The Open Book Collection

The Ones Remaining

The thick fabric of my bodysuit rubs up against the sleek stone wall, leaving a trail of Outside dirt wherever I go. The door to Dad's secret study is right in front of me, but I hesitate to go in. Maybe it's because of the peace that comes when I'm alone—something that never happens—or maybe being covered in something from the Outside is affecting my mind in some sentimental way.

You're just hungry.

I roll my eyes, imagining that they could travel far back enough in my head for Passion, my inner voice, to see them and realize that not everything is about food.

How could you say that! You made more sense four years ago whenever we first met.

I was twelve, Pas.

So?

I can't help but smile at the voice in my head. Pas is an AI microchip with programed media and information from before the Apocalypse. Mom gave it to me on the day before my twelfth birthday, saying that I should have someone my age to celebrate with. At first I felt frightened of it, but as I began to discover all that Pas had to offer, we became close friends. As close as friends that a girl could be with a minuscule robot.

Enough flashbacks. Your dad is waiting for you.

Right. Focus. I ask Pas to play music as I open Dad's door. His study reminds me of the stone I'm in. Expressionless metal, glass and temperate stone are organized onto tables, cases, and neatly stacked papers.

"Dad, are you there?"

"In the back!"

I begin to trek to the back of the lab, careful to not smudge dirt on anything. I take notice of the things from the Outside that I've brought in before: a jar of dirt with a thin, pink stem growing out of it; a strip of green bark; white sand; a shard of glass.

When I finish my trek across the lab, I finally begin to unzip my body suit. The material is for my safety, but it's heavy. I tap my foot on the ground as the suit slides off me.

A square of false flooring swings up, and my dad's face pops out from it.

"No one saw you, right?" he asks.

"Right."

He nods, gray eyes traveling to my discarded suit, still stained with dirt. "What happened?"

"I tripped and fell," I tell him.

Lies, Pas says.

I grin. I did see a marvel, all right. Animals. I was bending to collect a dirt sample when these beautiful, tiny blue birds zipped in front of me. The force of their wings was strong enough to knock me back. It was amazing. In all of my years, I've never seen any moving, breathing thing than humans.

"Are you hurt?" Dad asks.

I shake my head. "No."

He mutters something under his breath before thanking me and closing the hatch to his even more private private study.

So, what do we do now? Pas asks.

How would you feel watching over another dream? I ask. I'm wasted.

:|:|:

I dream about the Apocalypse.

I've been taught about it since I was little. Everyone has. It's been explained in so many ways, it feels like I was alive during that time. But few were even born then.

A generation ago, the world was on the verge of self-destruction. People were mistreating the land, poisoning waters, tainting the air so bad that clean lungs weren't an option. The official power hungry and wanted more. This started wars of all kinds. Chaos ruled.

But from the mayhem, groups of people from all over the world—people who were aware of the damage being done to the planet—took it upon themselves to inform others of their activity, and try to stop it. They were everyday, ordinary people that wanted to make a change.

However, speaking out didn't garner enough attention. People wanted something interesting, not news of do-gooders clogging up the streets. Eventually, the groups—roughly a million worldwide under the title of the Activists—started to use different measures to get their points across. Violence became the tool they used to amplify their voice.

It worked. In a decade, Activists became known as terrorists. They were seen as dangerous, poison.

Not all of them were bad. There were people like Mom and Dad who were real activists. People who stuck to peaceful protests and silent awareness.

Then a section of Earth's ozone layer wore through. The gap was opened over Southern Asia, spread 1,400 miles, killing 2.7 million people. It was then that the proper Activists did something: installed an artificial barrier over Earth. It took years to finish, during which more of the planet lost its layers. But all that mattered was that the project gave hope.

False hope.

Nobody knew what happened. The effect of "Earth's savior" destroyed a good part of the remaining layer that saved humans and every other creature from extinction. Billions died, leaving two percent of the worldwide population alive.

By that time, my grandparents and 150 select thinkers were chosen to live in a system of underground caves accommodated for this situation. Here, they gave birth to a new generation. My father's parents had my dad in their late thirties. He met my mom when he was 11 and she 18. They had me at 19 and 25, earlier than usual, which is why I'm older than the few kids here.

It's been like that ever since.

:|:|:

I take a breath, eyes spreading around the big white room that acts as a giant bedroom. Now's one of the rare times that it'd entirely empty. I'm thankful for the peace.

At least kids aren't here.

I agree. Though I do love them. It would be hard not to. It's just us here, and we only have each other. Disliking someone is useless. And it's not like we have a choice.

Besides, what's the point in hurting each other? All of us are already in pain. I'm unsure about the others, but it hurts that that I'll never go outside by myself, that the only one my age is Pas, that I'm doomed here forever.

It hurts that we're the ones remaining.