Michelle Muckley

THE DAWN

THE BOMBS FALL

For those who inspire me to be better than I am

We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent.

J. Robert Oppenheimer (1904-1967)

to live is not only to survive…

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for taking the time to purchase and read The Dawn: The Bombs Fall. First and foremost, I hope that you enjoy this book. But secondly, if you do, I would love you to sign up to my mailing list. You can do that HERE, and I will let you know about special offers and future work.

In the meantime, enjoy your time in The Republic of New Omega.

Michelle

THE OMEGA MANIFESTO

THE FIRST CREED

No citizen of New Omega shall steal from another

THE SECOND CREED

All citizens of New Omega have the right to live safely without fear or threat

THE THIRD CREED

No citizen of New Omega shall feel alone

THE FOURTH CREED

No Citizen of New Omega shall die of thirst or hunger

THE FIFTH CREED

Every citizen of New Omega shall work for the good of all

THE SIXTH CREED

Every Citizen of New Omega shall conduct themselves with dignity and with regard for their neighbour

THE SEVENTH CREED

Every citizen of New Omega shall renounce their previous life for the prosperity of the collective society

THE EIGHTH CREED

No citizen of New Omega shall feel inferior to another

THE NINTH CREED

Each citizen will commit himself to the unquestionable success of New Omega

THE TENTH CREED

Every Citizen of New Omega shall work for a better future without complaint or malaise

Chapter One

“I saw the lights again this morning.”

From the corner of his droopy-skinned eye, Zack could see Leonard turning his ration card in a rhythmical ninety degree motion with the regularity of the second hand of a clock. The type that no longer existed. From behind him the calls of the thirsty ricocheted up the corridor, each set of fists jostling their way forward like an angry mob hell bent on revenge. Zack was next in line.

Leonard’s head was bowed, ashamed even to suggest that he had seen the lights again. To make reference to such visions was as good as saying he had a connection to the old world, like a disciple perhaps, or at the very least a prophet. In biblical times they would have crucified him. They would have set murderers free rather than listen to his ideas. They had talked about this before, and Zack had tried to tell The Dreamer that it just wasn’t possible. In fact even today his first thought, the automatic one that arises without conscience or desire, was something along the lines of stupid son of a bitch. But he stifled these words, and if he was honest with himself he knew why. The idea of the lights was so seductive that to even consider it being true was a bigger risk than he could allow himself to take.

“Oh yeah?” said Zack. He didn’t want to encourage him. But he couldn’t discourage him either. He couldn’t do that.

“I know you don’t believe me, Zack. It doesn’t matter. It’s coming, though. Slowly, it’s coming.” Leonard slid his ration card under the chicken wire screen.

Zack looked over to the nearest window, across the atrium and endless shades of rust that peppered his view. He saw the same grey cover, the low hanging belly of cloud that blackened their world. Nothing had changed. It was a desperate idea, the thought of light. Nothing more than a mirage in an otherwise dry and deserted world of sand and dust and death, created to nurture the hope of a life when the chains of this new world would be broken. But it was a life Zack didn’t dare to imagine anymore. False hope was nothing more than a cancer with the ability to rot you from the inside out. What was lost was lost, and the thought of life beyond the plains to which his eye could travel acted like a poison. It was dangerous to imagine it now.

When Leonard had first mentioned the lights Zack had lain on his bed that night, his head resting on a thin stained pillow. He hadn’t been able to stop himself gazing out in search of something. He stared out from a grimy window not knowing if it was night or day, or even if such parameters still existed in his world. He found nothing. That night his bed was less comfortable. That night the smell of sulphur was stronger. His clothes were itchier and his skin more sore than usual. He watched for hours as the torturous clouds drifted past his window. Instead of allowing a chink of hope to pass through, all they permitted was the infiltration of despair. Waiting for something good, and believing in something that he couldn’t see, only made life less bearable than it was already.

“I hope you’re right, Leo. I really do.” Zack pulled his ration card from his back pocket and slid it over the glass topped counter. A faceless clerk pushed it into the machine and Zack watched as his skeletal fingers nudged Leonard’s card back across the counter top. He followed it with a tablet and a water shot which he pushed towards Zack. “Then maybe I won’t need these.” Zack picked up the tablet and threw it to the back of his throat and chased it down with the shot of water. The beaker was crumbled and broken from overuse, and he slammed it back on the counter like it was a whiskey chaser.

“How many years can it go on for, Zack? Come on, you’re a bright kid. You have to know that at some point it will get easier. It’s only natural.” Zack knew in principle that Leonard was right. He had to be right. There had to come a point when the sky cleared and when life could start over again. Because the world had not died. It had been belittled and wounded, like a soldier hiding under a fallen chariot. It was hiding in the hope that one day its freedom would still be granted. But that day had branded Zack and scarred itself to his memory. He could still remember the ground rolling beneath him, the building shuddering around him, as if somebody had walked over its grave. He had watched as the sky was scorched and the city crumbled to nothing more than the charred remains of hot coal. That was the day the winter began, a season that would remain unchanged for a countless number of years. The season of the recluse. Up high they now stood, looking down upon their old world at a lesson learned too late. “One day life will come back, and we can get out of here.” Leonard’s gnarled, distorted fingertips wrestled the card from the desk. He fiddled at its edge, his fingers no longer nimble or able to retrieve it. When the frustration grew unbearable he slid the card back across the desk and cupped his other hand to catch it underneath before stepping aside.

“Wait, your tablet,” Zack reminded him. “Excuse me,” Zack said, turning back to the clerk. “You forgot his antibiotics.”

“Didn’t forget anything. He didn’t meet his quota,” said the clerk, pointing at Leonard. Zack looked to his friend who was staring down at his feet, his fingers working the ration card hypnotically as if willing himself to be anywhere but in the moment.

“What do you mean, didn’t meet his quota?” Zack said, shoving the next in line out of the way.

“He didn’t clock in,” said the clerk. He reached his skinny fingers past Zack to take the next ration card from the Delta resident. Zack’s eyes followed the outstretched hand to find a man dressed in the same dirt-encrusted overalls, the tired face looking back at him, his eyes casting shadows over his sunken cheeks. The face could be his own. Zack turned to Leonard.

“What’s he talking about?” Zack reached down and snatched the card from Leonard’s hand. “Check it again,” he said, forcing the card across the desk as far as his arm could stretch.

“Zack, it’s OK,” said Leonard, pulling at Zack’s overalls like a nervous child. “He’s right.”

“He can’t be. We walked from the Food Hall together. I watched you arrive at work. You have to stand up for yourself, Leo. Especially here.”

“I forgot. You know how I’ve been lately. I just forgot to check in.” Leonard reached across the desk to take his card back, his hand brown with a mixture of dirt and the marks of age. His skin hung loose across the crooked bones and tendons of his arthritic knuckles.

“But you need your antibiotics, Leonard,” said Zack, his voice soft and comforting. “I would have given you mine if you’d told me.” Leonard pushed the card into this pocket. The man behind them stepped back up to the counter. He had to be one of the youngest in Delta. He picked up his tablet and water shot. Without a second thought he threw it into his mouth and swallowed it down without any fear of their judgement. There was no empathy left for the frailty of age. The man barged past Zack, knocking him in the shoulder as he left, and the people waiting in line edged forwards.

“No way, Zack. No way,” Leonard said.

“But you need them. You’ll get ill. You can’t fight things off like I can.”

“Because I’m old?” Leonard took a step away from the desk towards the corridor that would lead them to the elevators.

“No, not that,” said Zack, breaking into a jog to catch up with him, not knowing how to build an argument out of anything else when he knew that he had meant exactly that. “You just need them, that’s all.”

“You’re a good kid, Zack,” said Leonard as they both settled into their stride, a pace faster than was comfortable for Leonard, slower than was necessary for Zack. “But I’m not your responsibility.” Leonard reached up to his neck, pressed at the muscles with his finger tips, working out some sort of knot that had developed during the day as he had worked hard for nothing. “Anyway, I’m telling you. Dawn is coming. The world is waking up. Then I won’t even need those tablets. Or this place.”

They walked back towards their quarters in Delta Tower along the linoleum tiled floor, worn in so many places the original concrete of the building was working its way through like a fungus. In places there were small piles of dust, particles encouraged from the wall by one of the few children who roamed the corridors with nothing better to do. You could while away a good hour or two creating a hole in the wall with a piece of loose metal, if the hours could still be counted. The dust piles looked like sand and reminded Zack of happier times when he could lounge on a beach in the sun. Sometimes he even thought he could smell the heat mixed with sun lotion, the scent of coconut which could have been a Pina Colada. But his memories were sparse and decaying. His parents’ faces had faded. The image of movies, coffee shops, restaurants, and bars were all a threadbare recollection of his yesterdays. It hurt to revisit them. On some days, even Samantha’s face seemed blurred, but he wondered if he had tried to forget her on purpose, just so he didn’t have to carry the burden of his guilt into the new life that he hadn’t dreamed of or created for himself. The new life in which he was trapped in Delta Tower as a resident of New Omega. Resident Number 8652.

The memories that he chose to keep alive were the impersonal sensations. The brush of wind against his skin like the hand of an anonymous lover, or the sun on his nose on a winter’s day as comforting as a child’s kiss. Sometimes he could imagine the ocean as it stung his eyes, or the warmth of the sand burning his feet. These feelings were as real in his memory as the dusty ground upon which he walked. He kept these memories alive so that the smell of waste water and sulphur, and more often than not the smell of shit overflowing from the waste tanks, didn’t seem so bad. But these memories could have been anybody’s.

The once-mirrored lift drew to a jerky halt on level thirty, and the doors scratched their way open. The sound of New Omega blared out from the televisions which adorned every corner of every wall. At least in the Food Hall there was so much commotion that sometimes if you were lucky you could forget the constant noise streamed in from Omega Tower. Every day they played a new image. A tree. Water. Artificial sunlight. A playground with screens for windows which played images of a pre-war sky. White and blue, occasionally orange. Never grey. Never reality. The scenes from Omega Tower, the central command tower for the Republic of New Omega where life was good were supposed to boost morale.

“I don’t know why they bother to play those here,” said Leonard. “Surely they could save the power and give us more lighting instead. Or heat.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” said Zack. “And I could do without seeing Omega Tower at every turn. They say it’s supposed to boost morale, but it doesn’t feel much like that. It’s not like anybody from here is ever going to get a chance to experience it.”

“You never know,” said Leonard, rubbing at his wrist, thumbing over the small numerical tattoo. “Maybe the next time there is a lottery it’ll be you. Maybe me.”

“Ha! You think? You are crazier than I take you for, Leo.” Zack struck Leonard’s cheek with a playful slap, and they both laughed. Zack brushed aside some scraps of paper and dust balls that had blown in front of his door with his foot. There was an air vent nearby, and he was sick of clearing up the shit that it blew into his path, right outside the only place he had left to call home. He stretched his foot across to Leonard’s door and kicked other pieces of scrap aside. “They’d never let somebody from Delta win. From this shithole? Are you serious? Maybe from Alpha. Anyway, The Omega Lottery is a fix.” Zack held up his wrist to expose the small numerical tattoo, a near copy of Leonard’s. 8652. He had no idea how many people came after him. “This number is never going to get me into Omega.” He opened his door and took a half step inside before turning back to Leonard. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I’ll see you later, alright?”

Leonard smiled. He was embarrassed so he opened his door for a distraction. “OK. Just don’t get in trouble for it,” he said as he glanced back over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want that. I don’t need it that much.” The knot in his neck resurfaced at the thought of the new pillow that Zack had promised him, and he brought his fingers up and rubbed at his skin. Something new. Something comfortable. “I could never live with myself if you got caught trading on my behalf. Besides, I won’t need it for long, because…..”

“Yeah, I know. It’s nearly over. Dawn is coming. We’ll all be outside playing in green fields soon singing Kumbaya.” They both managed another laugh, but it was half-hearted and whimsical. Mentioning the old world was hard for everybody. “It’ll be fine. Just stay here. I’ll call in later with it, OK?”

After exchanging silent thanks with a nod of the head, they both retreated into their private rooms. Zack inserted his ration card into the box that had been crudely mounted to the wall. The electronic voice crackled out.

“Welcome, resident 8652. Successful completion of daily tasks registered. Your president thanks you on behalf of all New Omega Citizens.” Zack ignored the voice and looked in the shard of old mirror that he had taken from one of the lifts. The back had been spoiled and was peeling, blemishing his reflection with false age spots. Zack reached down into the bucket at his feet and wet the cloth in the inch of remaining water. It was grey like the sky and smelt like sulphur, but it was precious. Wringing every last drop back into the bucket like the rain that never fell anymore, he wiped it over his neck, his face, a few icy droplets trickling across his chest making his skin contract. He peeled away his overalls and swiped the cloth under his armpits where there always seemed to be a subtle layer of dirt. He tossed the rag back into the bucket and grabbed a once-white T-shirt from a pile of two. He pulled it over his head and then covered it with a jumper that would have once been suitable for an athlete.

He lay down on his bed with nothing else to do, the only sound the hum of the air vents and the adverts from the televisions outside his room. They were offering additional numbers which could be tattooed above your original branding for no more than thirty credits. He listened as they offered radiation sickness tablets. New clothes, new toys, better healthcare. Nothing he had credits for. He stared out from his corner window with his hands tucked underneath his head. For a while he thought about lounging on the beach, the heat blazing down on him, the sounds of the waves creeping steadily in and out. But lately even these images were becoming blurry and less defined. They no longer seemed real to him like they once had. So instead he allowed himself a moment to watch the sky as it moved along, wondering if he too might catch a glimpse of Leonard’s lights peeking through the clouds.

The hum of the strip lighting softened as the lights dimmed, centrally controlled, signalling that somebody had decided that the day had drawn to a close. He wondered if they were still counting the hours. After five minutes of pointless staring at a sky no longer consistent with life he stood up, no longer able to torment himself. Even if there was light, even if the dawn really was about to break, what was there left for him to go back to? There was nothing left for him in the old world. Delta was all that he had now. Even if he could go back to that final day, the moments just before the sky turned black when his life as he knew it ended, would he even have the courage to do so? He wasn’t so sure that he would find the strength to get it right this time, or that he wouldn’t just disappoint her all over again? He secured his overalls with a belt, letting the top half of them hang down from his waist. He checked the spare ration cards were still in his pocket and then pulled on his deerstalker hat. He left his ration card in the wall mounted box, his artificial presence in his quarters, and stepped back into the noise of the corridor. Most people had retreated to their rooms, and all the kids had been rounded up as he made his way through the lobby. It made the adverts seem louder still, but when it was this quiet they offered him some comfort, because they left no space in which to think about what a mess he had made of the life he had lost.

Chapter Two

One bag had been waiting like a convict, imprisoned but ready for action in the wardrobe since last Saturday. Mother had insisted. She had said there was no need for the warm clothes to stay hanging up or stacked in dusty piles, the type that would be beneficial when winter fell and refused to depart like a man-made Ice Age. She had spent the last three days packing, things they needed, and things they didn’t. Emily had unpacked some of her stuff, like the T-shirt that had PEACE emblazoned across it with the CND sign. This was the one she knew she was going to wear when the time came.

Mother had left her to pack only one bag, but she still hadn’t done it. Now it was almost too late. It was the bag for the small things that seem irrelevant but that matter because they belong to you, and because the you that you know, the one you see when you look in the mirror, isn’t going to exist anymore.

Emily could still smell the coffee from the breakfast they hadn’t eaten as she stood staring into the void of the empty bag. There was hardly any space. It was too small, but Father had told her that was all she was allowed. She had spent hours looking through her belongings over the last few days, trying to triage her items into important and non-important. She thought at first it would be easy, but it wasn’t. She thought she could look through her things and know what she wanted to take with her, but it was evident early on that when you knew that soon enough you would be left with nothing, everything became something to treasure.

