August 20, 003

I used to love writing in my journal. But I’ve had this book for two weeks now, and I find I’m loathe to fill it with my experiences. Because nothing is what I thought it would be.

Amari means eternal beauty. Which is ironic, because the only thing more dangerous than being a girl these days is being beautiful.

I’ll never forget what they did to my sister.

And that’s why I don’t write.

***

David

“Shit.”

David pressed his gloved hand against his ribs, feeling the sharp sting where the man had landed a lucky hit before David’s kick landed him flat on his back. David’s breath came in quick bursts, visible in the cold night air, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the pain. He glanced down at the man groaning in the dirt at his feet, blood trailing from a split lip.

“You done?” he asked, voice flat.

The man, one of the newer refugees, clutched his stomach and wheezed. He didn’t answer.

David exhaled through his nose, shaking out the pain in his own knuckles. His gloves were too thin. He needed new ones, but new anything was hard to come by.

“Next time,” he said, stepping back, “don’t steal from supply. You’re lucky it was just me.”

He turned away before the man could respond.

If the camp officials had caught him first, it would’ve been worse.

He could still report the man for attacking him, but the punishment was exile.

Death would be preferable.

A shadow moved near the edge of the firelight. “Trouble?”

David scowled at Jed, who leaned against a rusted-out water drum, arms crossed. Even in the dim glow of the campfires, David could see the glint of amusement in his eyes. Of course Jed would be here to see that. He and his wife Susan had taken David and Grace under their wing when he stumbled into the refugee camp. Three years later, they were the closest to family he had, and the only people he trusted with Grace.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he muttered.

Jed pushed away from the drum, his scarf pulled up high over his nose. It hid most of his face, but his voice still carried the familiar dry edge. “Looked more like you were about to throw your back out.”

David rolled his shoulders, ignoring the jab. He was only nineteen, but most days, he felt twice that.

Jed gave him a once-over. “You good?”

“Fine.”

Jed didn’t argue, but he didn’t look convinced either. “Curfew’s soon. You coming?”

David shook his head. “Got patrol.”

Jed let out a quiet breath. “Don’t be stupid out there.”

David scoffed. “No promises.”

Jed turned to go, but hesitation flickered across his face.

“What?” David asked.

Jed scratched at the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. “Didn’t make quota today.”

David’s stomach twisted. No quota meant half a ration—barely enough to keep a man standing. Jed was already lean from months of scraping by, his face more hollow than it used to be. If he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t have the strength to work tomorrow, and the cycle would just keep going.

David shouldn’t interfere. The system was already stretched too thin. If he started playing favorites, people would notice.

But this was Jed. The guy who’d shared his rations with David when he’d been too sick to stand. The one who watched over Grace when David was stuck on patrol, who always acted like family even though he and Susan weren’t.

David pulled a ration slip from his pocket—his extra one for working the night shift—and shoved it into Jed’s hand.

“Take it.”

Jed stiffened. “David—”

“Don’t argue with me.” David kept his voice firm, even though it felt like he was breaking a part of himself along with the rules. “You need it more than I do.”

Jed hesitated a moment longer before curling his fingers around the slip. His voice was quiet when he said, “You’re a good man, David.”

David huffed. “Yeah, well… don’t go telling anyone.”

“I’ll share it with Grace.”

David nodded in acknowledgment. Though between the three adults she lived with, Grace was as well provided for as any child in the camp could be.

It helped that the more shifts he picked up, the more rations David got. And he picked up a lot of shifts.

The wind howled, sending a fresh wave of ash through the camp. The fires flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows against the tents.

David pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and started toward the outer perimeter. The camp never truly slept. People whispered in the dark, huddling close for warmth. Somewhere in the distance, a child cried, the sound swallowed quickly by the wind.

He scanned the rows of tents, looking for red.

Nothing.

His jaw tightened.

She was out here somewhere. The thief.

He didn’t know her name, but he’d seen her—or glimpsed her, at least. The red scarf she always wore made her stand out, even when she was trying to disappear.

She was fast, always one step ahead of him, slipping between tents and vanishing before he could get close enough to grab her.

And she was a problem.

Food supplies were already thin without her thieving. And nowt fuel was going missing too. People were freezing at night, shivering against each other for warmth, while she helped herself to whatever she wanted.

David clenched his fists. She was clever, but at some point she’d mess up.

And he’d catch her.

Tugging his gloves tighter, he moved into the shadows, eyes scanning the darkness, checking the exhausted faces of refugees warming their hands by the community fires.

The night was long.

And she couldn’t hide forever.

***

August 27, 003

Let’s try again. In a few years, a month, a week, this could be all that’s left of me. The only evidence that I existed on this earth. I should make the best of it.

It’s been a week since I first tried writing. Two years since I kept a journal. I used to love chronicling my life with my dad and Gemma—

No. Not Gemma.

I’m a medic at Camp Orange near the mines in the Talladega National Forest in Alabama, living with my grandmother. I grew up only an hour from here. I suppose I should consider myself lucky for the proximity, or I could have ended up in a labor camp, a coal mine, or worse of all, with the Marauders.

Rumors of breeding camps whisper through the med center. Places where women are stolen and transformed into baby making machine to repopulate the earth. Women don’t get pregnant any more. If they do, the baby isn’t carried to term. The viruses we carry in our bodies attack the fetuses and don’t allow it.

But we found a woman outside the camp covered in the blood of afterbirth. No baby. She was weak and in shock and died before she said a word.

The sight of her filled me with terror.

I hate this world.

No man shall ever see my face again. I keep it covered with my scarf. It filters the ash. And it hides me.

Two weeks ago, Abigail sent me to the laundry room for clean towels. When I opened the cabinet, a loose drawer fell out. I’ll admit for a moment, as I stared down at the piles of spiral-bound notebooks, I felt a surge of excitement. I grabbed three of the notebooks and a handful of pens and hid them in my jacket, then took the towels to Abigail.

I’ve struggled to remember life before the Disasters that ripped apart our world three years ago. Now I can. I have a way to write my memories down so I’ll always have them with me.

I didn’t realize how painful it would be to relive them, though.

It might be best to forget any life ever exited other than this one.

My days are busy in the med center. We watch for signs of the Drange and treat the mining injuries and give comfort to the dying and bury the dead. There is much to do.

Mema is in the tent, waiting for me to bring back the rocks heated by the communal fire. We have a brazier but we’ve gone through our fuel rations, so no fire. I have cloth ready to wrap the rocks the moment they’re done so I can carry them back to the tent. My hands are caked in dust and cracked from the cold, but the rest of my clothing keeps me warm.

It’s not enough. Mema’s cough is aggravated. She needs more food, more warmth. My shift at the hospital ran late today. By the time I got to the rations table, the bread was gone, and the soup I collected for the two of us resembled dirty water.

It’s a step above starving.

But the tall guard is on duty again. The watchful one. The only reason he didn’t stop me stealing bread yesterday is because the mining accident distracted him. I have to lie low for a few days. One, at least. I can afford to lose my rations, but not Mema.

I keep Gemma’s red scarf wrapped around my face. The bright color attracts too much attention, but I can’t seem to let go of the sentimental object. Sometimes I imagine it still smells like her.

It’s getting colder. Ever since the eruption—