Surviving Patorum

Chapter 1

I'm a fucking idiot.

I'm never going to ace this algebra test and finish my last year of school with good grades, and it's inevitable; I'm always going to be a Grub.

I throw my HoloTablet onto the tattered couch next to me. My hands reach up through my hair to rub at my throbbing headache.

What's even the point? People in the compound follow in their parent's footsteps, and I'm going to wash dishes for the rest of my life like my mother.

Grubs are the people here that do everything that matters. They're the cooks, the mechanics, the toilet scrubbers, and the people who care for all the Richling's ridiculous needs. We didn't give ourselves this name. If I were to name us, it would be something like the People Who Get Shit Done or the People Who Deserve to Be Here the Most. The Richlings started calling us Grubs when we ran out of food one harvest, and they served us bugs and animal food. The name stuck.

I know. Richling isn't the most appealing name either. Over the years, the Grubs decided the name was appropriate since the Richlings came to this compound entitled and, as we say, free from sin. By free from sin, I don't mean a priest blessed them. I mean free from poverty. They used their enormous inheritances, laundered cash, or drug money to buy a ticket and save themselves from the great nuclear war, or so we call it, Patorum. Deprivation before the war condemned you in the compound. Everything here is a ranking system, and I'm at the dead bottom. Of course, the highest-ranked person is the Founder, who built this place. Then comes the people who either gave the Founder a handsome donation when making the compound or paid an ungodly amount of money for tickets. The soldiers and guards are next in rank. They help keep the peace, so they say and expect everyone to believe. They're here to keep the Grubs from rioting when another person dies of starvation. The people in the middle of our system are intelligent and mostly come from college-educated careers. The scientists, engineers, and politicians are the select few who are using their time to try and make life easier and figure out if it's safe to go outside. They are looked at as Richlings since their jobs are the most important. Then comes the Grubs. Dead last. The people who do the most work for the least amount of food ration credits. I wasn't even poor before the war; my family was in the middle class. But down here, that doesn't matter.

Richlings live in luxurious penthouses at the bottom of the compound. Of course, they are the furthest away from the nuclear blasts, and toxic gas running ramped outside. I've heard the penthouses are ridiculous, dressed to the nines with elegant furniture and the latest technology. Although, I remember Mr. Alan Cambridge, the old governor of New Mexico, was dissatisfied with his living quarters and asked for a hot tub to be put in. It's all he talks about now. If that doesn't show you the type of people I'm living with, I don't know what will.

The Grubs have small living quarters with one bedroom and a small bathroom. It doesn't matter how big the family is. You could have five kids, and all must share the two twin beds in the bedroom and the small loveseat in the living area. Though, I don't think there's a family here with five children since the limit is two. I know I should be thankful I get my own space. We could have been smashed into a big room with bunk beds as far as the eye could see. But I digress.

I stand up and walk over to the kitchenette on the other side of the cramped living space. I grab the glass of water I poured before starting my homework and sip on it. I find myself staring at the picture taped to my rusted refrigerator again. It's a photograph of my family a couple of years before the war. I was about ten years old, and I had just won my first baseball game. I wore my red uniform in the picture and had my favorite Louisville Slugger baseball bat my father bought me gripped in my hands. My mother and father are standing next to me with their arms wrapped around my shoulders. My mother wore a pink floral dress, which she always wore in the spring. Her curly brown hair is twisted up in a claw clip. My father has the happiest smile on his face. He had on my team's baseball cap, the same one I was wearing.