It had been a normal Friday night, movie queued up and popcorn in the microwave when that first call came. They had finished a takeaway dinner of pizza with an extra topping of pepperoni the way she liked it only half an hour before, amidst laughter and talk of the coming weekend. Maybe they would go hiking on Sunday? Who fancied a trip to the theatre? Whose turn was it to load the dishwasher because it was the cleaner’s night off? Life before that call had been normal. Happy. Emily was shouting from the living room, calling for them to hurry up with the popcorn. Mother had been telling her that she hadn’t done her chores and that the plates were still waiting to be loaded. But then the telephone rang and there was silence. It was only minutes before Mother came running through, telling Emily that she had to be quiet, that Father was taking an important call. Important calls were nothing unusual, but her mother’s behaviour became erratic, drawing the curtains as if they were living through a wartime blackout. She began turning out unnecessary lights like they were a family of fugitives on the brink of being seized. Mother sat down on the settee, told Emily to come close, not to panic, all the while smoothing out a tissue over the top of a jittery knee. She stroked Emily’s hair as if she were still a baby who needed comforting, but it was her mother who was brimming with fear. Her father came in and stood with his back against the door. He noticed the dark and turned on a lamp. He too checked the curtains. Silence. It was Emily’s mother who broke it to ask if it was time, and his only answer was to look away. After he had calmed her down it was he who had the most to say. Her mother had been unable to stop whimpering long enough to work a sentence together. She sat with one hand resting on Emily’s leg, the other dabbing a wrinkled and soaked-through tissue at her nose and eyes. She kept saying everything was going to be all right. Not to panic. Whatever her father said was met by her mother telling her that everything was going to be all right. Emily knew straightaway that it wouldn’t be.

“Emily, hurry.” The words travelled emotionless like foot soldiers up the stairs. “You’ve got less than ten minutes.” She heard her father’s shoes striking against the marble floor as he walked away, barking more orders at the people who had arrived at the door. Emily was already wearing her school uniform when the call came that morning. She had refused to stay home and her father had reassured her mother that it was best to keep living as normally as possible. He added that it would be easy to get to her when the time came. Her mother had called it an irresponsible decision. She added, almost like an afterthought, that it hadn’t been his first.

The history, science, and English books that had been in her bag were now strewn across the quilt cover. It was a patchwork with a heart on it, and now it seemed stupid in a way it never had before. She peered out of the window to see her father arrive on the driveway. He completed a series of movements with his arms, instructions like semaphore, left and right as if he was still in command of his destiny. The rays from the low sun cast him in shadow, his form becoming a hazy silhouette that she almost couldn’t recognise, and she had to squint to shield her eyes. The three men who remained nameless but who had been in the house since the night when that first call came, set about loading the cars as if their life depended on it. Rather than Emily’s and her parents’.

Emily rummaged through the pile of school books and grabbed the English text that she was currently reading. The Handmaid’s Tale. When she first started the book she had thought it unbelievable that so many of the girls would go along with being handmaids, and she had told her English teacher so. No way, she had said, would a girl who knew her own mind just go along with that. She would fight back. She wouldn’t let it happen. Her teacher had tried to convince her that they were trying to save their own lives. That they were trying to be strong in their own way. That they would do whatever it took to survive. She had never understood how cooperation could be somebody’s only means to fight, or how the bravest fight could be born of silence. She threw the book in the bag. She grabbed a selection of jewellery, all cheap and worthless. Not good for trading, but she was too young to think ahead. She didn’t like the diamond earrings anyway. Why would she take them? There was a copy of Cosmo lying next to the bed, so she snatched that up and shoved it in the bag.

“Emily,” her father shouted, his voice angrier, as scratchy as nails on a blackboard. “Come on, get a move on. It’s time.”

“Anthony, please. Stop shouting,” she heard her mother reply, her voice stretched as if every fear was hanging from the end of it. “You’re scaring her.”

Emily grabbed the drawstring of the back pack and fastened the buckle on top. She held her wrist up and checked her watch. 8:15 AM. She thought about Amanda sitting next to an empty desk wondering why Emily was late. She picked up her mobile, dragged her finger across the screen to check for any new text messages. Her prayers remained unanswered. There was no stroke of luck that Amanda had sent her a message to say that she was ill and hadn’t made it to school. No last minute holiday somewhere far away. There was nothing from Amanda. But of course there was nothing. Amanda’s family didn’t know anything about what was happening. They had no reason to run or hide.

Emily had considered betraying her father’s trust and telling Amanda. She had played out the conversation over and over in her head. But what choices did Amanda’s family have? Where would they have gone if they knew? There was no underground bunker waiting for them. No man in a suit to pack their car. The last time Emily saw Amanda she had smiled and hugged her, and Amanda had told her that she had decided to go on the date with Richard Curtis from the year above. They had both known what that really meant. Emily had told her to have fun on that Monday night, and as Amanda skipped away laughing, Emily knew that she had lost her chance to do the right thing. She had decided that telling her the truth could end up making things worse. She threw the phone back onto the bed. There was no need for it now. She reached into the nearest drawer and pulled out the T-shirt with PEACE on it and pulled it over her white school blouse. She pulled her arms into the sleeves of her blazer and picked up the bag looking something like a 1970s punk. She allowed herself one last look at the phone. It was too late to do anything. She told herself again that it was better that they didn’t know. Who wants to know they are going to die?

“That’s it, Emily, come on.” Her father was standing at the bottom of the stairs waving his arms in giant circles of encouragement. “Go sit in the car.” His feet were tapping, and her mother was turning around in small circles behind him. She looked like a jewellery box ballerina that had become detached and lost its way.

“Oh, Anthony, stop it,” Mother begged again.

“Helena, she has to understand that we have no choice,” he said, not once taking his eyes from Emily. “Everything is packed, Emily. Go and wait in the car.”

“Not everything is packed,” Emily said, her bottom lip sticking out, her jaw clenched shut. She fiddled with her braid for a distraction. Her hair was soft like golden leaf, and when it hung loose the breeze caught the ends and tousled them like embers blown from a bonfire. Rapunzel, her mother called her.

“Emily, darling. Your father is right. Please hurry.” Helena Grayson turned to Anthony as she edged her daughter towards the door. “This is all your fault, you know that? You are responsible for everything.”

“Helena, not now,” he barked. “Go on, Emily, we are right behind you.” Emily arrived at the front door and slipped her hand into the pocket of her school blazer. She stopped when she found the pocket empty and swung back towards the stairs. Her father snatched at her arm to stop her. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, as the tartan rucksack slid down to her wrist, swinging like a pendulum between them.

“I forgot something. I have to go back.”

“Emily, no!” he shouted, but she had wriggled her wrist free, snapping it back like a catapult released. “Get back down here now,” he said, charging up the stairs behind her, almost tripping on the rucksack which had dropped to the ground. She stood at the door to her bedroom with her hands on the doorframe, her father bellowing behind her, her mother still whimpering. “Emily, hurry up,” he said, followed by something inaudible from her mother. But Emily wasn’t listening.

She raced into her bedroom and grabbed the iPod from her nightstand. She breathed a sigh of relief as she wound the earphones around the old click wheel device before she stuffed it into her pocket. She couldn’t believe that she had nearly forgotten it. She turned to leave the room, but as she did she saw her pin board facing her. “Emily Grayson, if you are not down here………” She heard her father’s voice resonating up the stairs, followed by footsteps on the marble staircase. His words were disappearing into the reality that she could feel slipping away from her, a place she could no longer reach. Her eyes surrendered to the pin board in front of her and as they travelled across the mementoes from her past, they settled on a strip of images taken in a photo booth. In one, Amanda was sticking her tongue out, in another she was cross-eyed. That day they had been to the cinema, a forgettable movie about a loser boyfriend and a stupid girl who always took him back. They had laughed together as they promised themselves that they would never be like that. They would always have each other. They promised that they would never let each other down. Emily knew that she had failed to keep her promise. She could have told Amanda yesterday. She could have warned her in time for her to do something, to hide, to run, to try. But instead she did as her father instructed her to do and said nothing. She had no right to feel sorry for herself. She was no better than he was.

Emily pulled the photograph from the board and folded it in two just as her father arrived at the door. He didn’t say anything but instead he snatched at her wrist and began pulling her downstairs. Emily ran to keep up with him but her footing was unsteady.

“Dad! Dad, you’re hurting me!” she said, sliding the folded images into her skirt pocket. His fingers gripped her arm like the sharp claws of an eagle and she could feel his skin rubbing against hers as if it was sandpaper. His skin was red hot, his face as brilliant as the brightest flare, and he didn’t loosen his grip until she was in the back of the waiting car. Her mother was already sitting on the back seat trying not to cry. Emily rubbed at her sore arm, her skin marked by four finger shaped welts. She turned to her mother, her common alliance when her father got too rough. Her mother’s instinctive reaction was always to stand in Emily’s corner, an unflinching buttress of support. Her parents would trade insults, and Emily would cocoon herself in her bedroom until the shouting diminished to a distant moan, like the call of the whales from the ocean. But today nobody seemed to notice what had happened. If they did, they didn’t care.

On the way through the streets Emily was surprised at how normal everything appeared. There were people eating breakfast in cafes which made her empty stomach grumble, queues for coffee served in takeaway cups that snaked out of shop doorways as people hurried to work. They passed a school and it was full of children playing in the courtyard without a care in the world. There were girls skipping, and another group was playing hopscotch. Emily imagined them in flames, charred and burnt like a movie she had once seen. Emily knew she didn’t belong here anymore, her place in this life sacrificed by her secrecy, her right to mourn relinquished by her choices. These people were not like her. They didn’t know what was coming. Not even those she loved. She looked down at her T-shirt and suddenly felt like a fraud, taunted by the CND sign as it pulled on the strings of her guilt. She wrapped her blazer closed and held herself in her own embrace.

They drove up the A23 en route to the city and it was only once they passed the turn that she was expecting to take that she realised they weren’t stopping for anything. Or anybody. Emily turned to face her mother who was crying again, her shoulders shaking, her tears spreading out from puffy, mascara-stained eyes. Her hands were clasped together as if she was praying, and her father sat stoically like a statue staring from the window. The sirens on the top of the cars ahead and behind wailed to notify the less fortunate of their presence, and they sailed through the traffic as if nothing and nobody else mattered.

“What about Grandpa?” Emily asked. Her mother let out a whimper, the sound of a dog whose paw had been trampled. It was a pathetic cry, one that she probably didn’t even expect to make. “Dad, what about Grandpa?” Emily asked again, pulling at his arm. She studied his face and found that was clenching his jaw tighter than usual, and she heard some of his breath escape before he turned to look at her.

“There is no room for your Grandfather, Emily. There is no time.” He reached across and placed his hand on his wife’s knee, but this only seemed to make matters worse because Helena Grayson let out another yelp, another pathetically trodden paw, and she pulled her knee away from him as if he were a leper, and that his touch was that of certain death.

“But, Dad,” Emily stuttered. “He’ll die.” Another whimper. “Dad, do something. You can fix it. You can organise it. You can get him in, I know you can.” He didn’t flinch as Emily dropped to her knees on the floor of the car, as if he hadn’t even heard or felt her. “Dad, you can do anything.” Her words became more desperate as each attempt at reason was met by a sullen, hopeless shake of his head. “You can do it, Dad. You can. And if anything goes wrong we can sneak him in. He can sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the floor. Dad,” she pleaded, kneeling next to him and rubbing her hands over his clenched fists, begging for him to see that it was possible. “He’s going to die.” She grabbed the car phone with her remaining strength, gleaned from the desperation of the last hope. In her heart she already knew she was defeated.

“I have to warn him,” Emily said. Before she punched the third number her father snatched the phone from her hands, leaving Emily broken and pleading at his feet, her eyes swollen with tears. “He’s going to die,” she said one last time, before flopping forwards so that her head balanced on his knee. The creator and consoler of pain.

Emily felt every bump of the last twenty minutes of the journey. Nobody told her to sit back up. Nobody stressed the importance of her seatbelt. Nothing in those last moments mattered. It was only as she realised they had begun a descent into a car park that she woke up from her daze. Her mother was talking to her, and Emily realised that she had been for some time because she drifted awake mid-sentence. Her mother was telling her about the wonderful suite they were going to live in, how she knew the beds were going to be so comfortable, and how everything was going to work out for the best. That she shouldn’t panic. Her mother had stopped crying, and she was smiling instead. But her cheeks were smeared with black, like war paint on a soldier. It was as if somebody had flicked a switch. Perhaps she too realised that their future had been decided for them by people more powerful than they would ever be. They were here because they had no choice. And yet somehow, they still had more choice than those they had left behind.

Before the car had stopped moving the door opened, pulled from outside. They had been waiting for them. A man wearing a dark suit and white shirt, with a curly wire like an endless pig’s tail dangling from his ear, peered in.

“Sir, welcome. You need to follow me, sir.” Anthony Grayson stepped out of the car without hesitation. He knew what to expect. He knew what was coming. He had been briefed. “Miss. Come on now, Miss.” The suited man held out his hand and reached into the car, prompting Emily to take it. She stared at it for a while, wondering if his family were here or whether he too knew that the people he loved were going to die. “Miss, there is no time for this.” Emily took his hand, pushed by her mother from behind. Her eyes were downcast as he pulled her from the car, her rucksack trailing behind her in a limp hand. She pulled her blazer across her chest, still feeling foolish for her juvenile protest.

Around her she saw a storeroom. Piles of sheets, boxes of what she thought from the words written on them must be food. She saw people that she recognised from the television, politicians, and maybe, if she wasn’t mistaken, an actor whom she had seen in a movie when she had sat next to Amanda and made adolescent promises. Her father was asking the man wearing the wire about things like time to impact and payload, and as Emily walked along behind him she got the distinct impression that he was in charge. At least in some capacity.

The man in the suit ushered them into a lift, people and the sound of fear all around them. Everybody was shouting and screaming, either in pain or in hope. Emily didn’t know which, but thought there seemed to be little difference between the two emotions right now. There were both men and women crying, joined by other kids who looked as confused as Emily. She tried to smile at one boy, no older than five, but he just stared at her, dumbfounded and in shock.

Inside the lift, elbows and the smell of breath nudged her from almost every angle. Others seemed pleased to have her father around, and they greeted him with the title, Sir. One even made an attempt to shake his hand, but her father’s response was weak and apathetic. The men watched Anthony Grayson, women tried to calm children. Somebody was still crying, the sound of defeat, as if the person knew it was game over. It hurt Emily’s ears, scared her even more than the people who were shouting. But somehow it was still better than the emptiness of silence. Silence made her feel like the world had already disappeared. She slipped a hand into her father’s and felt his grip tighten against her fingers. She pulled her headphones out of her blazer pocket and one at a time placed them in her ears. She drew out her iPod and pressed play. It didn’t matter what music it was. She was just looking for anything to help her hide inside herself, to forget that there was nothing more than a terrifying fragment of the world left. Just as she heard the beginning of Fix You, the lift jolted and stopped. The lights flickered and then went out. The iPod slipped from Emily’s hand and fell to the floor. She pulled her hand from her father’s sweaty grip, but before she could crouch down somebody had stamped on it, breaking the screen. Knees jostled her from both left and right, including one which struck her in the lip. She followed the orange light, her fingers scrambling amongst the panicked feet until she made contact and snatched it back up.

“Emily, Emily,” her father shouted. “Give me your hand.” She felt him grab her, pull her up and close to his chest. He was hurting her again, but this was a different kind of pain, and one she knew arose out of desperation. Light shone down on her as if the sun was rising just above the horizon, and as she looked up she saw her father’s eyes glistening, his pupils darker and wider than the deepest of oceans. The lift had stopped between floors, and another man, probably in his fifties, had already pushed open the escape hatch and had pulled himself through it. The emergency lighting flickered into the lift from inside the shaft like ripples of sunlight through gigantic summer clouds. The man hung his head back into the lift, reaching both hands down, shouting at people to be calm. Anthony Grayson lifted Emily up like an offering to the Gods, a sacrifice, a desperate last prayer before the end of the world for them all to be saved. She felt him lift her above the heads of others whose fingers clawed at her legs and feet. As the hands of the man on top of the lift reached down and took hold of her wrists she heard her father shout from beneath her, his words carrying her upwards.

