The Luminosity Series (Book 1): Luminosity Read online

  Faraway, the familiar buzz of helicopters hummed through the air. But it didn’t alarm me anymore. Most days, I’d hear it at least a dozen times. The sound was a signal of our safety and protection. Comfort. Defense. Numbness.

  Now, the quartet of helicopters drifted in my direction, hovering in the sky. I stopped in my tracks before continuing, my eyes widening before scanning the area of places to hide. Getting caught trespassing along the trailside would result in insubordination. Too many violations, and I wouldn’t stand a chance at qualification. My odds were already slim enough.

  Avoiding the path, I darted toward the trees, ducking next to a nearby rock, praying that my darker clothes would camouflage me against the tall pines and aspens shadowing overhead. As the four of them passed, my hair whipped through the wind as they disappeared toward the fields. Catching my breath, the memory of Evan hit me as I stood up again. If he was still here, he’d either be a worker at the fields, or in uniform. I hoped for his sake it was the latter.

  6 THE REQUIREMENT

  After increased reports of skin damage earlier that summer, new radiation warnings were issued. Ordinances were now in place to limit our exposure to the sun’s harmful rays. We couldn’t be outside during peak daylight hours for over twenty minutes at a time without risk. The effects were permanent and in some cases, led to fever and severe illness. But the regulations weren’t strictly enforced, so many people ignored them. Fear could stop some in its tracks. Others would never let it stop them from stealing their time in the sun, not while they still had light to shine upon. But not everyone dismissed their prevention efforts. Civilian labor workers installed metal roofing panels, sun-guarding glass and giant overhead tarps to protect our city streets and buildings. Guards wore polarized goggles and specialized, ultraviolet resistant uniforms. It worked in their favor. It only made them appear more authoritative.

  The next morning, the aged American flag flapped violently in the wind above City Hall. Standing up out of the car, the torn appearance of it chilled me to the core. With military guards and police already waiting on the sidewalks, I deliberated how I would sneak past the protesters lurking in the shadows of the building. I swallowed before taking my first step. Protesters held up flags and cardboard signs that referenced government and constitution. For others, religion was a key influence in their decision to be there. Regardless of their expression, we all had one thing in common—our lives were being threatened. But as corrupt as it was within these borders, I knew it wouldn’t be any better on the outside.

  After enduring their shouts, I noticed the entire lobby area had been converted into a processing station. A long line stretched through the surrounding corridor. There had to be at least a hundred people waiting.

  I sighed impatiently as the line inched closer, revealing a bearded man at the clerk’s desk who appeared to be in distress. And before I could blink again, the entire line became witness to his outrage.

  “No, this can’t be right! I have two boys at home to support! This number has to be wrong! How in the hell do you expect me to feed them with this?” he screamed at the clerk in a loud crescendo, slapping the paper he had in his hand against the platform in front of him. I winced in surprise as his words pierced through the hallway of people like a domino effect. And without warning, the sound of a young child’s cries impaled me, setting off an eerie, nervous energy that trickled down my spine.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t make the rules. Someone will go over the DOA’s allowance standards with you in there. Now please find your seat in the waiting room,” the clerk snapped, pushing her glasses up her long nose. After glancing to her left, she gave him a stern look as he studied her answer through the protective glass window.

  “Next!” Her voice echoed through the lobby. The man pounded his fist into the window in an angry sulk before facing the line. I kept my eyes on the floor as he dawdled toward the exit doors, examining the faces in line. Not far ahead of me stood an older woman, pulling the whimpering child close beside her in protection. She shook her head, her scolding eyes stalking the man. That’s when his echoing footsteps stopped, and he turned around to confront her. With his uncontrollable temper, he leaned his face into hers.

  “What the hell are you shaking your head for? There aren’t enough resources to go around because they’re withholding them! My four year old died of pneumonia because I wasn’t given the proper dosage of medicine. You think your kid is safe? Just you wait.” He spit out his words with conviction and pointed a finger as tears formed in his eyes. My head snapped up in shock before armed police guards near the door flung toward him, pulling him away from the woman and her child. Everyone was silent with fear. The man put up a fight before tearing the number on his card to shreds, giving the guards one last hateful glance before accepting his circumstance. I swallowed, looking over my shoulder at him cautiously. The shouts outside amplified as the doors to the entrance opened. When they closed, the force of their slam created a bouncing shudder throughout the hallway, signaling he left. I let out a breath, but the relief of his absence didn’t ease my anxiety.

  “Hi. I need to get an updated citizen identification card and apply for labor duty,” I told the clerk as I approached, watching her grab a series of papers and a clipboard with a pen attached. Swallowing back my impatience, I tried not to be rude as the heavy presence of police guards appeared out of the corner of my eye.

