Chapter 1

 

   At 5 am exactly, the central alarm goes off. It is signaling that it is time to wake up. With an audible grunt I roll over to view the electric message board that hangs high on the left wall of my room.

  Good Morning Kyla. Breakfast will be served in the Main Room today.

 

I rub the sleep from my eyes and look up to the board again, the message hasn't changed.

Breakfast in the Main Room?  That is odd.

 We had never eaten breakfast anywhere besides the Commissary. I wasn't about to object to the idea though; a bit of change would be nice for once.

 I quickly get out of bed and shuffle over to the left side of the room where my clothing compartment is, flush and decoratively seamless; the walls are long, dull blocks of smooth titanium.  I push the blue button once and the top drawer glides open without any sound; smooth and cold to the touch. Then the second drawer opens, and the third. I look into the first drawer, crinkling my nose at my brown shaded clothing. It is always the same, never any vibrant colors. Like the color of the grass I remember seeing, in my life before Camp Arc; or the color of the sky when the dark clouds have cleared after a storm. I remember it to be an amazing blue. The Guardians say that brown is a neutral tone and that it is easier to come by than any of the other colors on the spectrum, these days.

I grab one item out of each drawer and push the blue button again before getting dressed. I make my way to the bathroom to comb my hair and wash my face.  I remember my Mother telling me that at one time everyone had a mirror in their bathroom in which they could see themselves. The Warden thought that having mirrors promoted petty vanity and that they were no longer needed in our society. I sometimes wish that I could look into a mirror just once, just to see my face, to see how much I had changed over the 10 years that I had been here. While running the comb through my long brown hair, I touch my fingers to my face. Eyes… nose… mouth…cheeks; they all seem to be in order I suppose.  I sometimes catch a glimpse of myself in a water bucket inside the garden, or upon a shiny surface in the Commissary. I wouldn’t dare take more than that short contemplation, as to avoid the attention of The Guardians. But I had happened to notice a pretty shade of the color of grass in my eyes.  Green. 

Somehow knowing this made me feel better about having to wear brown every day.  I splashed cold water over my face, dried it with the brown towel that hung next to the sink; which was also some sort of dull metal, as was the rest of my equally boring wash room, and I quickly make my way to the door.

The hallway is alive with giddy whispers. Everyone seems to be excited about eating in the Main Room this morning. I spot Olivia making her way to the line-up and I hurry after her.

  “Can you believe it? Breakfast in the Main Room! What do you think is going on?” Her sooty blue eyes show a bit of apprehension, but the sheer excitement practically bubbling out of her almost completely masks it.

 “It is rather strange isn’t it? Perhaps there is something wrong with the Commissary.” I offer, but it is obvious that Olivia’s concerns have melted as The Guardians allow us to enter the room.

 All of the colors that I have longed to wear over the past few weeks are splashed all about the room.  Balloons of bright Blue, Green, Purple, Red, Orange and Yellow flood the ceiling, creating a sea of intensity that I have never seen before. There are long, black tables all about the room full of portioned breakfast foods. The smells aren’t exactly mouthwatering, but they make my tummy grumble none the less. The walls are littered with decorations that I had only heard about from stories my Father had told me again and again, from times when I was little. Of course, in the stories, my birthday parties had much more elaborate and luxurious embellishments. But somehow the twisted colors draped across lousy metal walls made this room look fabulous! A word that I kinda stole from George, My Father’s assistant. He used it a lot when describing the outfits from his old life in great detail. I have never heard someone talk about their old life as much as George did. It sadly did not last long. He soon learned his lesson and kept conversation light. After all, talking and thinking about the past only leads to anger and depression, it is best to look forward �" as is said by The Warden himself.  Finally, on the farthest wall of the room, there hangs a white banner with violet lettering that reads

Welcome Home

 My Mother and Father are making their way towards me from behind the long tables.

 “What’s going on?” I ask my Mother when she gets close enough to hear me. She puts her arm around me and smiles widely, her brown eyes full of wonder.

 “We have new comers!” She exclaims, “They will be here within the hour!”