“Just get her out!”

Chapter Three

There were no Guardians patrolling the thirtieth floor when Zack stepped into the corridor. The children had been rounded up, and once the lights were dimmed there was little to draw people out of their rooms. People retreated, cocooned themselves in their only private space until they were forced to venture out again for the next shift to work for the little that was on offer. Zack neared the end of the corridor and as he turned the corner he saw a pair of Guardians patrolling the lobby near the lifts. They ambled past the doors dressed in their white boiler suits with black epaulets. Both were wearing the black balaclava and cap that made them all look the same. Their Assisters swung behind them and it seemed they always had one hand resting on the handle, ready to strike. They noticed him and took a glance at each other, but continued on their patrol. Usually they didn’t bother you if you weren’t causing any trouble. They knew certain things had to happen after lights out. If you were causing trouble it was a different story.

The light illuminating the numbered buttons continued to descend until it settled on the final destination. Ground Floor. There was no choice to go any further because the final five buttons had been removed from use by a well-aimed butt of an Assister in the early days. Back then people still believed that they could find a way back to the old world, the way it was before the war had destroyed it. They rode the lifts up and down like lost souls somewhere between heaven and hell. They couldn’t accept that neither home nor family existed anymore. Many fights broke out during this time, mainly between people who already knew each other. Colleagues who had sat together at adjacent desks and who had conversed only days before became enemies in the fight to turn back time. That was what Leonard had called it in the first few hours. Then the Guardians came and everything changed.

When the first bomb fell, Zack had thought it a meteor. He even raced to Leonard’s office to tell him to watch. He remembered the meteor that had plummeted to Earth only a few years before in Russia, and afterwards those who had survived told their stories to an awestruck world. Leonard was already at the window when Zack swung through his door, his hands pressed up against the glass. By then the first signs of a cloud had already begun to form, mushrooming upwards in the distance. Leonard and Zack watched together as the sky lit up and the orange blaze tore a wound through their world. It was Leonard that shouted at Zack to get under the desk as the explosion rocked the skeleton of the building. The intensity of the burst grew until it stifled Leonard’s words. He sat crouched in front of Zack, his mouth screaming something inaudible, his words lost in the roar of the explosion. They waited there until the sound of the blast died down and the building rested. It was silence that took over as people waited in their hiding places gripped by fear, interrupted only by the occasional bang or smashing of glass as the city fell apart around them. Together Zack and Leonard stumbled to their feet to take their first look at what was left. Zack’s hearing was muffled and weak and he couldn’t hear what Leonard was saying to him. But he saw that their windows had stood firm. They had been rocked but not broken by the evil that had ripped through their city, now left on the brink of extinction.

At first nobody considered their homes or their family. It was the shock. They had been stunned into nothing more than gratitude for the sparing of their lives. It was only in the hours and days afterwards that reality swelled like the wave of a tsunami, surging forth to claim fresh victims. It was then that people started to realise that there was nothing and nobody else left, and that’s when people started to get scared. Night had descended upon them. The city that would in time become known as New Omega was covered in hot ash, without any hope for the break of another dawn.

The lift doors screeched open to reveal the ground floor lobby, a once-grand entrance to what at one point was the second tallest structure of the capital. There had been a pond here, and fish swam in it. People ate them within the first few days. Everybody was starving. There had been trees here too. The lobby became a sanctuary at first, always full, people from all floors hoping to catch a glimpse of nature, waiting for a saviour to show up and rush through the doors, to tell them there had been a mistake. They sat watching the greenery, motionless in the absence of breeze, trying to ignore the line of faceless Guardians who were all armed with their Assisters and positioned along the perimeter. Within the first year the trees died, and the lobby died with it. It became barren, infertile, and the loss destroyed the dreams of many. It was devoid of decent life, and when the final leaves fell from the trees a lot of people lost hope.

The Guardians were positioned as expected at the entrance to the sublevels as Zack exited the lift. Five subterranean floors that were supposed to be uninhabited, yet they were full of people who remained unaccounted for. When the explosions came the doors were locked and the lifts to the basement decommissioned. The sublevels became an unwanted appendage. People from outside rushed underground from the streets, a place to hide, they thought, until the dust settled and they could return to their homes. But the dust never did settle, and they never made it out. Some of the wealthiest traded their way into the building in the first few days of anarchy. But the rest stayed down there, becoming the underclass, irrespective of where they came from. They mourned in the cold and the dark, tended their wounds and burns the best they could, shivering under coats in corners that didn’t catch the nuclear breeze. But eventually a form of camaraderie took over. They found ways to trade with those above ground. Some braved the fallout and went outside, bringing in things like clothes and blankets from the shops that were not completely destroyed. Others smuggled in alcohol. Others traded the only thing they had, which was themselves, and this brought a steady stream of men from the upper levels once word got out. New Omega soon shut them in, boarded up the basement doors from the outside world. For their own safety they were told.

“Hey, Sam. Croft.” Croft always went by his last name. Zack got the impression that it made him feel more intimidating this way. Less human. Like it was necessary.

“Zack,” they both said in unison like a chorus line. “Coming down to savour the delights below deck again?” Croft smiled to reveal a set of ugly brown teeth through the hole in his balaclava. He chewed tobacco like a Texan cowboy and spat a glob onto a brown patch on the floor. It was against regulation. Zack took a step back.

“You know that’s not my style, Croft. I’m here to do business. Just like always.”

“Level B3 has some good business,” said Sam, nudging Croft in the side which resulted in them both sniggering, celebrating the joke with a high five. Sam was huge, stood at nearly six foot seven, and almost as wide. “Ask for Roxanna. Tell her I sent you.” There was a glint in his eye that Zack didn’t care for, made him think that there was some mutual agreement between him and Roxanna. He knew people had to survive, but he liked to think that people did it off their own bats, not off somebody else’s.

“Why, you get a cut of whatever she gets?” Zack snarled. Sam straightened himself up, puffed up his chest. “Like I said, not my style, Sam. Got some ration cards to give out.”

“What about our cards?” said Croft. “When you gonna top ours up again?” Croft was the dumber of the two. It was a close call, difficult to compare, but he made it. Just made it.

“Soon, just like I said three triple bells ago. Now,” he said, patting Croft on the shoulder, the smell of tobacco escaping from his mouth. “You going to let me through, or is it going to be a dry month ahead for the pair of you?”

As he walked down the steps he passed B1 and B2. He thought about Roxanna on B3 and the deal she had with Sam, and realised that his own life could be harder. The stairs were empty tonight, and there were no drunks blocking his path. Arriving at B4, he pushed open the old fire doors and stepped through. There was no commotion, no chatter, or music. It was dark even by the standards in Delta, and it always took a while for his eyes to adjust. There were several tables filled with silent drinkers, even those in company were mute, choosing not to speak. What was there to say?

There were a few children who had been born since the war, some above and some below ground. Those below ground bore the scars of a war which people didn’t understand. Misshapen heads, missing limbs, bad teeth, swollen throats. The birth of a child didn’t bring new hope anymore. It didn’t bring a future of promise. Instead it raised every question that every one of the 1984 people who were stuck in Delta tower when the bombs landed had asked themselves over and over. There was no question more frequently asked than why did the bombs fall? Who dropped them? Why wasn’t there a warning? Many people suspected the Russians, other people said that the idea was just a conspiracy and that the USA was the real perpetrator. Maybe it was Iran, or Korea, people would counter argue. Omega Tower had never offered any answers. But Omega Tower was all anybody had. Such questions remained unanswered and would do for the rest of people’s lives. People have no other choice but to accept it. They are stuck somewhere between life and death, a death that was offered, but never came.

Zack arrived at the bar and gestured to the barman. Ronson’s face was burnt and puckered and had the appearance of a weathered lunar landscape, cratered and wounded, but stable. One eye had been lost, a victim of the war. Zack always thought how different he would have looked if they still lived in the old world. How such a burn might have been treated by doctors in that time, and people would have commented on what a good job they had done. He would have received a skin graft, Zack thought, or even a face transplant, and maybe his eye would have been saved. In places the wound was still red, like it might still hurt to touch. Sometimes he saw Ronson sitting with his one good eye closed as if he was trying to block out the pain. Physical or mental, he didn’t know.

The walls of the bar were constructed out of old doors from containers that would have at some point sailed the oceans on cargo ships. There was a logo on one of the panels that read NAVIMEG and so that’s what people called the bar.

“Hey, Shiner,” Ronson said. It’s what he called everybody on account of their presence in NAVIMEG. Alcohol was homemade now, and it was strong. Moonshine, Ronson called it. “Take a seat.” Zack sat down onto the stool, an upturned oil barrel, and shuffled about until he was as comfortable as he would get. “Where you been?”

“Hey, Ronny. I’ve been busy. It’s been harder to get here. I’ve been doing extra shifts on account of somebody going on the sick.”

“Extra shifts up on B3, no doubt,” Ronson said with a smirk on the half of his face that moved. Zack wondered if he too was getting a cut. He hoped not. Everybody was obsessed with B3 tonight.

“You know me, Ronson, it’s not…..”

“Yeah I know,” he interrupted. “I’m just pulling your chain. It’s not your style, right? You’re a good kid, Shiner.” Zack was somewhere between thirty two and thirty five years old, he thought, but to Ronson he was still a kid. It was hard to tell Ronson’s age due to the scarring, but he had to be in his late sixties. He wasn’t at work on the day when fire rained from the sky. He was outside in it, and anybody who doubted it just needed to take a look at his face to remember. “Not an angel, though,” he said as he placed a small beaker of Moonshine next to him. “At least I hope you haven’t become one. I take it you got it?”

“I got it,” replied Zack. “Of course I got it.” Zack pulled a small plastic card from the back pocket of his overalls and slid it across the dimpled metallic surface of the bar. Ronson watched as Zack inched the card closer and closer, appearing almost frightened to touch it in case he destroyed its precious value.

“And you are sure it’ll work?” he whispered to Zack as he leaned in close. “Nobody is going to give me any hassle?”

Zack took a hit from the Moonshine, pulling his lips back as if it was painful on the throat. “You go after the second bell tomorrow,” Zack paused, thinking about his choice of words. He had no idea what tomorrow meant anymore because there was no longer any concept of time. Life worked via bells, alarms. You slept when you had the chance between shifts which allowed you to loosely count the days. That’s why he wasn’t sure of his age. In the beginning people counted days by marking the wall like a prisoner or a castaway stranded on an island, but they soon lost track and stopped bothering. There was no sunrise, no dawn, and no sunset. There was just asleep and awake. Shift, and no shift. Exist, or die. No life, or time. “After the first double bell,” he clarified. “Go to the lobby. Sam will be there, and Croft too. Tell them I sent you and show them the card.”

“What if they don’t let me pass?” Ronson said, clutching the card to his chest, even the thought of failure a painful prospect.

“They will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just can. Now listen. Focus,” Zack said. “You go through the lobby and take the far double doors. They are marked Finance and Shipping. Go to the nineteenth floor and turn right out of the door.” Zack stopped and picked up his glass of Moonshine and knocked the rest of it back whilst Ronson used the time to recap the information. Zack waited until Ronson was ready to listen again. “Follow the corridor all the way along. Don’t stop to talk to anybody,” Zack warned, holding up a precautionary finger, “but don’t keep your head down either. Look like you belong there. You remember what that feels like, right?” Ronson nodded and they both smiled.

“What if the Guardians see me?”

“They will see you, but they don’t patrol nineteenth. Half of it is sealed off, but the doors you will use to get in and out are good.”

“Why is it sealed?” Ronson asked, crouching his elbows onto the bar, minimising the distance that information had to travel, in case should get lost along the way and he would remain forever curious.

“In the beginning, when Omega came, they checked every floor. They deemed floor nineteen a no-go zone. Said it was contaminated, that the windows were broken. They boarded everything up. The doors are supposed to be chained, but they’re not anymore. It has a one-way lock, so just push the bar and you’ll be in. Follow the corridor to the stairs. Go up them. I’ll be waiting for you.” Ronson looked pensive, and he held the card to his chest, gripped so tightly that even his knuckles were white. “That stairway is quieter. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

“What if they check me?”

“You’ll be with me.” Zack sat back on his stool, pushed his shot glass towards Ronson’s side of the bar and tapped his fingers. “I’ll take another.”

Ronson slipped the card into his trouser pocket, trousers that were perhaps once brown, but were now a mixture of rust red and black from dirt. He wiped his fingers over his lips, pursed and contracted by the wonder of possibility. He picked up the clear unmarked bottle and poured another Moonshine without looking at Zack. After setting the bottle down he scanned his fingers, brown and scaly, encrusted with years of filth. He ran his fingertips over his forearms before they eventually found their way up to his face, resting on his scars. “But they’ll know. They’ll know that I don’t belong. They’ll take one look at me and they’ll know it.” He covered as much of his scar with his hand as possible, his fingertips resting into the scarred shut eye socket, his palm against his cheek as if he was still shocked at the thought of what had happened to him. “They’ll never let me pass.”

“Listen,” said Zack taking a sip from the beaker. “It’s true. It’s obvious that you weren’t there originally. Even if you were unlucky and still somehow got that scar that you’re trying to hide from me up there,” he said, pointing above ground, “it would still be impossible that people wouldn’t remember you. Wear this,” Zack said, taking off his deerstalker hat. “This’ll cover most of it.” Ronson positioned the hat and traced the outline of it against his skin. Zack couldn’t help but smile when Ronson realised that the scar was almost covered. It was as if the hat could turn back time. Time that neither of them counted anymore. “You see?” Ronson nodded, smiled, and filled up Zack’s glass before grabbing a dirty cloth and mopping up some sort of spill that wasn’t really there.

Zack picked up his third Moonshine and swivelled around on the old barrel. He heard Ronson say that he would go and get the trade and Zack nodded in agreement. But Zack’s attentions were already elsewhere. There was a woman with a child, a boy about ten, maybe eleven years old. The boy’s cheeks were the same sullen grey of the clouds outside, a mixture of light and dark as the shadows cast on the hollows of his face. He sat listlessly on a chair at the woman’s side, his hands dropped into his lap. He didn’t move or cry. He noticed Zack looking at him, and Zack smiled, waved to try and get him to respond. The boy half smiled, revealing a set of brown teeth, and perhaps if Zack’s eyes didn’t betray him, a set of shrivelled and receded gums. Some of the teeth were missing. It was the radiation. Zack ran his tongue along the back of his own full set. The smooth, intermittently interrupted sensation of enamel against flesh reminded him that in some ways at least, he was one of the lucky ones. It was hard to remember that sometimes, but it was true.

There were also a few other men, single men sitting balanced on tables or makeshift stools. In one corner a woman with dirty blonde hair tied into a topknot, and who might or might not have been Roxanna, was chatting up the liveliest of the drinkers. One of the other men was sitting on an old tea chest and Zack mused that the man looked like a cast member from one of the West End shows that used to play not so far from here. He looked like he should break into song.

In the far corner with her head resting on the wall, there was a girl that looked out of place. She didn’t belong here. Her clothes were too clean, her face a shade of flesh rather than dirt grey. Her skin actually looked pink. Pink in the cheeks, as if she was healthy. He watched her a while as she sat with her back against the wall, her head tipped to the side. She was stationary, mentally somewhere else with the only exception her foot, which was moving to a beat, something he hadn’t seen in years. She was feeling something, as if she was listening to music. Her hair was also blonde. But it was nothing like the other woman in the bar. It looked clean. He imagined that it might smell like rosemary or sage, but then realised that such ideas were just words now, and that he had no idea what rosemary or sage even smelt like anymore.

