David

Jed took off for the quarry exit, hurrying toward the makeshift camp.

Fear shivered down David’s spine. Grace. The children in the school. She had no Cinderbone, nothing to protect herself. He clenched his pickax, wielding it like a weapon, and ran after Jed.

“Workers!”

A Monitor’s voice directed David’s attention to the center of the quarry. David sent the man a quick glance but didn't stop. He had to get to Grace. Other men around him rushed toward the rickety stairs leading to the top of the quarry.

“Workers, be still! The bell was a gathering toll. All citizens are required to go to the town square. A Custodian has arrived to speak to us.”

David slowed and then ground to a halt. That was it? A gathering toll? A laugh escaped his mouth, and his entire body relaxed. He returned his pickax to the wall and saw Jed approaching. “Alarm, huh?” David laughed again. He felt dizzy with relief.

Jed gave an embarrassed smile as he tossed his pickax down. “I panicked. The alarm has five short tolls.”

“Better safe than sorry. Let’s go see what they want with us.”

August 29, 003

Stupid, idiot boy.

I still can’t believe the way he looked at me. Like I was a creeping scavenger polluting the air he breathed.

It started like any other miserable morning. The ash falling like snow, the bucket of hardtack and pills at the front of the ration line, and me with Mema’s ID tag in one hand and my own tucked in my sleeve. One roll each. One pill. That was the rule. But who was going to stop me from feeding her? She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.

I reached in and took two satchels.

“Hey!” a voice barked behind me. “One per person!”

I turned slowly. Of course. Him. E22. The boy with a sneer carved into his face. He wasn’t even on duty—no armband, no authority—but that didn’t stop the fury radiating off him like heat from a pipe.

“I’m getting food for my grandmother,” I said flatly.

“Sure you are.” His gaze dropped to the extra satchel. “Thief.”

I could feel my pulse in my ears.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said, tucking the food to my chest. “Back off.”

“You think you’re special?” he growled, stepping closer. “We all have someone.”

“I don’t care what you have.”

And then he grabbed my scarf.

I don’t know what he was trying to do—pull it down, rip it off, unmask me in front of everyone—but I yanked back, hard. The scarf slipped halfway off my head, and his fingers snagged my braid.

“Let go!” I shouted, twisting and shoving him.

He didn’t. He lunged. Tried to rip the satchels from my hand. One tore open. The roll hit the ground.

I punched him. Not hard, not well—my hand was full—but it caught his jaw and knocked him back a step. He grabbed my arm and tried to twist it. I kicked at his shin.

People in line started shouting. Someone grabbed his shoulder.

Then E5 hit him.

Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to knock him to the ground and silence every mouth in a thirty-foot radius.

“You’re not on duty. You’re not Monitor or Enforcer. You’re just another mouth in line,” E5 hissed. “Touch her again and I’ll report you myself.”

E22’s eyes burned into me like acid. But he didn’t speak. He backed off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he was the victim.

I didn’t bother explaining I grabbed breakfast for Mema also. It’s none of his business.

But I wanted to throw the bucket at his head.

I only have a few minutes before my shift starts, but I had to get that out. Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy in this place, my mind becoming as dull and gray as the ash around me.

The death toll rang for a child last night. I hope I’m not working when the body is brought in.

I am so sick of those stupid hard biscuits.

I dropped my pill. I have to find that or I’ll be quarantined. This new plague drives people insane. They start to fantasize they are somewhere else, someone else, living a different life. A better life. Shortly after that, they die.

There are worse ways to die.

Hot showers. Swimming in a cold pool on blistering summer days. There was a time I wore my thick hair down, letting its waves curl up around my shoulders. Now I wear it up, always twisted out of sight, and then I cover it to keep the ash and grime out. I can almost remember what it looked like.

I’ve been writing too long. I need to get to work. I asked Mema if she has an assignment today, but she said they didn’t give her one.

The bell’s tolling. Mema’s telling me to stop writing and go. I’ll take this with me so I can take notes.

David

By the time the labor-class workers reached the square, David estimated at least three hundred refugees had already gathered, their outlines blurred in the shifting ash. He scanned the crowd and quickly spotted Grace—small, solemn, wrapped in her green jacket—standing with the other school-aged dependents in the zone designated for juveniles.

Grace, who’d never known anything but the Dust Era. No clean sky. No real food. No memories of before.

A man stepped up onto a crate, drawing murmurs from the crowd. He wore a utilitarian gray suit, the kind issued to high-ranking Enforcers or admin-class officials. The constant drizzle of ash vanished into the fabric, making him look carved from the world around him. He cleared his throat, voice amplified by a handheld megaphone. “As you may know, the United States government fell during the Plagues. From the shambles, a coalition of surviving leaders formed the Collective, and we’ve worked tirelessly to build a place of safety, law, and order for those who endured the Great Disasters.”

David kept his face impassive, though his gut twisted with anticipation. There was always a catch. There had to be.

“It’s taken years,” the man continued, “but we have finally created one such place. A true sanctuary. An oasis carved into the western mountains, its borders protected by walls of quartz and magnetic shields that keep the ash and poison winds at bay.”

A gasp rippled through the square. People murmured phrases of the Survivor’s Mantra under their breath: We must band together if we are to live to see another day.

The man raised his hand for silence. “This haven is real. It is habitable. And it is waiting. However—”

There it is, David thought.

“—the journey is perilous. You’ll be crossing the Dead Steppes, formerly the Great Plains, now riddled with tectonic fractures and prone to acid storms. There are no outposts. No aid. You must bring your own food, water, and medical supplies.”

A few people turned away right then. David didn’t. His eyes stayed locked on the speaker.

“You must also be prepared to defend yourselves. Marauders have no code. They will strike the weak, the slow, and the divided. That is why we recommend you travel in units. Pack strength is survival.”

David could almost hear Enforcer E22’s voice in his head: You’re only as strong as your weakest link, but that doesn’t mean you drag the dead weight.

He shook the thought off.

“And fourth—no children will be accepted unless they are accompanied by legally registered guardians. No exceptions.”

Grace. His heart constricted, but he didn’t let the emotion reach his face. He had their documents. The adoption approval. Stamped with the Coalition seal. He was her legal guardian.

“Those who choose not to journey, do not fear,” the official concluded. “Life here in Sector Nine will continue as it has. Another sanctuary may rise closer, someday.”

Someday. Or never. It didn’t matter to David. He wasn’t gambling on promises anymore. He was getting Grace out of this scorched, godforsaken zone if it killed him.

“Papers must be verified. Register your names. The line begins here. There are limited spaces, and departure is scheduled for sunrise tomorrow.”

The murmuring swelled again, turning frantic. David was already moving, weaving toward the line with purpose. His pack was ready. His gear was hidden. His weapon was loaded. He reached into his jacket pocket and touched the documents, folded neatly and sealed in a waterproof sleeve.

He had one shot at this.

And he wasn’t going to miss.