I look to my Father, whose face is not as animated as my Mother’s. In fact, he looks disappointed. Over the past few years I have noticed my Father growing more and more discontent.  With each passing day his beautiful grey eyes seem to dim, sometimes looking as black as his ever young onyx hair in the right lighting.

  “New Comers?” I whisper, almost only loud enough for myself to hear. “We have never had new people come to Camp Arc.”

My Father swipes his hand through his unusually long hair and slowly moves closer to me, casually looking around the room to see if anyone is currently taking notice of us.

 “They are coming from a different camp. Camp Muse.” He finally says. “It was destroyed by the rebels.” The quiet and purposeful way that his mouth forms this word Rebel makes it seem like it is sour on his tongue.  “The ones who survived the attack are taking refuge here for now. I guess they want them to feel welcome.” He mumbles the last sentence, motioning towards the truly inviting room.

  

   After a while, the room is abuzz with the news. We all stand in line to receive our breakfast, which surprisingly includes pancakes, a treat I haven’t had since I was a little girl. Despite the million questions that flood my mind about the new comers, I can’t wait to meet them. I am almost as excited to sit down with friends and family to enjoy a rare meal in this sporadic, but beautifully lavish setting.

 

 They come in vehicles that we call Globals. According to Father they look like buses, but the body has been replaced with a bullet proof metal enclosure, painted entirely black, with no significant detail at all. There is no way to see out or see into them. There are no windows. They are remotely controlled from camp to camp. When they arrive, the Globals are guided  into the sterilizing facility. All persons are to receive full check-ups and are to be fully decontaminated.  

 “What is taking them so long?” Olivia whines, her fingers tapping incessantly against the table. Our breakfast plates sit empty in front of us, our stomachs comfortably full, while our minds race with thoughts of what they will be like.

 “The decontamination process takes a while, they should be almost finished.” My Mother says, standing up from the table with her dishes in hand.  She motions for me to follow her. Grabbing my plate, I stand up and make my way to the kitchen where the large dishwasher is already humming, cleaning the first batch of dirty dishware. My Mother places her stack of dishes next to the machine and turns to face me. Her wavy light brown hair is starting to grey at the roots around her temples; her smiling eyes and mouth have left slight traces upon her skin that seem to tell the story of her life. It makes me happy to know that she had smiled and laughed so much.

 “Now, I am relying on you to set a good example for the new comers, they may be frightened and confused after their ordeal.” She says, barely above a whisper. “As you know they won’t be able to talk about the incident, but they will need friends who are calm and understanding to help them come to terms with it all.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “I know that you can handle it.”

Can I? I don’t recall anything about loss and I don’t remember much about fear at all.

 “Okay Mom.” I answer. I don’t want to disappoint her by telling her that I have no idea how to help these people. She smiles her warm smile and the laugh lines around her mouth deepen slightly. She is such a beautiful woman; age has had no real effect on that at all. 

 “Here they are!” She exclaims, her eyes fixing on a place over my head. I turn in time to see new faces emerging through the door way. They all look tired and there is a strange expression on some of them that I do not fully recognize. That must be what fear looks like

I see Olivia rushing over to greet them, her curly red hair bouncing after her.

  “Hello! I am Olivia! Welcome to our camp! We have breakfast over here…” Her buoyant voice trails off in my mind as my eyes find the most beautiful face I have ever seen. He is tall; taller than the other boys who are slowly trickling in after. His eyes are sky blue with a soft lashed, almond shape. His hair is longer than the average buzz cut that I am used to seeing and is a lovely shade of brown, not like the neutral shade of brown that we wear every day.

I realize I am staring when his eyes meet mine; the intensity of them takes me by surprise. There is such a brilliant glow to them! I have never seen anything like it before! It is as if his eyes have been lit with fire, a blazing white heat that seems to instantly melt my heart. Although I can see sadness in them, they smile right along with his lips and I almost forget to smile back. Before I can make my way towards him to learn his name, two Guardians walk into the room; standing out in their thigh-long white coats. Silver buttons line the front, down to their perfectly clean, perfectly straight white pants. On their heads sit funny little white hats that also boast bright silver lines, tying the whole boring outfit together.