The girl was young, and actually looked it. He hadn’t seen something this perfect, something that looked so much like life before the war in so long. The sight of her was addictive, and before he was aware of what he was doing, he was moving towards her, absorbed in the vision of the past. She realised whilst he was still approaching, and she straightened herself up in the makeshift tea chest chair.

“Hello,” he said, awed as if he had seen an angel descend to Earth. “Can I sit with you?” She didn’t say anything but she moved back on the chest and nodded her head. She pulled her sleeves to cover her hands. White clothes, actually white, he thought as he spotted them, not grey or brown or green from mould. White. “I’m Zack,” he said holding out his hand. He sat on a metallic box at her side. She watched his gesture as if it was an infection moving towards her, even edging further back. She didn’t offer her hand in return. Zack dropped his hand in his lap, embarrassed, so he shuffled the box underneath him for a distraction. From up close her skin was almost translucent, like a new and alien race. People just didn’t look like this anymore. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I’ve seen you.” She was staring at him from behind an unbreakable wall of judgement. Under her scrutiny he felt the onset of an unreasonable sense of shame as he looked down at his finger tips and his dry dusty skin. He dragged his palm over his hair, still messy from where he had pulled the deerstalker hat from his head. “I’ve watched you in here before. You’re a trader, aren’t you? You take things from people.”

Her direct approach captured his tongue, sucked him dry of words. It was true that he was a trader, and he was waiting for Ronson to provide his reward for the illicit water ration card. But it seemed that she had already made up her mind about him, and her conclusion wasn’t favourable. This angel before him had judged that his intentions were selfish, that he was a chancer who was out for himself, and that he had no place in the heaven from which she came.

“I trade things, yes,” Zack finally managed, his hair now smoothed into place after a lot of effort. “But for something that people want.” He felt a desperate urge to justify himself, to prove to her that he was good. That he wasn’t what she had assumed. “For things people need.”

“What about the things they have to give up? What is he going to give you? Free drink? Drugs? Or maybe he is giving you something he needs. Something he can’t afford to lose, but doesn’t have a choice.” She pulled her hands in close to her armpits, her shoulders hunched up. “Isn’t life comfortable enough for you already up there,” she said, tipping her head towards the ground level and above, “without taking from the people down here?” She was about to stand up when he reached out and took her hand. She snatched it back but the shock of his touch was enough that it stopped her in her tracks.

“Don’t tell me you don’t do it too,” Zack said. “What are you trading? Everybody trades because there is no other choice in New Omega.” He knew as soon as he had finished saying it, the emphasis all on the you, that he had implied that she was trading herself. He wished he could take it back, but there was part of him that thought that she deserved it. She had been quick to judge him too, so why should he not judge her?

“What are suggesting?” she snapped.

He swallowed hard. “Look at you.” He figured once he had started, he might as well continue. “You must be getting extra rations. No way do you eat the shit I eat day after day. Got a deal with one of the Guardians, have you?” He looked her up and down, his initial admiration for her angelic presence banished by her harsh and unjust scrutiny of his actions. How dare she judge him? She didn’t answer, just sneered, her nose flared, the corners of her mouth turned down in disgust.

“Whatever,” she said as she stood up.

“Not got so much to say now, huh? Who is it? Sam? Croft? One of the others?”

“I don’t need to say anything to justify myself to you.” She wasn’t looking at Zack anymore, instead her eyes were focussed on the bar, and a smirk settled on her otherwise sour looking face. “At least I was right about you.”

Zack looked up just in time to see Ronson approach. He sidled up close and passed a dirty edged and frayed cushion into his lap. “There you go, Shiner. And a little something for your troubles.” Ronson placed a small once-white tablet on the dimpled metal table top that would have once shone and glistened under the sunlight in a bistro or cafe. It rolled like the mangled slug from a gun, settling in one of the divots made through damage, fights, time, or a mixture of all three.

“Like I said,” the girl said as she leant back across the table. “You take the things he needs, and the things you don’t.” She motioned her eyes in turn from the cushion to the tablet, all the while her head shaking. The tablet was lumpy and poorly formed. A homemade concoction that offered an hour of dreaming. An hour of escape from Delta Tower.

“Don’t you dare judge me,” Zack said as he too stood up, knocking the table. He was surprised at her height. He was over six foot tall and she matched him inch for inch, her aqua green eyes level with his. For a moment he thought he heard the sound of the ocean, like when as a child he would convince himself that he could hear the waves in an upturned conch shell. He could almost smell the salt as the summer heat burned it from the surface of a calm sea.

“Come on now, Shiner,” Ronson said, breaking Zack’s trance as he placed a cautionary hand against his chest. He was still wearing the deerstalker and it was true that even up close the scar was almost fully covered. “Take it easy.”

“All I was doing was trying to be nice, Ronny,” Zack said, ignoring the girl. “I just wanted to talk to somebody.”

“Come sit at the bar. Talk to me. Take your pill,” Ronson said as he picked up the puckered tablet. Zack watched as the smirk grew across her face. “Don’t let this get to you. It’s nothing.” The pressure underneath Ronson’s palm was growing until eventually with the girl still watching him, even as the distance between them grew, Zack started walking back to the bar. He sat down on the oil barrel stool from where he had got up only moments before. He picked up the tablet and the shot of Moonshine that Ronson had poured him without asking, and knocked them both straight back. His head was starting to swim, and he could feel his eyes drooping heavier than lead shutters. He slammed his beaker back down onto the flimsy bar top, shaking the structure from its base to its surface before standing to walk away. Just before he walked through the door of NAVIMEG he turned and said to Ronson, “After the double bell, got it?” Ronson nodded, and as Zack’s eyes scanned the room for the final time he saw that the girl who had ruined his evening had already left. Still pissed at her ignorance, and as drunk on that as he was the Moonshine, he took the stairs two at a time. Several times he stubbed his toe and only just managed to correct his balance before he fell. He stopped on each level and scanned the crowds for her face and her golden hair which cascaded over her shoulder like a waterfall. He ignored the crowds making trades, most as high as he was. He paid no attention to the girls who offered themselves, pushing their flimsily covered bodies away. But by the time he got to the surface, the ground level where life was supposed to flourish and where he used to believe it was possible for dreams to come true, he still hadn’t found her.

Chapter Four

“Take my hand!” The arms stretched forwards from within the darkness, and as her father lifted her up, Emily felt the man snatch at her wrists. The man pulled her up and pushed her backwards. Emily rolled away from him towards the edge of the lift. She sat up, pushing herself upright with both palms and she saw the man lunging himself back into the hatch from where she herself had been dragged. There was an electronic whirring coming from above her as some sort of generator kicked in, and the emergency lighting flickered on and off in time with the sound of the electronics. She could feel the lift rocking underneath her, and the steel girders which held the whole thing in place groaned as they flexed. The whole thing was being shaken from the outside, crumpled and moulded against its will.

“Dad!” Emily cried, trying to poke her head back towards the hatch. “Get my Dad out!”

“Get away from the opening, Emily,” shouted the man whose head was hanging into the hatch. He knew her name but she couldn’t place his face. Maybe it was the lighting. His skin was lit up green like a cartoon character, shadows cast by intermittent light, and his eyes sunk in endless dark sockets. “It’s not safe. We have to be quick.” He pulled up another woman who blocked Emily’s view. She was crying and seemed hysterical. She told Emily to calm down, that everything would be alright. It might as well have been her mother speaking.

The third person to be brought up through the hatch was Helena Grayson. As she got to her knees on the top side of the lift Emily thought how quiet her mother seemed. She wasn’t crying, or causing a commotion. Nothing like what Emily expected and nothing like the first woman. She looked at Emily and said only one word.

“Focus.”

She said it with a cold conviction that Emily was not used to, and it came out as an instruction which she wouldn’t dare ignore. Emily stuffed the iPod back into her pocket and clutched at her mother’s wrist. By the time the big man was finishing hauling up bodies through the hatch there was only one left. Emily’s father. He came out sweating, his face red, his cheeks puffed out and hair lopsided as if he had woken from a nightmare. There was another child in their group. A small girl who reached up for Emily’s free hand. The hand was warm and slick, much like she imagined her own would feel to her mother.

“Mum, what’s happening,” said Emily, as she watched the big man who had pulled them from the lift ascend a ladder on the inside of the shaft. The girders were still groaning their disapproval as he climbed step after step. Emily was sure that he was too heavy. His feet chinked against the metal bars, dust spraying out underneath him, flickering like plankton as it passed the wall-mounted lights. He reached the doors of the next floor and stepped off the ladder onto the shelf. He grunted, pulling at the lift doors, shards of light filtering through from the other side of the door, there one minute, gone the next as he failed to hold them open.

The man called back down. “Sir, I can’t get them open,” and without answering, Emily’s father was skimming up the ladder, swifter and more athletically than the first, portly man. Together they prised the doors apart with their finger tips and light poured through to reveal the inner working of the lift shaft, the only time Emily could remember the light making something more terrifying than the dark.

In turn they all climbed the ladder, their footsteps the sound of raindrops striking against a tin roof. Emily was pushed forwards, her mother behind her. “Move, Emily,” she said. “Focus.” On three separate occasions Emily stopped, her fear of heights gripping her as tightly as she herself gripped the rungs of the ladder. Each time her mother pushed her, screamed at her to focus as she coughed up the dust dislodged by Emily’s feet. Tears flowed across their faces making tracks in the dirt covering their cheeks. As Emily stepped from the ladder she was dragged into the doorway by the big man. Her father grabbed her, his hands gripping her face as he shouted, “Run down this corridor, Emily. Wait by the door at the other end.”

Emily nodded and did as she was told, not waiting for anybody to follow. Her legs were like jelly, her heart beating as violently as thunder. For a moment she was alone, and the isolation and fear was suffocating. Her throat was dry, the taste of dust and cement from the lift shaft stuck in her mouth. She stopped as the corridor opened out like a river delta into a wide glass atrium. She looked up, her hands balanced on her knees, her lungs panting. She was encased in glass all the way around, a protective dome without which she would have already choked from the thick ashes that she could see falling through the air outside. The glass above her was covered in grey soot that reminded her of Christmas morning, but a warped, unfamiliar version. In the distance she saw the orange glow, concentric rings of smoke billowing not only outwards, but upwards and pluming like a delicate fountain of death.

If she had been there only moments before, she would have seen the paint lift from the buildings and the cars as the heat wave tore through. She would have watched as the nebulous wave ripped across the land as if it had been cast out from the sky. She would have seen the trees buckle under the force of the highest winds, hundreds of years old oaks destroyed as if they were nothing but saplings. If she were higher up, she would be able to see the fireball galloping towards her, only minutes away from where she stood. She looked outside, her mouth wide open, hypnotised by the sight of destruction all around her. In that moment she heard nothing of the footsteps behind her as she watched the tempest growing in strength. Her father scooped her into his arms and carried her like a limp ragdoll, jiggling about over his shoulder.

“Don’t look at it, Emily,” he said, and she closed her eyes, dust falling from her eyelashes with each step he took.

She clung to his neck like a small child as he negotiated the stairs. Step after step they travelled down into the dark. She sensed the light disappearing through her closed eyelids. Even the kaleidoscopic light patterns that usually played out there, which were always most vibrant right before sleep, failed to appear.

When her father stopped running she dared to pull her head from inside the creases of his neck. They were in a large room, sparsely decorated and crammed full of people. He sat on the floor, Emily cradled in his arms like a baby, his fingers weaving in and out of her hair as he kissed her forehead. When he pulled his lips away they were covered in dust. She saw her mother at her side, her lips pressed into the cross which she wore around her neck, her head rocking backwards and forwards.

“Sir?” a voice said above them. The big man from the lift. The man who had first pulled her out. He had saved them all, perhaps?

“Yes, Vincent?”

“The site is secure.” She felt her father nod and his grip tighten.

“And the others?”

“Sir, we won’t know anything until they transmit the first of the reports. We expect that won’t be for several hours. Perhaps days.” The big man who had saved her life, and who Emily now knew as Vincent smiled at her before standing up straight and walking away.

“Daddy?” Emily said. Her breath fluctuated against his neck, and it sent a tingle racing across his scalp just like in the first days after her birth. Her breath was hot, and he thought how the life within her offered him more comfort than any of the preparations around him.

“Yes, baby?” he asked.

“When are we going to go home?”

He swallowed hard before saying, “We are home, baby,” and he stroked her damp cheeks with his thumb. Her mother was still praying, and there was somebody close by who was crying. The same women from the lift? She could hear their snivelling and somehow in spite of everything that was already happening, it was this sound that seemed unbearable. It was the sad whimper for a life lost. Some people were moving about by torchlight, men dressed as Vincent was. Some women too. One of them had jet black hair, like a raven, shiny like a white swan caught in an oil slick. She smiled at Emily, who mustered a half smile in return, before the woman continued to hand out blankets to people nearby, assisted by her torch. Vincent came back, draped a blanket over Emily, and stroked her hair before he stood up. She closed her eyes and thought about the log fire that they wouldn’t light in their real home at Christmas. She thought about the table that she wouldn’t set on Sunday and how the fancy bone-handled knives somehow didn’t seem so fancy anymore. She peeped underneath the blanket at her T-shirt and realised that she could try all she liked, and protest all she wanted. She could imagine the impossible to be possible, or disbelieve what she was told to be true. She could want and hope and dream of a different life, but in this moment she realised that there is only ever one version of reality. The one you are in. It didn’t matter how bleak or hopeless it was. But more than anything she realised that sometimes to do nothing was the only choice you had.

Chapter Five

Do you wake up in the morning feeling negative and tired? Do you crave sleep when you have just woken up? Does your skin look grey, even when you have just finished bathing? You could be suffering from a low blood count. Now, at the special price of only one hundred and twenty credits……

The same voice over and over all day long. It was the same advert. He had heard it three times already this morning. Zack was getting to the point where he was beginning to wonder if his skin really was that grey, or if he was just being programmed to believe it to be. He turned over on the flimsy metal bed that reminded him of a Victorian hospital, the mattress and springs creaking under the shift in weight. Leonard had already fallen asleep when Zack got back from the bar last night, so he had discarded the pillow at the side of the door. At least he thought he had been asleep. He couldn’t really remember. He pulled his own pillow over his face. It was too thin and old to be deemed comfortable, and it had an aroma that was something like morning breath mixed with dust. He sandwiched his fists against his ears, muffling the sounds of life in Delta Tower.

Register now for your chance to wake up feeling fresher, revitalised, with a whole new perspective on life. Say goodbye to the early morning blues. The Omega Transfusion can give you a new outlook and a fresh start. Start feeling like your Omega-self today.

Zack scrunched his eyes tighter than his fists at the sides of his head. He sucked in the smell of the dusty pillow. He started humming in an effort to stifle the sounds as they played out in the corridor, those that offered the chance of another reality that he wasn’t a part of.

“Fuck you, Omega,” he screamed into the pillow, before coughing up the dust that was settling at the back of his throat. Even the thought of the words scrolling along the bottom of the screen, Blood taken only from Omega Tower Citizens, was enough to piss him off. He pulled the pillow from his face, tossed it across the room, the corner of it landing in his water bucket. As if having the blood of somebody from Omega running through his veins would give him a glimpse of The Omega Life, or make him start feeling like his Omega-self, whatever that was. Human, maybe, he mused.

Do you wake up itching first thing in the morning? Do you suffer with red patches on your wrists or armpits? You could be suffering from scabies. Be a responsible citizen of New Omega and STOP the scabies mite now! Your tower is your responsibility. For only eighty credits you can be treated quickly and effectively and your pain and itching can be eradicated. Treatment is available now in your tower.

Zack tossed left and right, a scream bubbling just underneath the surface like the growl of a lion. Was there was no drowning it out? He would have found the eighty credits, damn it, even the one hundred and twenty if paying it would stop the adverts. He always felt like this after one of Ronson’s concoctions. Why did he never learn? He shot up from the bed like one of the old springs of the mattress had finally broken free, his head pounding.

