunteering my time in the science labs. Assignments are coming up and the extra time in the lab would do well to ensure I received a good placement. Not that it will make much of a difference being that I’m a part of the working class, the best I could ever hope for would be an administrative position, but maybe I would be able to move up a little in our social pyramid.

Anything would be better than garbage duty.

Sometimes I wish to be a part of the main floor facilities where many of the middle class resided. Their apartments were so much nicer. Each person had their own bedroom, a luxury in and of itself. The living rooms had windows that looked over the green areas. And they could afford to have simple luxuries – like books, or music players, some even had a tv if they were lucky.

But the upper deck was where everyone really wanted to be. Their apartments were bigger than I could even imagine, with the Creator’s room taking up the entire top floor. Each of the upper’s had a balcony that overlooked the entire vault. They had rooms that were bigger than my entire apartment.

In comparison, it looked like we lived in a shoebox.

Unfortunately, I will never see one of those rooms. But if I worked hard, and got a good assignment, eventually I may make it to the main floor. Even if it was the smallest house, I would be happy. Anything was better than the basement hallway.

But everyone knew the importance of the assignments, those of the Bunks more than any.

For years, I had tried everything I could to try to stand out. I poured over my studies, managing to scrape by with the best grades in my class despite Maie Keiffer’s, my academic rival’s, displeasure. I made sure to greet my professors when I served them food at the cafeteria, or when I saw them in the halls. It was my hope that my work in the science lab would convince the Dean, Mr. Mackwell, to place me there. Maybe it would be the deciding factor. It was a longshot, but a risk I was willing to take.

Besides, I liked the science lab, so it really didn’t feel like work to be there.

The only thing standing between Assignment Day, graduation, and me – Pre-Placement week.

Pre-Placements were nice… in theory. You get the opportunity to try out a randomly selected job, a taste of the real world prior to graduation. Your performance was graded by your supervisor for the week and if you did good then you were a shoo in for a good placement. If you did bad…

The uppers never had to participate unless they wanted to – most didn’t. Their places in society had been solidified the minute they breathed their first breaths. They were the real lucky ones.

But the main floor and us basement dwellers were required to. Maybe I’ll get drawn for a data entry clerk, or an inventory control clerk, or maybe the mailroom. My dream would be to become a lab assistant.

But it really came down to luck of the draw.

Huh? Looks like the old world found a way to survive the apocalypse too.

Your Thoughts Matter!

Thank you for taking the time to read my novel and I can’t wait to hear from you!

If you have any thoughts on this chapter I would love to hear them. Put them in the comments below!🙂