“Attention, please! We realize that today’s events have put us off schedule. We also realize that the arrival of new comers has changed the focus of the day, but we do need to stay on track and move on to our daily duties. Please line-up for the head count so we can get you going to your stations. New comers, please enjoy some breakfast, we will assign your rooms in just a moment. You will begin work tomorrow.”

The excitement of the morning quickly dissipates as we all shuffle into line. The Guardians punch numbers onto their hand-held electronic screens and one by one we are allowed to leave the room. Once in the hallway I allow my thoughts to return to the boy with the blazing blue eyes and the sadness they hold.

What had the Rebels done to them? Why did they attack them?

I wouldn’t dare ask these questions out loud. The Warden does not like such questions circling the Arc to create fear and panic amongst the people.

 “There is no need to fear anything.” He says. “You need not know about the awful things that happen out there, while you are safe in here.” 

  My Father’s vocation became permanent some time ago. He is the Warden’s emissary, his right hand man, and he is good at it. When he got the job I remember him being elated, feeling that he had achieved something great within Camp Arc. But now things are different.

  “There are so many things that we don’t know, that you wouldn’t understand Kyla.” He tells me after long days at the Warden’s side.

“I don’t even understand them myself.”

It wasn’t long after this that the light in his eyes had begun to die.

 He tells Mother and I things, things we should not know; secrets that we cannot share with anyone. I knew when he told me about the rebels’ attack that it was something that I had to keep to myself. These are the kinds of things that we do not talk about in Camp Arc. At one point, my Father took pride in following the rules, being the prime example of good behavior, but something changed him, something that he refuses to share with anyone. He keeps that secret to himself.

 

  I reach the greenhouse and I am hit with strong aromas that instantly clear my racing mind. I love working in the garden. It holds a certain kind of peace that cannot be imitated anywhere else within the walls of the Arc. To my left, I see the longest part of the room. It leads in wards, bearing row upon row of large, white tubes with open faces. We call them Hydro Pods. These tubes hold Light- Emitting Diodes that help the plants grow without the natural light of the sun. I try, but for the life of me I cannot remember the sun’s naked, warm rays.

  Herbs and vegetables like carrots and broccoli take up most of the rows to my left; while fruits like strawberries and blueberries bush out of wider tubes to the right of them. In the front two rows,  Gardenias, Tulips and Sunflowers fill the white tubes. These flowers are the Warden’s favorite. He keeps them all to himself.  If I had never had the chance to work in the garden, I would never see these flowers, or any flowers for that matter. One of the Guardians, Laura, told me that flowers used to grow wild all about the country side, but after the radiation incident, the only flowers that grew now were the very few that we had left in several camp gardens.

How wonderful would it be to be exploring and come across flowers upon a hill? Wild.

Free to grow where ever they wish? Free for everyone to look upon and smell. I smile at this thought.

Freedom.

 

  After three hours of garden work, I am off to my next station. The next two hours of my day are usually the very worst. Sitting at a long, white table with a group of ten other people in a very brightly lit room, mixing various chemicals together and pouring them into designated jars marked O Aqueous or Z Condus… the names varying day by day. We are not allowed to talk. This job requires our full attention; a screw up here is probably one of the worst things you can do in Camp Arc. It came with severe discipline. I couldn’t tell you what kind of discipline, those who have been disciplined do not talk about it; but I can see it in the eyes of those who return from such a session. I can almost read it on their face…Pain.

 

 

 

   I may not understand the feelings of loss and I may not remember fear… but I understand pain. Well, physical pain, at least. I remember the feeling from a time before the Arc. The memory of how it happened is long gone, but the feeling is something I will never forget.

With the refreshed sensation of pain replaying in my mind, another creepy sensation begins to rise in the pit of my stomach….

Is that you fear?

Author's Note

Very rough draft and rough concept as I may change the setting...haven't decided yet.