“I haven’t got it!” he yelled at nobody. “I haven’t got scabies. I haven’t got…..” He was interrupted by the knocking of his door. He opened it to see Leonard standing on the other side in the same clothes he was in the night before, just like Zack was wearing, and just like every other citizen of Delta Tower. There was a small group of children playing musical rags in the corridor, only it was without the music because none of the children were old enough to know what real music sounded like. In its place they sang the perma-happy jingles from the adverts as if they too were conspiring with Omega Tower to get you to work harder for extra credits. Brainwashing, Zack thought.

“So, you haven’t got scabies. I think the whole of level thirty knows that now.” Leonard was smiling, an impulse of anticipation running through him. “But you do look terrible,” he said as he began inspecting Zack’s face, even raising a thumb up to his cheek and pulling down on it so that he could see the inside of his eye socket. “Didn’t you sleep last…..” He stopped talking as his eyes fell on the pillow that Zack had discarded by the door. “Is that it? Is that for me?” Leonard didn’t wait for a reply and instead crouched down, one hand on his knee for support, and scooped up the cushion as if he was picking up a newborn baby.

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Zack, calming down thanks to the distraction of conversation. “Told you I would get it. You were asleep when I got back. I could hear you snoring.” This was a lie, but it could have been true. The dust in Delta irritated Leonard’s nose and not many sleeps passed without Zack being disturbed by Leonard’s breathing.

Leonard caressed and squeezed the pillow with his crooked fingers, oblivious to the marks and stains on the cover which no doubt penetrated all the way through. He folded it over double and with both hands brought it up to his ear, tipping his head lopsided to meet it. Without another word Leonard began hobbling out of Zack’s room and into his own, where he placed the pillow on top of another one, equally thin and stained, and he swung his feet up onto the bed. Zack followed him to the door. It was hard not to feel sad that such a small and pathetic offering could instil such contentment, but Leonard’s feelings were genuine. Contentedness was a hard emotion to evoke in Delta Tower. He imagined, in any of the towers. Perhaps with the exception of Omega, where no doubt everybody always felt like their Omega-self.

“Are you sure you didn’t get in trouble for this?” Zack shook his head. “It’s wonderful. Tonight I’ll be able to sleep and tomorrow I’ll be able to meet my quota, save up my credits.”

“It was no problem,” Zack said, feeling pleased at the positivity that his actions had created. He had made somebody happy. He had made somebody’s life easier. If only he had learnt to do that before the bombs came. “Plus, I got a little something for my efforts.” Leonard sat up, looked at Zack as if he were looking over an invisible pair of glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“You ought to stay away from that stuff they concoct down there. Go down, do your business, and get out. You don’t know what they’re cooking up.”

“An escape, my friend,” said Zack as he pushed Leonard aside and tested out the pillows. He pursed his lips in experimental appreciation. “Not bad. Not bad.” He sat back up, both of them on the edge of the bed like a couple of nervous teenagers. “Don’t worry about me, Leo. I’m alright.”

“You won’t be if you take that junk.” Leonard shook his head left to right, disappointed that it was his request that had sent him down there. “At least I know why you look so rough today.”

“I always look this rough,” Zack said standing up. “Shall we?” Zack pulled Leonard’s ration card from the wall-mounted box and handed it to him as they left the room.

After Zack had retrieved his own card, he and Leonard walked along the corridors to the Food Hall. There were three Food Halls in Delta tower. One on fifth, which was only for the Guardians. They were the people who worked for the Department for Behavioural Regulation and Order, and they supposedly protected the tower and kept order. There were stories of improved rations, better food, and you only had to look one of the Guardians to know it was true. Fifth floor was like their epicentre, as legendary and elusive as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. There was no other place in Delta Tower where you would find a higher concentration of Guardians all in one place, or so he had heard. You couldn’t even get through the doors of fifth floor, and the lift needed a key in order to select that destination. There was another on the upper floors, forty seventh Zack thought, where nobody bothered to go if they didn’t have to. The other was on twenty fifth, the place that Zack and Leonard ate.

“You do know they have announced another lottery, don’t you?” Leonard said, breaking the silence as they pushed open the doors to the Food Hall. The noise hit Zack like a mallet right between the eyes. His head was throbbing and he needed water. Stat.

“No,” Zack said, his head shooting round, his eyes following shortly afterwards. His brain felt like it was grating against his skull. Whatever was in that tablet, or the Moonshine, had left him feeling like utter shit. He had obviously missed the news about the lottery in the same way he had missed the first bell. But with the thought of another lottery it was impossible not to allow the mind to wander into the realm of fantasy. Just imagine the outcome if his number, eight thousand six hundred and fifty two, was the number drawn. Without thinking, the thumb from his right hand reached over and worked its way over the black numbers and triangle tattooed onto his left wrist.

“Yeah. It was announced last night. I’m surprised that you didn’t hear anything about it on your way back upstairs.”

“I was pretty wasted,” Zack admitted. Leonard shook his head again. “When will it be?” He looked around the Food Hall at the people waiting in line. At first he had thought his headache responsible for his intolerance of the noise, but on second glance he could see that there was a buzz about the place. A new Omega Lottery always did this to people. It stirred them up, gave them a new topic, a new hope. It was the Cinderella tale that everybody hoped would be theirs.

“They just announced soon.” The excitement on Leonard’s face had been replaced by a hint of something from the past. Disappointment. Zack could detect it well. It was the last emotion he took with him from the old world. “You know, that stuff has really started messing with your brain, Zachary. What am I going to tell you? Next Saturday? What day do you think it is today? Neither of us have a clue what day it is so how would they be able to announce when it will be?” Zack couldn’t bring himself to agree, even though he knew Leonard was right. He reached over and picked up a food tray, hoping that eating would help his hangover.

The time between now and the lottery would be different to normal. People would be talkative, interested in their neighbour all of a sudden. There would be sporadic outbreaks of fighting and arguments over items like water, food, or clothing. People no longer knew how to manage how they felt, because they had got so used to not feeling anything positive that when you threw excitement and hope into the mix it disrupted the balance. With the lottery happening, people would be bombarded by emotions which they had buried. The realisation of what their lives had become would surface. Like oil on water. A new lottery disturbs their ability for acceptance. They realise for one person there will be another future. That it could be them. That there might be something left worth fighting for, even if the battle is out of their hands. Zack wondered if Leonard knew that he wasn’t eligible on account of his age. Perhaps he was just playing along, like with a television game show at home with no chance at the cash prize.

“Your tray,” said the server. Zack handed it over, chipped and worn and only just about serviceable. Into it the server placed a ladle of porridge, salt and sugar free Zack assumed, if his memory of those tastes served him well. There was a small square of bread that tasted like half-baked dough and was always flat and unleavened. Leonard was ahead, already sitting at one of the tables. Zack walked over, acknowledging a few familiar faces as he did.

“There is no point in this lottery anyway. I’m not saying that it’s not a nice idea,” Zack said as he sat down next to Leonard. “But tell me. How does the Omega Lottery help?” The adverts were streaming in over the hum of the crowd. The television was louder today, no doubt turned up to account for the extra excitement. This one was advertising better-quality antibiotics. Zack took a mouthful of tasteless porridge. “When it’s over we’ll all feel like shit again because we all lost another chance. I’ve told you before, nobody ever wins from Delta.”

“But just think of the person who does win,” Leonard mused, his eyes glazing over as he stared ahead, lost in a dream. The call of hunger lured him back, and he picked up his spoon and shovelled the porridge into his mouth. “Imagine a different life. Haven’t you seen the lobby of Omega? They still have the trees. They play a new sky program over there now, projected onto the windows. You see daylight all day long. Until you choose to turn it off. It’s as if there is life beyond the walls.”

“It’s not real daylight,” Zack replied, more cynically than intended. He could imagine it all right. He had seen the adverts, and he knew what it looked like. Compared to where he lived now, it looked like heaven. It hurt to think of it. It made reality worse. More real.

“I know it’s not real daylight,” Leonard said, undisturbed, his spirit unimpeded. “But it’s a start. Imagine not having to look at that all day long.” Leonard motioned his spoon towards the window and Zack’s eyes followed his hand. The grey clouds hung as low as ever, the buildings sat desolate, destroyed, and empty of life. Most of them had been razed from the soil. Only the distant towers of Gamma, Theta, and Zeta were visible from here. Zeta had to be over two miles away. Their nearest neighbour. From the Food Hall on level twenty five they couldn’t see Omega at all.

“You don’t need their sky program,” Zack said. “God himself is shining down on you, isn’t he?” Leonard’s face contorted from confusion. “Lights that only you can see coming through the clouds, remember? Sunlight just for you like some sort of message from above. You must be the next disciple. Maybe you’re The One. I should start calling you Neo.” Zack gave him a nudge in the arm, but his joke seemed as tasteless to Leonard as the food.

“Who is Neo?” Leonard asked.

“Never mind,” Zack laughed.

“I know what you think.” Leonard pulled his tray in closer to him, stirred his lump of porridge. “But you’re wrong. It’s happening. I can feel it and I can see that the world is waking up.” He poked his spoon at the unleavened bread. It cracked into tiny pieces. “Can’t even make bread, stupid son of a…..”

“Hey, OK,” Zack said as he rested his hand on Leonard’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make fun.” Leonard looked up at Zack and pushed his plastic food tray away. Zack reached across and pulled it back towards him. “Come on. Don’t leave your food.” Leonard jabbed at the shrapnel-like pieces of bread and scooped them into the compartment with the porridge.

“You have to let people have their dreams in this place, Zachary.” He spooned a tasteless lump into his mouth, turning his nose up as he swallowed it down, as if he still hadn’t learned to stomach the taste. They wouldn’t eat again until after the triple bell, the one that signalled that work was finished for the shift. “It’s necessary.”

The silence remained as sure as the heavy clouds themselves, which they both stared at to avoid the awkwardness. Leonard stirred at his unleavened bread, eating small sections at a time because it bothered his poorly-fitting false teeth. His gums, like everything, had shrunk, rendering his teeth too mobile to eat something so crispy. Zack handed him a piece of his own which was indeed softer, and Leonard took it. A peace offering. Zack motioned to the television and the familiar theme song that sounded like an old game show began to play. A hush fell over the Food Hall and all eyes turned like the point of a compass towards north.

“It’s the Omega Lottery,” Leonard said, his words stuttering as excitement got the better of him. “It’s about to start.” The screen filled with lights and clapping as the theme tune faded out. Daley Cartwell’s orange face and over white teeth burst onto the screen. His hair was as shiny as his suit, a pale lemon colour that made him look like a canary. He smiled and smiled, as if he himself might be the one to win the prize. As if he himself was awarding it.

“I don’t…..” Zack began.

“Sshh,” Leonard hissed, before turning back to the screen.

Welcome, welcome, welcome, everybody one and all to the sixth Omega Lottery. Citizens of New Omega, we are about to open our doors to you once again, and prove to you all how we are rebuilding the world we have lost. Isn’t that great?

He paused for a moment of appreciation. The crowds in Omega Tower clapped.

Citizens of New Omega, near and far. From Alpha to Theta. You have your numbers. Some of you have more than one. Some of you still have time and credit available to get yourself more. The draw will be broadcast on all television screens. The lucky winner will be contacted without delay and will be brought here to Omega Tower where he or she will begin their new life with us. They will take the stepping stone to help in building a better future for us all, where we can all live in freedom once again. It’s a challenge, right? Are you up to it? We sure hope so. Because your future is our future. Together we can build it. In time we will live again as one.

The lottery advertisement cut straight to a treatment for head lice, thirty credits, available now. It seemed like quite a good deal, or so Zack thought. Leonard was almost bald, save a few straggly lengths of hair at the back, which in here was probably an advantage.

“Well, I guess you never know,” said Zack, still aware that the air between them seemed as clear as the air beyond the walls of Delta Tower. “You just never know. Imagine. Imagine the chance to leave this place.” He felt it his duty to get excited about the lottery, to show interest after he had ridiculed the idea of the lights again. He had promised himself he wouldn’t mock Leonard’s beliefs, but he had gone and done it anyway.

“Eh,” Leonard replied dismissively, “whatever.” The negativity of Leonard’s response made Zack consider that even without the glasses he knew Leonard needed, that he too must have seen the subtitles scrolling along the screen. No over sixties. Nobody under sixteen. They had no idea how old they were anymore, but he would bet that Omega knew. Leonard had been discarded by the only civilisation he had left, and he felt it. He wasn’t part of the planned future, just a leftover from the past. Something to be stored and contained until its time was depleted. He was no longer required. No longer needed. No longer valuable. Zack decided not to push it.

“Yeah, like you say, it’s never going to be anyone from Delta Tower.” He spooned in the last mouthful of porridge, gulped it down. “Anyway, if your lights become something, none of us will need a lottery.”

Bravado aside, Zack couldn’t help but fantasise that there might only be a few more bell cycles left of living In Delta Tower. It was an intoxicating feeling, the chance at something new. The prospect of a second chance, when he could leave the carbon copy days behind. He imagined a Food Hall that didn’t smell, the pillow that didn’t taste. He imagined that he might be sitting in a chair rather than at a bench, with something other than vitamin-enriched porridge and dry unleavened bread to eat. The thought of flavour made him salivate and the thought of warmth made him almost want to cry. The idea of new clothes, of running water, of all the simple things that made him still yearn for his old life. His old apartment where he had a television of his own that he enjoyed watching. A cat that used to keep him company. Where Samantha came to visit before he let her down, and before life conspired to destroy any chance he may have had to make it right. The idea of the lottery had forced him to imagine a life of something worthwhile. Something other than existence, and a life where perhaps he could atone for his sins.

The first double bell sounded, the end of breakfast. Zack made his excuses to Leonard, which fell upon a sombre mood thanks to a combination of his own doing and his exclusion from the Omega Lottery, and headed down to level twenty.

Chapter Six

Zack waited about five feet away from the stairway, turning a pebble-like piece of glass around in his pocket. There was no chance of missing Ronson from here. Although there was no such thing as late anymore, because nobody had any idea what the time was, there was still that feeling of urgency in the execution of a plan well made. Several Guardians had passed him and he had tried to look casual. Some of them he thought he knew, some of them he was sure he didn’t. The stairway from level nineteen that led to level twenty had always seemed to Zack an obvious place to position a Guardian if they had really wanted to prevent people getting into Delta Tower from the sublevels below. But there was never one there. It made him believe that the bidirectional filtering of people both up and down was an accepted fact of Delta life. An essential part of it. Delta provided clothes, a bed for most, and a ration of water and food. It enabled you to survive. But to live is not only to survive. To live is to feel, to experience. To enjoy, to love, to belong. These were lost senses in Delta, and the underclass that dwelled beneath their city in the sublevels and occasionally filtered above ground, had done something to restore them.

It was true that those people who dwelled in the sublevels beneath the scorched land suffered. There were post-war diseases, and many of the children got thyroid cancer. Zack couldn’t look at them as they pottered around unaware of the significance of their swollen necks. Others, like the boy in the bar the night before, had bad teeth. Once Zack had seen a baby born down there. He had arrived towards the end of a six hour struggle. There was another man there. A doctor. Zack’s first thought had been one of hope. He imagined the excitement of a new child and the celebrations that would ensue. The only time that pain didn’t seem to matter. But as soon as Zack saw the child he knew it wasn’t good. The child was blue, the cord stuck around its neck. The man claiming to be a doctor turned to Zack and said I can’t do anything. I just can’t do anything.

