What remained of the human race lived in an old bunker constructed by an older government. Feeling tears run along the side of the oxygen-generating mask which rarely left my face, how could I do this to them? Whenever my time might be, I was resolved that it would not involve any children of my own. Not many lived past the age of sixty in Bunker Twelve, if it could be called living. There was still not enough to kill me outright, but enough to shorten my life considerably, as it had shortened hers. People were dying younger and younger every year my mother was only forty-five.ĭespite her deterioration, the radiation counter on my wall reassured me that not much had changed since I looked at it last. Thirty? Forty? I was only sixteen, but the radiation from above ground had reached us all, seeping into the food, the air, the water, and even our threadbare clothes. I lay there my eyes shut tight, listening to her slowly die, and wondered when my time would come. These might be the last days I had with my mother, and I couldn’t have my memories tainted with regret. Anger, fear, frustration, whatever it was that built up inside me, made me want to slam my fists against the thin wall between us and shout at her to be quiet for five minutes, so I could sleep. Still I heard her coughing, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned over in my cot and plugged my ears with my fingers, trying to squeeze out the sound. It played on my mind, maddening me to near the point of insanity, so I did the only thing I could do. I worried that the next one would be worse, or wouldn’t come at all. I listened to her convulsing in wet, unyielding hacks, and I knew each one caused her pain. Like most things in my life, I was powerless to do anything but wait as the cancer slowly took her. I wanted it to stop, so desperately I wanted it to stop, but who was I to do anything about it? I was Zoe Ruthland, a Tier Five and lowlife according to what was left of humanity not worth the precious oxygen I breathed. The sound of her struggling to breathe brought tears to my eyes and a tightness in my chest. Such was the nature of Tier Five, so dark, decaying, and cold, that even the Grim Reaper was condemned to an eternity of relentless servitude here. Death was slow to finish the job, however, too weary and overworked in the pit of depravity that was my home. My mother coughed all night in the room next to mine as death came to wrap its sticky black claws around her. To my amazing parents, Noel and Pauline Burke, whose continued support and encouragement has spurred me ever onwards. Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903420 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data Available No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any manner whatsoever without the written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
0 kommentar(er)
