Pure Sanitation: The Duneworth Collectors

­CHAPTER 1

"Ava did you hear that? I heard something." Carey's croaky voice startled me awake.

"What? No," I said quickly while trying to wake myself up. I blinked in an attempt to let my eyes settle in the darkness.

She made an unintelligible noise and was soon back asleep.

My heart was pounding in my chest as hot fear pumped its way throughout my entire body, jolting me. I took a long, winded breath to wash away the last of my nightmares. I'd fallen asleep on the floor alongside the wall. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I glanced around the room. It had grown quite dark, casting black silhouettes of the few articles of furniture that Carey had in her room. A mattress lied on the floor in the corner and I could see the steady rise and fall of Carey's chest as she, too, was consumed in a slumber that was long overdue. I stifled a yawn as I gathered myself to my feet as quietly as I could manage. One of us had to stay awake, and it was Carey's turn to sleep.

I cracked open her bedroom door and peered into the hallway. It was almost as dark as Carey's bedroom, but provided enough light that I could make my way down the hallway toward the living room. Familiar framed pictures hung daintily on the walls, highlighting cherished family memories. There was a large one that sat in the middle of the wall, a family portrait of Carey and her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Lorrest smiled, genuine and knowing, as they stood behind a young five-year-old Carey. She smiled the way most children do, unprepared and plastic like. Her parents had been so proud of that portrait, so proud of their only daughter.

Toward the end of the hallway was another photo, one that I had always been fond of. The very image used to sit in my home as well. Even through the darkness, I could make out the figures and the poses they were holding. There in the photo was our two families back when our parents took us to the Belleview City Fair when we were six-years-old.

Carey stood in front of her parents as I did the same with mine. Our fathers flanked our mothers, who stood side by side in between them. Carey and I had talked our parents into letting us participate in a pie eating contest. The odds of us actually winning were slim to none, but we wanted something to do together. As our parents stood on the sidelines, they cheered and whistled with excitement. When it was over, our mouths were coated with cherry-pie filling. One of the fair photographers happened to be nearby and offered to take our photo. We each took home copies and the pie eating competition became a sort of tradition for the next three years until we were nine-years-old. Until my parents were taken from me.

It has been six years since then, my fifteenth birthday having just passed. The ache that surrounded my heart squeezed, leaving a tightness in my chest at the thought of my lost parents. The horrors of that time still haunted me to this day. I was young, but the details I'd captured then remained with me still. The photos image began to blur as I sunk back into the memory of the news blaring from the living room. BREAKING NEWS flashed at the bottom of the screen. The news anchor tried to hold his nerve as he delivered the grim information. My parents sat on the couch, captivated.

The anchorman swallowed hard, his forehead beginning to glisten with sweat. "The toxic nuclear fumes from the east have officially crossed into United States airspace, hitting the east coast hard. Although there have been no signs of the need to quarantine, scientists are baffled by the effects the contaminated air has taken with the natural stability of our planet."

The anchor disappeared as footage began to stream. It showed trees with their tips tinged and stained a powdery purple. There was a panoramic shot of the sky, transitioning from its familiar sky blue to a hazy powdery pink. Further in the distance, it turned from pink to a deeper red. Confused at what I was seeing, I turned to look at my mother whose hand now covered her mouth in shock. My father bounced his knee, a typical habit he practiced when deep in thought. They seemed to notice my presence the instant I turned my head. They both moved for me, but my mother was quicker.