The mother held the child until it died, blood pouring out of her, seeping into the trousers of the doctor as he kneeled in front of her. She kept saying over and over My baby. My baby. Zack held the woman close to him, tried to warm her whilst the doctor worked to save her. Zack knew she was dying from the way her breathing weakened, a sort of innate human knowledge because he had never seen anybody die before. He wasn’t sure which of them died first. Afterwards he and the doctor carried them outside, dropped them into the ashes of their old world. It was the only time he stepped into the dust left behind from the war, before the exits were boarded up. It didn’t matter to him that it might be this very act that would eventually take his own life in the years to come. He gazed out across the barren dust-covered wasteland, the only sound the wind and their feet on the ground. He knew in that moment, when he saw the ruins of the old world, that there was nothing left for him but Delta. He didn’t go beneath the surface of the ground for what were probably years after that.

He caught the first glimpse of the deerstalker hat coming into view. Zack moved towards the door and as Ronson walked through it he wedged the pebble of broken glass in the locking mechanism. He held the door until it rested onto the glass stopper and then scooped his hand around Ronson’s waist. “Just keep walking,” Zack said as they paced along the corridor. “That door will stay like that. Pull the glass out on your way back, ok?” Ronson nodded.

“I don’t think much of your contact, Zack,” Ronson said, puffing as they walked alongside each other. His hands were fidgeting with the edge of the hat to ensure that the scar was covered.

“Who?”

“That Guardian, Sam. Right full of himself, he is. Asked me what business I had going up where I didn’t belong. Told him to ask you if he had any problems. Don’t know if you’re going to be in trouble.”

“No, I won’t be,” said Zack, an angry fist forming in his pocket. “It’ll be Sam that regrets it when he doesn’t get his water supply topped up any time soon. Sorry about that. He is kind of an ass.”

“All of the Guardians are. Anyway, I don’t care. It’s worth it. Fresh water. It’ll be like heaven.” Zack could see that they both coveted the next step up. The lottery had infiltrated his thoughts since the announcement by Daley Cartwell, the only thing close to a celebrity in New Omega. As much as he wished that he could be satisfied with his present life, and as much as he tried not to compare it with the past, it was impossible. Zack watched Ronson as his head twitched left and right, taking in the details of the building, his fascination with the walls, the ceiling, the buzz of the lights, no matter how broken they were. It must be his first time above ground. As Ronson approached the first door, his hand was outstretched metres in advance, ready and excited to grip the handle and turn it. A mechanism that worked, as it was intended. Something that had survived. He even glanced back as they passed through the door and neared the water treatment plant. Ronson dreamt of a life as good as this. And yet for Zack this place was like a prison, somewhere he was trapped without options. His entrapment in Delta felt like his punishment, his penance for the wrong that he had done in the moments before the bombs fell. The wrong that he never got a chance to undo. The thought that this could all be behind him soon was like a hallucinogenic drug, heavy on the tongue and rich in fantasy. But it wasn’t just the new surroundings he craved. It was forgiveness. A chance to forgive himself. To be free from Delta would mean that the chains that bound him here were removed, shattered, and he could begin to leave his past mistakes behind. Every one of his dreams could be tied up in a single thought. Omega. He traced his finger over the marking on his wrist, the numbers eight, six, five, and two. Preceded by a sign. A small black triangle. Delta. His mark of captivity.

The last stretch of the corridor was heavily laden with Guardians. Water was a precious resource, and one worth fighting over. Blood had been spilt in Delta tower over water. Water was Delta’s job. Water filtration and supply to all other towers. Every tower had a responsibility. Zack turned to Ronson as they rounded the corner. “You scrub up all right, you know that?” Zack could see that Ronson’s natural instinct was to keep his head down, but this statement made him look up, made him consider the idea that he could still pass for something near human.

“I do?”

“Chin up, Ronny,” Zack whispered. “You belong here, remember? Don’t give the game away.” Zack gave Ronson a slap on the back, let out a laugh that ground its way out from the pit of his stomach as if they were discussing something else. “And yeah, you do.” Zack nodded at the final Guardians, their agreement to turn a blind eye already cemented in place from the many trades before.

Zack pushed open the door to the water treatment plant. Ronson stared at the three giant pipes rising up along the far wall. Attached to each was a series of taps, all locked behind a reception desk boarded up with wired glass. There was a gate at the side that opened with an electronic grunt when Zack punched in a key code.

“Won’t be long before others arrive. Hand me the card.” Ronson fumbled in his pocket, his fingers clumsy with nervous excitement. “Thanks,” Zack said as he took it from him. He pushed it into a card reader, and the name Boris Matthews shone in tiny yellow LED dots. Zack pulled a large plastic container from underneath the counter and positioned the opening up to the tap behind him. After a couple of clicks on the computer they heard the rumble of water cascading against the plastic.

“Simple as that,” Ronson whispered, not once taking his eyes from the container. Once it was full the tap automatically switched off. Ronson felt the presence of another body behind him, and when he turned around there was a man standing with a small plastic bottle in his hands. The man smiled but Ronson did nothing. A stranger could be a dangerous thing in the sublevels, and even after all this time stuck down there, they were still around every corner.

“Morning,” the stranger said. “Got yourself a five litre, eh? You must have been putting some hours in,” the stranger said to Ronson. Ronson, conscious of his clothes, his smell, his hat, and of nothing more than the scar on his face that he hoped so much wasn’t showing, just about managed a smile back with the side of his lips that still moved. The sound of the water container hitting the desk grabbed Ronson’s attention and he turned back to Zack without answering. Zack tipped it on its side, lifted a small hatch door and slid the water carrier through the space underneath the glass partition.

“There you go, Boris. Get that straight home, right?” Ronson nodded, almost unable to lift the container, the sides of it buckling back and forth as it contorted from the volume of water inside. “Don’t make any stops.”

“He spoke to me,” Ronson whispered as he leaned in. “He said good morning.”

“You need a rest, Boris. No more extra shifts for you this week. Got it?” Zack stared at him, wide eyes imploring him to grab the container and go. The stranger was also getting impatient, and this was the last thing Zack needed. The stranger took a step forward, rested a hand onto Ronson’s shoulder.

“I think you’ve finished here, Boris.” The stranger’s fingers bored into Ronson’s skin through the threadbare jumper. He scrunched up his nose, smelling the air, inching closer and closer towards Ronson. “I think I feel thirstier than I thought I was. I’ll take five litres today as well. I have been working hard, too.” He slapped his card on the desk with his grubby hand. He pushed it along the counter, and then raised a finger to the underside of his nose. Zack knew that the man had realised that this was a trade, and that Ronson didn’t belong here.

Zack inserted the card into the reader. Richard Donoghue. “You don’t have enough credits.” Zack placed his hands down on the counter in an effort to look immovable. “Boris,” Zack said, turning to Ronson. “Time to leave, Boris.” Ronson nodded, wriggled free of Richard’s grip. He wrapped his arms around his five litres of water and took a few steps towards the exit.

“I think you must have made a mistake,” said Richard. “I know for a fact that there are fifty credits on there. Check again.” Richard took a step towards the door, his eyes still on Zack. “Or, I could just tell one of the Guardians that Boris stole my water. If you’d prefer to play it like that.” Only a second from running, Ronson turned in time to see Zack pulling up another five litre container. With his head down, Ronson fled. He flew through the corridors at the speed of a lightning bolt, a new found energy that surprised even him. He was back through the door to level nineteen and down the stairs in half the time it had taken him to arrive.

After Ronson and Richard left, Zack made the necessary checks on the water supply. It was his job every day not only to dish out the rations, but also to measure the different mineral quantities that they pumped in. There was lots of poor hygiene and substandard nutrition throughout Delta. How many days can you eat the same fare without getting bored or skipping meals, or sustain any acceptable standard of health? There had been an outbreak of the influenza virus and many people had died. That’s when Omega announced the Mineral Supplementation Programme in the water.

Today he had to fulfil the rations for Omega and Epsilon Tower. Each day, a different order. The needs of Omega Tower were always met, but for the other towers it wasn’t always possible. They got what was left.

The irony of the New Omega Manifesto wasn’t lost on most residents. A set of principles supposed to ensure a fair and comfortable life for all. Creed Four: No citizen of New Omega shall die of thirst or hunger. Most people accepted that the manifesto really only applied if you lived in Omega Tower. People joked that it was really called the Omega Manifesto. The manifesto had been fly-posted on every floor, but after they were defaced the Guardians were instructed to take them down. That’s when the televised address started, twice daily, read by President Grayson himself in a pre-recorded speech. It always reminded Zack of how little he believed in it. They were the promises of Omega Tower, but it was Omega Tower who made the demands that prevented Delta Tower from fulfilling the requirements of the other towers. Delta could only pump in so much water, and there was only a limited supply of the chemicals needed to treat it. Sometimes they would run low, and the water would end up with a specific taste or smell. In the early days the pipes were always getting blocked and it made it hard to process enough water. It meant that somebody had to go down into the storage facility where they drew in the raw, untreated water. There were only a few instances recently, but unclogging the metal grids blocked with anything from human waste to dead fish was the worst part of work in Delta Tower. But it was better now than it used to be. In the early days there were blockages nearly every other shift. The problem was that some people had tried to hide in the sewers when the bombs came. Most of them died and got washed into the water system as far as the metal grids that were designed to stop small items going any further. None of the bodies that Zack had ever pulled out had tattoos on their wrist, and that’s how people knew they were outsiders. The really unlucky ones.

After the second double bell, the signal for the end of shift one, Zack didn’t take the lift. Instead he walked through the corridors, past the amblers, past those with nothing to do, until he reached the stairway. There were two stairways in Delta Tower. The first, and largely abandoned, was the stairway by which Ronson had illegally entered Delta Tower at the start of the first shift. Until the twentieth floor nobody used this stairway, and when he had walked up it last week to ensure that it was still passable he was surprised at how untouched it felt. There was dust everywhere, and each step took his breath away as the particles from underneath his feet floated into the atmosphere, disturbed perhaps for the first time in years. There were layers of paint which had been punched like inverted Braille along the walls where furniture had been dragged up, the feet of the beds drilling the story of Delta Tower into the Duck Egg blue walls that once looked so crisp and clean. Some of the glass banisters had been shattered in the same incident, and some of them had been destroyed when the ground shook and the sky lit up.

Zack took the other stairway. On the final turn before floor fifty there was a series of yellow tapes with a sign attached. It read, No admittance, danger of exposure. It was the only warning needed. The doors were locked, at least that was what Zack had heard, but nobody he knew had ever ventured up there. He had been up there once, before the war. From the viewing deck there was an enviable outlook to the river and the gardens below, and from the right corner on a clear day you could see the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The silver barriers were high enough that it didn’t feel like a risk, even when you were close enough to look over the edge. The pyramid roof of Delta Tower rose high up above, and at night when it glowed golden like a beacon it was almost as impressive as one of the great pyramids of Giza. Zack used to look at it from his apartment. But the Omega Tower personnel had sealed off level fifty and the roof as a no-go zone. There had been rumours that the roof had blown almost clear off, but Zack was sure that the water supply for the whole of Delta Tower used to be stored in that pyramid so there was little chance of it being true.

Zack pushed open the doors to level forty nine. There were a few people up there, always the same faces. Some of the people who came here did so out of denial. They would stand here day after day hoping that they would see something different. But they never did. Zack came here for different reasons.

He walked towards the wall of glass. Those close to him moved away. Privacy with the old world was a respected moment. People didn’t come here for company, and they knew nobody else wanted it either. They came here for a one-on-one with what was left of their past. A chance to look at an ex-partner and ask for help in understanding the separation. Sometimes Zack came here to reflect, to think about those he left behind. Other times he just stared, allowing his eyes to travel over the peaks and troughs of the crumbling remains, as if his mind still hadn’t accepted or processed what had happened. The vista was always the same. The view floated somewhere between day and night, but couldn’t be described as either dawn or dusk. It was something else that nobody knew from before. There was a greyness to the world, a bleakness that soaked everything in misery. The wettest drizzle-filled day from the old world a hundred times over. There was nothing of colour on which to focus your eye, no life to watch and enjoy, or laughter of a child to lighten a heavy mood. From where he stood he saw only flattened buildings, a decimated skeleton of the old city. It was an almost unrecognisable landscape save the odd feature that clung to the ground or burst through it. A charred tree, a small building whose wall had survived, or a distant pylon almost intact. In the distance he could see Zeta Tower, the lights of which always helped him orientate, like the red hand of a compass always telling him which way was north. He knew from the other side he would see Epsilon. He had heard rumours that there had been an incident in Gamma, and that somebody had got in from the outside and killed all the residents. Just rumours Zack guessed, like the roof of Delta. He thought maybe they had been started like a primitive form of law, an early religion whispered into terrified ears to help control the residents of the other towers.

His stomach was grumbling but he ignored it. He had got used to controlling his biological urges. It was easy to control hunger when there was no hope of it being stemmed. As he rounded the north-western corner of the building he got his first glimpse. The giant tower of Omega standing strong in the distance, ablaze with light like a sunlit shard of mirror. It was a magnificent sight. There were more people here today staring at it, dreaming about a new life because of the lottery. It gave everybody a chance, at least in theory. He imagined more people would be here by the end of the day, a steady stream of escapists all desperate for a look at the host for their desires. Omega was like a blade bursting up through the ground as if the building itself had decided to cut through the earth, slice it open and pierce through like a unicorn’s horn. It was covered in glass, just like Delta, and the lights were always on. Unless you wanted them turned off. Then you could make a choice. In Omega there were choices that simply didn’t exist for the people who lived in Delta. He looked out across the miles between the life he had and the life he craved. Every previous lottery had brought with it the same masochistic hope, each time obliterated, leaving him feeling more desperate than ever he had before.

He left level forty nine and walked down the stairs, his fingers trailing along the lines of Braille-like puncture wounds in the wall, dust clinging to his fingertips. Delta had been damaged, and maybe it had lost its roof if you believed the rumours, but it had stood firm enough. The blast had shaken it, just like it had the other remaining buildings, but it hadn’t torn it apart. There were nine of them left, including Omega. The rest of the city had been destroyed. Nobody knew by whom, but Zack didn’t think about it anymore. There wasn’t any point.

“Excuse me,” said a quiet voice as Zack felt something pull at his trouser leg. He hadn’t seen the boy lying on the floor next to him, his head resting on the wall at an uncomfortable looking angle. His limbs were limp and pathetic, like broken and charred matchsticks. His stomach was swollen like a child of famine. So much for Creed Four. “Do you have any food?” the boy said.

Zack bent down close to him. The smell arising from the boy’s breath was hot and stale. Was he here when I went up the stairs? His lips were dry and cracked, and his head seemed swollen too. “I’m sorry, Champ. I haven’t got anything.” Zack reached down and picked up the boy’s hand. It was tiny and shrivelled like the claw of a bird. “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t know.” The voice was barely audible. Zack leaned in closer.

“Where do you live?” Zack asked.

“I don’t know,” the boy said again.

“Your name? What’s your name?” Zack could feel the quickening of his heart beat, that feeling of responsibility coupled with absolutely no clue what to do.

“Billy,” said the boy.

“Billy?” Zack brought his hand up towards Billy’s head, which given the chance of support, succumbed to the soft cushion of his palm. “How did you get here? Where are your parents?” Zack asked again. He could see that the boy was almost asleep, and as his head sank into the flesh of Zack’s arm his wrists flopped away from his lap. Zack reached down and picked up Billy’s right arm. He held it softly like one would cradle a baby. There were two small veins running along the surface of his wrist, and the skin hung as loose as a cloth across the bones and tendons. There was no number. No black triangle. He was a child born into disaster, born into a world where life didn’t exist anymore, and where he was lying in a corridor with nobody to care for him. The Third Creed: No citizen of New Omega shall feel alone. The Fourth Creed: No Citizen of New Omega shall die of thirst or hunger. They didn’t mean anything to the people of Delta Tower. Billy didn’t say anything, and instead his eyelids fluttered closed, no energy left to hold them open.

Zack burst through the doors of level forty eight. It was a different place to thirtieth. Nearly twenty floors up, and it was chaos, each floor higher a descent into mayhem. There was rubbish in the public spaces, people asleep on the floor, and the smell was putrid. It was so hot in here and the smell of bodies was so rich that it hurt Zack’s eyes. This place had been an advertising agency once, or so the sign would suggest.