  “And you brought two forms of identification, one being your social security card?” I nodded quickly. “Fill these sheets out from top to bottom. Please include any prescription drugs you are taking, and any other specialized needs or physical and mental disabilities you may have,” she instructed in a rehearsed, robotic body language.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “The waiting room is to your left. You will be called in in the order you arrived,” she said, sliding a card through the window slot.

  “Thanks,” I winced.

  “Next!” she yelled. I jumped before pivoting to face her again.

  “Can you give me an idea of how long the wait is?” She gave me a long stare before pointing to a sign on her desk that read “Current Wait Time: 90 Minutes.” Without hesitation, I ducked my head as I walked away in embarrassment.

  The halls were lit with dim lighting that cast shadows on the walls between doors. The air was heavy, like too many people had breathed within the building’s confinement. I swallowed back the nausea as I reached the end of the hallway. Two guards stood beside the rooms, glaring at me, contemplating whether to confront me for my indecisive manners, or allow me to figure it out on my own. On both sides of the hallway were separate waiting areas, each filled with the wailing of children’s cries. Uncertain of which one to choose, I stopped.

  “Over here, miss,” said one guard, reaching out his finger to point to my right. I didn’t even have to look to know how crowded it was, but I turned my head anyway.

  In a windowless room sat dozens of people with tired, worried faces. Many were homeless parents, sitting on the filth-covered floor with their restless children. Their young eyes observed their surroundings, ignorant to the crisis at hand. Suddenly, the thick air was more prevalent now.

  “Find a seat, ma’am. It’ll be awhile,” the guard ordered. I winced, the onrush of queasiness overtaking me before turning back around. But before I could take a step forward, he stuck his foot out to stop me. “I’m sorry, but we can’t allow civilians to wander the halls.”

  “I’m not feeling well. Is there a restroom?” I groaned, blinking hard with humiliation, desperate to get out of sight. The guard gave me an urgent wince.

  “This way. But you’ll need an escort.” I paused as the horror of his words hit me, but I didn’t have time to react before he marched me down a long hallway to our left. Shoving the clipboard into my messenger bag, I entered the ladies’ room. Upon first glance, I detected a female guard standing at the edge of the wash station. The invasive silence struck me as she stood there, obser
ving my ill-received glances in hesitation. But I didn’t linger. I rushed into the nearest stall, covering my mouth before hanging my bag over the hook on the door, slamming it shut in an urgent heave. After throwing up and catching my breath again, I leaned against the wall. Since the beginning, it was as if my body rejected reality.

  “Are you okay, miss?” Her voice rebounded off the walls. I snapped my eyes back open, appalled of her motivation to spark a conversation at such a time.

  “Y—yeah. I’m fine,” I said before flushing the toilet and grabbing my bag. Feeling examined, I hesitated to approach the sinks. After washing, she offered me a set of hand towels. Her uniform represented military, her dark hair tucked in a tight bun under the back of her cap.

  “Are you running a fever? Do you need a doctor?” she asked. My hands shook as I dried them, wincing as I backed away from her.

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “Ma’am, we can’t have you go in there if you’re endangering other lives with your illness,” she said. I glanced at her for a second before pushing my bag higher up my shoulder, straightening my posture.

  “Trust me, I’m the least of your problems.” I raised a brow in annoyance before rushing out the door. The guard outside had to chase my pace, but I was too angry to wait.

  In the waiting area, I took an empty seat between two families with children. I finished filling out the paperwork before the same looks of desperation arose on the faces of those just entering the room. After that, I knew I wouldn’t be the only one to receive devastating news that day.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “So we’re applying for a citizen identification and labor duty, correct?” the man asked. His loud, authoritative voice rang throughout his office as his rigid, hooded eyes glanced at me in a patronizing manner from across his desk. He was older, and had a weary impression to him, like he had already seen the darkest of days. As he awaited my answer, I sensed he had a low tolerance for ambiguity.

  “Yes.” I swallowed down the burning sting in my throat.

  “Okay. Let’s see what we got here,” he muttered, squinting into focus as he scanned my citizen report card. “Judging from your profile, Aubrey, I see you have earlier work experience at a local old folks home here when you were seventeen, is that right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “But you have no other formal training or education?”

  “No. I never had the privilege,” I explained, biting my tongue as I distinguished the sizzle of sass originating in my voice.

  “And your previous labor duty was serving food to civilians at the food shelf in Grand Junction, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, based off of this information, it only makes sense to place you in the local hospital. They’re in dire need of caregivers to help with the increase in patients there on the late shift. Other than that, the only other openings are at the labor fields loading supplies, and I’m not sure you’d have the strength they’re looking for,” he said. I tried not to take his assumption of my physical abilities as an insult. But I swallowed in shame at the thought of my mother’s reputation.

  “What would I do at the hospital?” I asked dreadfully.

  “That’s the hospital’s call. Since you’re not qualified as a Registered Nurse, I’d imagine you’d just assist in giving the sick patients medication, serve food, check in on them, things of that nature,” he replied.