“Where are Billy’s parents?” Zack shouted to the nearest crowd of people, huddled in a group on the floor. The corridor was full of people hanging around, some sitting on the floor like the nearest group, others propped up on broken window sills in the place that glass should have been. But yet nobody answered. There was noise, a background hum, but there was an undercurrent of lethargy in the place. Apathy. “You,” he said, gripping the collar of the nearest man who was stumbling towards him. The man’s head was floppy like a ragdoll, his eyes glazed, his smile fixed. “Do you know a kid called Billy?” The man didn’t say anything. Instead he just rolled. He rolled backwards, his eyes rolled in his head, he rolled on his trip. Is that what I look like when I do drugs? He asked himself as he let go of the man, who it seemed didn’t even know he had been touched.

He moved forwards, his feet negotiating the carpet of legs and dirty blankets. With his breath held and throat tight, he pushed open the doors to the Mess Room. Every floor had one. He didn’t go into the one of thirtieth much. He preferred to go up to level forty nine and look out of the windows and get lost in the silence and an occasional memory. “Where are the Guardians?” he said into the air. He realised that not only was the noise different to the other levels, but the only sounds that he could hear were human in origin. It was the hum of chatter, deals, and trades. The television next to him had been smashed, and as he looked along the corridor he noticed that the others too had been damaged and no longer worked. One was hanging from its brackets. Only one of them was still working but even that was without the sound. Then his eyes settled on the only Guardian in sight. He was dressed in the white uniform, the black epaulets and black boots. The cap and balaclava were discarded at his side. This Guardian wasn’t on patrol. He was slouched up against the wall with a woman’s head in his lap. Both of them high, Zack would guess.

The smell of urine hung in the air and he could feel the filth settling on his skin. The room was crowded with office style armchairs, modern at the time of the war, dirty and pulled apart at the seams today. Some of them had been pushed together to form settees. There were coffee tables littered with pills and bottles that looked like water containers but he doubted that it was water in them. He picked one up, brought it up to his nose. Moonshine. No matter how far life on the other levels had fallen below what he would have once deemed acceptable, this place was something else. There was no order here anymore. He had heard that the upper levels were a mess, but he had never seen it for himself. Even the Guardian was a mess. And where were the others? He leant down to place the bottle back on the table and as he did so he saw another child, a bit smaller than Billy, sitting in the middle of the floor. It was a girl and she was almost naked, save some sort of nappy, a makeshift effort that was grey from dirt and appeared to be soaked through. Her hair clung to her scalp, slicked by grease to her forehead. She caught Zack’s eye and she smiled and giggled as she said something, words that didn’t seem like language. She seemed too big for her age, like an oversized baby.

“Where are Billy’s parents?” He crouched down, and the child reached out to him. He took her hand in his. “Do you know Billy?” Zack said to the girl.

“Biwwy,” the girl mumbled.

“Where are his parents? Do you know them?” he said pulling her hand away from his cheek. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t because she was dirty. That it was just haste that forced him back. “Tell me where they are.”

The girl pointed in the direction of the nearest chairs. There were several men and woman all asleep or passed out, their limbs interwoven and tangled like weeds. There was a layer of smoke in the air, smoke that refused to filter away because there was nowhere for it to filter to. He stood upright, moved towards the bodies. There was a woman lying on the other side of the couch, spaced out and unresponsive. Zack coughed as the smoke hit the back of his throat. Where the hell had anybody got cigarettes from?

“Wake up,” Zack shouted, nudging the woman with his fist. “Are you Billy’s mother?” She didn’t reply and seemed so flat that he felt the need to check for a pulse. He picked up her wrist and found her fingers to be even browner than his. He placed his fingertips against her tattooed skin until he felt something to prove she was alive. “Hey!” he shouted again, this time shaking her. She grunted and her face twisted as he gripped her arms. “Wake up!” he shouted as he slapped her across the face. Some of the other people in the Mess Room started to rouse. One of them spoke but Zack didn’t wait to listen to him. If this was Billy’s mother she was good for nothing. She wasn’t going to offer to help him. He tossed her arm side and stood up.

“Biwwy bad,” said the girl on the floor. “Biwwy gone.” Zack felt an urge to pick her up, to take her with him. He had little parental instinct that he knew of and yet he felt drawn to her because to leave her here felt like a crime. He hesitated in the space between the child and door, before telling himself that Billy needed his attention more. He turned away from the girl, not knowing what else he could say to her. He paced up the corridor, avoiding the bodies on the floor. He thought of Ronson and how much he seemed to want to get into Delta, but Zack knew that he would rather live in the sublevels than on this level. He pushed open the door and Billy was still lying there.

“Billy,” Zack said as he knelt down at his side. This time Billy didn’t respond when Zack shook him. Zack felt for a pulse. It was weak. He scooped Billy up, ignoring the smell of damp clothes. He charged down the stairs, his feet skipping two steps at a time. It was only a minute later that he arrived on level twelve.

“You have to help this child!” Zack said as he swung through the doors of the sick bay, the nearest thing to a doctor or a hospital in Delta. There was a man lying on the couch getting a tattoo, another number on his wrist, an ode to the recently announced Omega Lottery. There were three people waiting in turn, all with their sleeves rolled up. Each one had their plastic card in hand, ready to hand over their credits for the bleak chance of a better life. “Do something!”

The waiting crowd all turned to stare at the boy, hanging like a withered flower in Zack’s arms. The man getting the tattoo jumped up from the bed, and after reminding the tattoo artist that he would have to finish the job afterwards, made room for the child. Zack laid Billy on the bed, his limbs dangling away from him like a puppet without its master, his eyes open but absent.

“I’m not a doctor,” screamed the man, still holding the tattoo gun. He was staring at Billy. He looked scared. “What am I supposed to do?”

“This is the sick bay!” Zack shouted. “You have to do something. You have been trained.”

“I have been trained to dress a wound, put on a bandage. I might be able to clean a burn, but what can I do for him? Where did you find him?” The hands of the tattoo artist had started to shake. One of the men from the queue got up and slipped out of the door. Zack didn’t see him leave.

“I found him up on level forty eight. Just do something. Anything,” Zack pleaded. The tattoo artist put down his gun, and stood back.

“On forty eight? And you bring him here? God knows what he’s got.” He picked up a canister of water and unscrewed the lid. Zack assumed that he was about to give Billy a drink, but instead he raised the canister to his own lips. He took a gulp of the water before saying, “It’s a right mess up there.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which Zack saw was covered in a black and red tribal tattoo, the same as his face.

Zack grabbed the man by the collar of his overall and shoved him against the far wall, the water spilling from the canister onto the floor. “Are you fucking serious?” Zack screamed, the tattooed man clamouring for the back of his head as it struck the cement behind him. Those waiting leapt from their seats. One of them reached towards Zack and pulled him back by the arms. Zack shook him away as swiftly as he would bat a fly, and his arms flew free. “He’ll die!”

“Go easy, man. It’s not like it’s your kid.” The tattoo artist and would-be first aider, bigger and heavier set than Zack, put down his water canister and pushed Zack away before straightening up his clothes. “What am I supposed to do?”

“He needs to drink,” said Zack turning to look at Billy. “His name is Billy. He is dehydrated.” Zack flopped back into the nearest seat, and the others who were waiting their turn inched away from the smell which he was carrying on his damp clothes. “He needs help. Kids need help.”

Silence swallowed the room whilst everybody except for Zack stood staring at the child. One of them touched Billy’s arm, picked it up like you might a rag under which you had trapped a spider. He let go of the arm and it flopped back onto the couch and Billy didn’t flinch. The thud of the arm hitting the couch was enough to wake the tattoo artist from his trance. “Sit him up,” he said to the man with the half-finished tattoo. “Come on,” he said pulling on the sleeve of the reluctant would be Samaritan. “Help me.” Together they sat Billy up and began dripping water into his mouth. The facial tattoos made the first aider look like a Maori warrior. “He has to drink something,” he said, echoing Zack’s sentiments. He held up the water bottle to Billy’s lips and a few drops passed into his mouth. He turned to Zack. “What were you doing up there? I wouldn’t go up there.”

“I wouldn’t either,” said Zack. “I was on my way back down from level forty nine.” The other men nodded. They all understood. They all understood the need to dream. What else were they doing here, spending credits on tattoos rather than medicine or water?

They managed to get a few drops more into Billy’s mouth, although Zack was sure that he hadn’t swallowed any of them. All tattoo application was put on hold, much to the protest of those in line. The third double bell rang and Zack was forced to return to the water treatment plant for the second shift. He still had to see what was left for Epsilon Tower. The tattoo artist, who Zack had judged to have performed well in the guise of tower doctor, told him that it was best if he left anyway. There was no point staying. Zack offered to take his card with him, get it topped up for extra rations, and the tattoo artist seemed more than happy with the arrangement. He handed over his ration card and continued to drip feed Billy.

Zack had always thought it was pointless to bring a child in Delta. He believed that the daily life of New Omega wasn’t worth sharing with future generations. What were they trying to create now? Didn’t parents want the life of their child to be better than theirs? Wasn’t that the point? In Delta Tower there was nothing left to offer other than a selfish dream of a time gone by. The war had made life irrelevant. Unnecessary. Hadn’t it? He wondered if in a hundred years time when all those alive before the war were gone, if the few citizens left in Delta Tower or New Omega would find life here acceptable. Would it be possible to live like this, if they had never known any better?

Holding Billy in his arms had made Zack question his beliefs. It was the first time in years that he had held a child. A living one, at least. He had felt Billy’s pulse, his breath on his skin, as faint as they both were. It was real life, unmarked by a number and still full of all the same potential that used to exist when life was free. Zack had felt that life slipping away from him as he had ran with Billy in his arms. Real life being lost. A human life of love and pain and hurt and joy and all the other confusing emotions that he had tried to avoid before the bombs had fallen. That afternoon he made his checks, added vitamin A and Zinc to the water vats as indicated and fulfilled ninety percent of the Epsilon order. Not bad. But his mind stayed elsewhere. It was on Billy. It was on Billy’s parents and how they had abandoned him. It was on Samantha and the last phone call that they had shared half an hour before the bombs fell, when she had told him that he had to face the fact that she was carrying his child. His mind was stuck on how, at the moment when he had two choices, he had chosen the wrong one, and how now he was left with no choice or chance to put it right.

When he opened the door to the sick bay after the triple bell there was a man on the couch getting a tattoo. He was gritting his teeth and Zack remembered the pain when he had been marked on the wrist. When he had been reduced to nothing more than a number.

“How is he doing?” Zack said before he was even through the door. He held up the ration card and handed it to the tattoo artist. Zack took the normality of the environment as a good sign. The tattoo artist switched off his gun and set it down on the small wheelie table at his side. He took the card and slipped it in his pocket.

There is a certain look on a person’s face when they are about to deliver bad news. Some would describe it as pity, others might say sorrow. There is a tightness of the lips as if they are being forced to stay shut, the eyes and jaw too, locked so as not to allow your own emotion to creep through. To stay strong. Sometimes a person’s mouth gets over-active and starts to produce too much saliva, as if they are trying to digest something. In some ways of course, they are. Some people fiddle with their hands, making circles with one thumb around the base of the other, or their palms travel over their arms in search of a way to self-soothe. There are many giveaways for this kind of anguish. But by contrast, and exactly like the tattoo artist, sometimes those burdened with bad news simply don’t do or say anything. Their silence is enough.

“What is it?” asked Zack.

“I’m really sorry.” The tattooed first aider was standing up, pulling at the base of his T-shirt. “Really I am.” For a few moments, no words passed between them. Zack knew that Billy hadn’t made it. The others in the room had no idea what was going on and they looked left and right, first at Zack, then at the would-be doctor. Zack could feel his mouth drying, his head beginning to ache as the tears formed, along with the painful blockage in his throat. In the end the man with the face of a Maori warrior, who ultimately had lost the battle, picked up the tattoo gun and set to finishing the tattoo. The others who were waiting didn’t know what had happened and stared at Zack, motionless in the middle of the room, his eyes swollen and red. They were confused, because nobody here got sad anymore. There was nothing to lose in Delta that could ever hurt so much.

Zack nodded and turned to leave the sick bay. Nobody uttered a word. Zack didn’t see the tattoo artist kick his chair out from underneath him and walk into the back room to compose himself. Zack stepped into the nearest lift and pressed the button for thirtieth, but when the lift arrived he didn’t get out. Instead he waited for the doors to close on their own before pressing the button for level forty nine. He stepped out of the lift, darker now than before. He circled the floor until he found what he was looking for on the north side of the tower. A mass of broken buildings. Somewhere in the rubble that smothered the foundations, were the remains of Samantha’s apartment. He thought of Samantha’s hands on his skin and the smell of her hair. The memory of his mistakes blurred with the dust outside as it whipped up on the breeze from the remains of the broken life. The life he had been offered by her and which he had told her was impossible. He thought of the last words he ever said to her, and realised for the first time in his life that he finally understood how she must have felt on that day when he told her that it was unimaginable that they would go ahead with the pregnancy. That he wasn’t ready for fatherhood. That they would have to find a good doctor. His eyes settled on a pile of dirt that might or might not have been the place in which she died, and reminded himself that Delta Tower was a lesson, a punishment for a crime that he had dared to commit.

Chapter Seven

His head hung low, propped up against a feeble hand as he hunched over the bar in NAVIMEG. Ronson set a drink down as he saw Zack walk in, and he spoke to Zack too. No doubt something chipper and amusing in his usual style. But Zack hadn’t heard it and he paid the beaker of Moonshine no attention. At one point Ronson offered him a small puckered tablet, but again Zack did nothing. The sight and smell of the Mess Room on level forty eight was still too fresh in his mind, and he didn’t want to be any part of it. Zack huddled over the bar, his nose picking up the alcohol tinged scent of the drink, and he closed his sodden eyes to shut out the world.

Behind his eyelids, ideas and images of his life played out. His university days and Samantha, her blond hair cut into a bob, a blunt fringe that in his mind always made her seem kinky, and a bit like a stripper. He thought about how she used to lie at his side without any concern for her naked body, her weight balanced on a single elbow. She would lean over him, trace her finger along the ridge of his nose whilst whispering promises that she would love him forever into the curves of his ear. Sometimes she would let her finger drop down over the ridge of his chin, trace it over his chest, but Zack could never stand it and always ended up in fits of giggles. He knew that Samantha was the woman who he could have loved even after her beauty had faded. He would have loved her just for who she was. Sometimes he still tried to imagine her, perhaps living in Zeta Tower, or Alpha Tower. Even Omega. But he knew that she wasn’t there. It was impossible. She would have been in the building to the north of Delta when the bombs landed. The one that he was no longer sure that he could find. He tried to imagine her last moments, the speed of it, that she was right under a bomb when it exploded so that she wouldn’t remember a thing. But the idea of her surviving for hours or days, burnt and hungry before death finally clawed into her, was another possible reality. He had seen those bodies. He had seen their charred, dust-covered remains. He had looked for her face amongst the bodies on the one and only time that he had ventured outside. He had seen shapes that he was sure were human underneath the layers of dust. He had seen their bloated bodies in the water filters. He was grateful that he had never found her.

Tonight, images of Billy crept in there too. His tiny hand and skinny tattoo-free wrist. Zack hadn’t been back to his room to change his clothes, and he was still covered in Billy’s smell. He had considered going back to the sick bay to find out what they had done with the body, maybe to go and see it. He had never spoken to a dead body before, but he thought perhaps he needed to say sorry to Billy. He wanted to tell him that he was sorry for the life that he had lived. That it was supposed to be better, and that what had happened to him wasn’t how life was supposed to be. He wondered if he had ever been told a fairytale. If he had ever listened to a lullaby as he slept. If anybody had ever promised to protect him until they died. He wondered if sitting there next to the corpse of a small boy and reading him Jack and the Beanstalk, or a tale about Red Riding Hood might somehow make up for some of the childhood he had lost. Perhaps it would make up for some of the adult life that Zack had lost, too.