  “And what will my benefits be if I do that?” The man took in a deep sigh.

  “The benefits are figured by your age, family status, and education. But since there are gaps in your work experience, this will decrease what you are allowed. Unfortunately, this also lowers your chances of qualifying for a spot within the colonies.” I looked down in disappointment, unable to withstand the truth of his analysis. “But I don’t want this to sound like a death sentence. Your age is a main factor, and being at the prime age of twenty-three, your odds are greater. Effort is admirable too. If we see you are going above and beyond your line of duty, this will significantly increase your chances. So I suggest you do the best you can. Your status in the colony qualification will fluctuate based on your labor contribution. Is that understood?” He handed me the papers.

  “Okay, yes, but… to be fair, I was under the care of a mental health advisor during the time of the collapse. I was told I couldn’t work labor duties the first few months due to PTSD,” I hesitated to say, knowing he’d judge me.

  “That may be, but you still agreed to surrender your previous labor duties upon moving here. There are rules in place for those who transfer outside their original assigned cities, and sympathy isn’t one of them,” he said, looking me over as if he was trying to decide for himself whether I was worthy of pity or not.

  “That’s it? So my benefits get cut because I want to be with my family before the world ends?” I grimaced in fury.

  “Citizens must understand the risks of transferring between cities. You’re lucky to even be assigned a labor duty in wake of your decision, let alone be among the fortunate population with a roof over their head,” he said. I scowled, letting out a breath of defeat.

  “What was I supposed to do? I didn’t ask for this to happen.”

  “You still had the freedom to choose, Ms. Adams. You left. No one forced you to. You have to take responsibility for yourself, or else you won’t make it long here. Now, I need you to read over the information and sign at the bottom, stating you understand everything that is written here,” the man told me. I stared at it, my eyes centering in on the line circled in black ink, showing me where to pen my signature. But as I looked above it, my heart pulsed when I examined the small list of weekly supplies I was eligible for—a staggering lack of necessities I’d have to survive off of until the evacuation.

  “Only five meal items per week? So, what, am I supposed to go hungry the other two days of the week? And why don’t I qualify for my medication or medical care?” I panicked, letting out an anxious breath.

  “Listen, these figures are divided amongst our lesser privileged citizens. And since you’re a new civilian in this town, this puts you lower on the waiting list for medication. Times are tough, and they’re only getting worse,” he said.

  “But how does this meet livable standards?” I huffed, shaking my head.

  “Livable standards? We’re in a time of crisis, Ms. Adams. We can’t afford to live how we used to. We must conserve resources for the colonies, or else what we’re doing today won’t mean a damn thing. We’re in different times now. And if you can’t adapt to it, then you’re welcome to go scrape by in a prison cell with the ungrateful rats who just escaped the border the other day.” He took a moment to regain control of his temper before proceeding. “Now you either sign this paper so you can get your I.D. card and go to work, or you can be penalized. It’s your choice.” I swallowed hard before shooting up from my chair, my eyelids struggling to look the man in the eye.

  “But this isn’t even close to what I received back in Grand Junction. And it isn’t enough for anyone to survive on. Without proper medical attention, without adequate nutrition, people won’t survive this. How are we going to make it on so little? When people get sicker? When things get worse?”

  “The death of millions is the price society has to pay in order for the better half of the population to survive. You can either join the dead, or fight for a place among the survivalists. Your choice.” He gave me a disgusted stare.

  I took a deep breath before signing with a wobbly hand. As I waited for the man to give me my copy, I clenched my teeth and balled my fist. Then, I snatched the paper from his grip before storming out of the office.

  7 ABOMINATION

  “You will work rotating, ten-hour shifts,” the woman said as she led me through the hospital. I swallowed, observing the stark surroundings. “Around here, we share tasks, so just because you served food one night, doesn’t mean you’ll be doing that the next time. There’s a precise schedule to abide b
y, and much of it has almost impossible deadlines. If we see you are not meeting the quality requirements, you lose your duties and your benefits, which means you’re in a world of hurt,” she said.

  “But what if you’re new?”

  “We’re on a strict budget. You only get one chance to demonstrate to the authorities you’re worth keeping around. So unless you prefer to end up on their shit list, I’d advise you to work hard, or at least pretend to. Their eyes are everywhere,” she said.

  “What about the sick or disabled?” I asked in a cringe, already knowing the answer, but curious of her response.

  “Hah. They’re lucky to even have duties. They try to give them easier tasks, but we don’t have the time to teach and train them into the positions we require them in. Most end up in special camps to spend their final days,” she sighed.

  “But that’s not right,” I heaved in disbelief, knowing I very well could have been one of them.

  “Life was never fair,” she said.

  “I—I know that, but…”

  “Look, just be glad you’re here. You can’t worry about others. All you can do is concentrate on yourself,” she said. “Besides, having a role in this society is a privilege, and you should treat it so.”

  “What happens to everyone else?” I asked.