He didn’t know how long he had been there when he felt the hand touch his upper arm. It startled him, and his eyes shot open like a bullet from a gun. The hand was clean and abutted by a white cuff. Zack turned his head to appreciate the form next to him and he was surprised to see the same girl from the night before.

“I’m not in the mood,” he said. “Just go back to wherever you came from.” The girl seemed unfazed, and rather than moving away, she sat down on the oil barrel stool next to him. She placed an elbow on the bar, rested her head onto it, her eyes not leaving his face. “What do you want?” he asked as she picked up his untouched drink and knocked it back.

“To say sorry.” She left the words hanging between them, waiting for him to mould them as he saw fit.

“Sorry?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Why are you sorry? You know my type. You know what I am. You were spot on.” Zack wasn’t in the mood for light chatter, especially not with a woman who was so quick to judge him. He didn’t need anything to remind him of life in Delta right now. He just wanted to be alone with his memories and regrets.

“That’s what I thought,” she continued, letting out a huge breath, “but I was wrong. Ronson told me so.” Zack looked at Ronson, who was trying to busy himself and appear as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening, even though he was listening to every word they were saying. He was still wearing the hat that Zack had given him, and Zack knew he wasn’t going to ask for it back. He had even skewed it a little on his head so it wasn’t straight, which meant that the scars were completely covered. There was an ease about the way Ronson moved tonight. It reminded Zack of freedom. But freedom was just an idea now, a word that doesn’t really mean anything, and neither of them lived in a world where it existed.

“What did he tell you?” Zack asked as he looked back to the woman.

“He told me that I was wrong about you. That you organised to get him a water supply. Fresh water, I mean.” Zack looked down at the empty beaker, twirled it in circles on top of the bar in the gutter-like crevices of the old container panel. “He told me that the pillow was for your neighbour. Is that true?” Zack nodded. “Then, I’m sorry. I misjudged you.” The woman held out her hand, a gesture of greeting, of repentance, perhaps of friendship. Zack took it and they shook, the warmth of touch something alien. “I’m Emily.”

“Zack.”

“I know,” she smiled. “Ronson told me that too.” She held up her hand and nodded towards Ronson. “Another two, please.”

“I’m surprised that you drink this stuff,” Zack said as Ronson placed another beaker in front of them and topped both up. Zack knocked back the drink, winced as it hit his throat. There was no getting used to it.

“What else am I going to drink?” she said as she tipped her beaker back almost as fast as Ronson could pour it. She didn’t seem bothered by it at all.

“I don’t know,” he said, taking another sip. “Beer, wine, vodka. What I wouldn’t give for a glass of Merlot.”

“What’s Merlot?” He turned and looked at her and put his beaker back down on the bar.

“Merlot?” he asked. “You don’t remember Merlot? You don’t remember the good stuff?”

“I was fourteen when, well, when,” she stumbled, not having enough words to describe the nightmare which they had survived, but never woken up from. “Well, you know. I was fourteen.”

“So now you must be what,” he said as he started to estimate a potential age on his grubby fingers.

“Twenty four,” she said, before realising his surprise at her certainty and adding, “I guess. Roughly.”

“Ten years? You think we’ve been in here that long?” He pulled the beaker to his lips and finished the Moonshine. He dragged his fingers through his mop of hair, brushed it away from his eyes. “So you don’t know a good Merlot. Or a Cabernet.” He closed his eyes again, and for a moment he and Samantha were sitting in a winter cabin, she holding up her glass with her feet tucked underneath her on the sofa. He was pouring wine whilst the snow fell outside. Eyes open. “You don’t know what you are missing. Especially with a good cheese.”

She laughed, no idea what he was talking about. He felt like his grandfather trying to explain how to tune a transistor radio when Zack was a child. “And you? How old were you?”

“You mean when the world ended?” They both smiled. “I was twenty seven.”

“What did you do for a job?”

“I worked here, just like everybody else. I was an engineer. There used to be a huge road near here called a motorway, which was…..” He stopped talking because she was laughing so much that he couldn’t continue. For a moment, transfixed by the sound of her laughter, he forgot about the hell above ground. “What?” he asked when her giggles finally subsided.

“I know what a motorway is. I was a kid but I remember some things.”

“OK, well, I built it. I mean,” he clarified, “that I designed it. Anywhere it had a bridge. That was my doing.”

“I think all the bridges fell down.”

“Ok,” he laughed. “I didn’t exactly plan against a nuclear war. But they would have survived a lot of other things. An earthquake, for example.”

“I wanted to be a doctor. I used to get straight As in my exams. I thought it would be really cool to be a doctor.”

“It would have been,” Zack said, thinking again about Billy and how his life could have, should have, been so different. “But there is no such thing as a doctor anymore.”

“What? Of course there is.”

“You’ve obviously never been to the sick bay,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “Spend most of their time doing tattoos. They can’t do anything of use. They couldn’t save your life or anything like that.” He tried hard to blink away the earliest tears that were pooling in his eyes, and he brought his hand up to wipe the edge of his nose. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue to hand to him. He was about to ask her how she had come to be in Delta Tower when the bombs fell, but as she withdrew her hand from her pocket, she also pulled out a white headphone which fell to her side. She followed his eyes down the length of the cable, stunned as if he had seen a ghost. Something inexplicable that couldn’t really be there. He reached down and pulled the cable towards him, fingered the soft end of the earphone as gently as he would a precious artefact freshly unearthed from the ground.

“You have an iPod?” he asked, ignoring the tissue that she was holding out for him. “Or an MP4 player?”

“No,” she said, pulling the cable from him, stuffing it back into her pocket.

“You do. Let me see it. Please.” He was sat upright on his barrel and pleading with her, his own hands now gripping her arms. “I haven’t seen one in so long. I just want to see it. To remember it.” She waited until he let go of her arms and then she reached back into her pocket. She pulled out the iPod, the screen cracked and casing chipped, and handed him the earphones.

“Put them in,” she said. He did as she instructed and the sounds around him became muffled. She moved in close to conceal him from the others in the bar, so much so that he could feel the warmth of her body. He couldn’t smell anything on her except for the faint odour of something floral. Jasmine. There was no smell of the chemicals that most people smelt of. He traced his fingers over the outside of the earphones, the vibrations magnified and resonating loud in his ears.

“It works?” She nodded. He held out his hand for the box. He took it, drawing his finger over the crack in the screen. After staring at it for a while he pressed his finger onto the button and saw the menu light up. The screen, as broken as it was, came to life.

“It works,” he began as a shout, but finished as a whisper. “It really works,” he said again. A piano began to play, and then a voice began to sing. It was the sweetest voice, girlish but profound and with a depth so strong that as the strings worked into the beat he could feel more tears welling in his eyes. The song was called When You’re Gone, and he knew it. It was something Samantha used to listen to, and something that he always complained about because it wasn’t alternative or cool or anything that he deemed worthy of his time. He thought about her sitting on his settee, his cat on her lap because it was a fickle little bastard who always flirted with her and ignored him when she was there. How that fact had once irritated him. But that was all it was now. Just a memory. There was nothing left of that memory except for this song which he hadn’t even remembered until now. He reached out, took Emily’s hand in his to know that he wasn’t dreaming. Emily waited for the song to finish, for him to remove the headphones before she reached over and switched off the iPod.

“Music,” he said, wiping his cheeks with his fingertips, dirt smearing in stripes like camouflage. “I haven’t heard it in years.” She reached across to pull the iPod in closer to her, but he draped his fingers over hers like a cage. “Please, let me listen to it a bit more.” There were only a couple of other men in NAVIMEG, and neither of them was interested in what was happening at the bar. They were lost somewhere to a hallucinogenic, Moonshine-constructed world.

“No, I have to leave,” she said, standing up from her barrel and pulling her hand out from underneath his. “It was nice to talk to you. I’ll see you again.” Still he reached forward to take the iPod back, to listen to something else. It could have been any music, anything at all, and it would have sounded like the sweetest symphony he had ever heard.

“Please, Emily, just a little bit longer. Just one more song.” He reached for her wrist. He made contact and he pulled her closer, the barrel behind her toppling over as she tried to hang onto it. Ronson was soon at their side.

“No, I’m sorry I have to leave,” Emily said, “I can’t be here any longer. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Emily, wait,” he said. It was at that moment when he looked down at her wrist that he saw it. A clean wrist. No numbers. No black triangle etched onto her skin. Instead she had a different sign. Omega. It was a small black half circle with two tails, the mark of privilege, the reason that she didn’t belong here. The sign that everybody in Delta craved.

“I have to leave,” she said, the iPod toppling from her hand to the floor as she pulled away.

“Let her go, Shiner,” said Ronson stepping in and resting his arm out in front of Zack’s chest. “You have to let her go.”

His advice was superfluous because she was already free. She took a step backwards and began to run, but she toppled to the ground over the barrel. Zack stepped forward to help her up and in doing so stepped one foot over the iPod, blocking it from her reach. He was trying to help her, but instead he looked like a threat.

“I have to go,” she said, scrambling backwards on her palms as if she was being chased. She clambered over the barrel onto her feet. She didn’t look back as she ran out of the bar, her blonde hair flowing like fire behind her. Zack edged forwards to follow but Ronson was a strong man and pushed against his chest.

“Wait,” said Zack, trying to get his brain to function, for him to process what had just happened. But he couldn’t because what had just happened was impossible. “Wait a minute!” He reached down and picked up the iPod, he himself also tripping on the upturned barrel before he started after her. “Emily, wait.” Ronson was holding on to his wrist but Zack shook him free. He pushed open the container door of NAVIMEG and staggered into the corridor. He looked left and right but she was nowhere to be seen, able to disappear it seemed, at the speed of a lightning bolt. He turned back into the bar.

“Ronny,” Zack said, sitting down on the barrel as Ronson turned the other barrel the right way up. He was trying hard to coordinate his thoughts so that he could explain to Ronson what he had seen. “Did you see that?” he said, panting. “Did you see what was on her wrist?”

“Probably a number and a triangle like the rest of you lucky bastards. Not like us stuck down here.”

“No,” Zack said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t a number. It was just a symbol. Omega. Just an Omega. She isn’t from Delta.”

Ronson erupted into laughter to the point that the flaps on his deerstalker hat trembled. “Nice one, Shiner. You’re funny tonight.” He slapped his hand down on the flimsy bar, almost sending it to the ground. The tablet that he had placed in front of Zack earlier rolled to the floor and he leaned down to pick it up, still laughing. “I think that Moonshine is starting to affect your brain, Shiner.”

“No, I saw it.” Zack looked down at the iPod still clutched in his hand. The screen no longer orange. He pressed the button and the screen lit up again. “Do you know, nothing up there works that The Republic didn’t install. The only devices to survive were underground at the time of the bombing. And this,” he said, holding up the iPod. “This works. That means that she was underground when the bombs went off. She had to be.”

“There is no way that girl isn’t from Delta. You’ve just had too much Moonshine, that’s all.”

“I saw it. I know I’m not wrong.” He wrapped the earphones around the iPod and slid it into his pocket against the ration cards. If she was from Omega there had to be a way into Delta. That meant there was also a way out. He had always assumed himself to be one of the unfortunate. But now he knew that he was wrong.

Chapter Eight

Zack let one eye follow the numbers on the screen as the lift descended towards him, but he kept his other eye on the Guardians standing at the door to the sublevels. They hadn’t questioned him when he surfaced, but he was certain they were watching him now. To make sure he followed the rules. Their job was to make sure that every citizen of Delta Tower did what he was supposed to do. Right now the only thing they wanted Zack to do was to step back into the confinement of the upper levels. The Guardians were supposed to be the protectors, the people who created harmony. They granted the illusion of freedom by turning a blind eye to the illicit movement between the upper and sublevels. Omega had fooled people into believing that they were in control of their lives and that they had a choice. They permitted just enough freedom that you couldn’t feel the weight of the chains. Just enough to stop the revolt that bubbled beneath the surface of control. Zack glanced back over his shoulder to the old entrance doors of Delta Tower, the same doors he used to make his final journey into the building. Two more Guardians stood either side, the path sealed by layers of glass, tarpaulin, and force. One was tightening the strap on his glove, the other was watching Zack. Zack stepped inside and pressed the button for level thirty. The lift jolted like the pull on a parachute line and he began to ascend. The walls of Delta were caving in on him, a tiny two by four in which he was imprisoned by a lack of choice, and now an absence of truth. He pressed one hand against the lift to steady himself and another reached up to his throat. He snatched at the neckline of his T-shirt and jumper, the ring of material feeling like it was choking him. It was as if air was being sucked away, leaving him floating in a vacuum of falsity where nothing was real. Even the air he breathed was created by The Republic of Omega. Supplied by Alpha Tower.

The lift stopped on level nine. Two Guardians and two residents stepped in. The Guardians were dressed in the same white uniforms, the black gloves covering their hands fastened tight like a noose at the cuff. Now Zack was convinced that Emily was from Omega it made him doubt everybody around him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a Guardian’s number. Had he ever seen any proof that they were trapped here like he was? Were Sam and Croft really on the fifth level where he believed them to be, or were they enjoying a different life in Omega?

Zack waited behind the Guardians who were standing motionless and silent, their eyes on the doors. The other two, a man and a woman, slouched against the wall of the lift. The woman looked dirty, her face marked by grime, her hair lank and greasy. She looked like Delta, lit by the harsh lighting of the lift. She wore the same overalls as Zack. The man with her turned to the woman and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and he pressed the button for level forty eight. Zack thought about his time up there earlier on that day and realised that he recognised the woman. It was the same woman who had been sprawled out on the settee. It was the woman he had assumed to be Billy’s mother. He watched as she ran her grubby hand up towards her head, her fingers sliding through her hair. He caught a glimpse of the black triangle which he had held to find a pulse, her number illegible but present. She had three others tattooed on her wrist. She belonged here, but she wanted out too.

The man was standing with his hands in his pockets, one foot up and flat against the wall. Zack arched his neck to get a better look at him, to get a view of his wrists. Who else was in Delta that didn’t belong here? When Zack looked up again, he realised that it was he who had become the watched.

“What’s your problem?” the man asked, defensive like every Delta resident. “What are you looking at?” The Guardians turned to face the man, but he didn’t flinch and he held his vacant gaze on Zack. The Guardians twisted their necks, and Zack noticed that the one closest to him, the one on the right, moved his hand onto his Assister. It was the thing that most people in Delta still called a baton, at least when out of earshot of a Guardian. Zack heard the leather of the Guardian’s glove creak as he gripped the wooden handle.

“Nothing,” Zack said, his eyes dropping to the floor. He raised his right hand like a white flag of surrender. “Sorry.”

“So why were you staring at me?” The second Guardian, the bigger of the two, turned around so his body was square onto Zack’s. He too reached down to his Assister, but it wasn’t necessary. The Guardians were protected by every rule and every condition of life within Delta, and nobody wanted to rise up and pretend to be a hero. There was no messiah in Delta who wanted to save the world. Zack had no intention of causing any trouble, but with the Guardians you didn’t have to look very far before it found you.

“Nothing,” Zack said again. “It’s just, you know, with the lottery. I was just wondering what number you have?” The lift had stopped at level twelve, the original destination of the couple. Zack saw now that the woman’s eyes were red and swollen. She could have been crying, but it could also have been because of the drugs. The man didn’t say anything as the doors opened but he stepped out and the woman followed. Zack wondered for a moment if they were searching for Billy, and if they were going to the sick bay. Every human urge within him told him to stop them, but there was little of humanity left in Delta, and he suppressed the impulse.

“Just watch it,” Zack heard the man say after the doors began to close when there was no chance of retaliation. The Guardians could have accosted him for that kind of talk. Tower Protection is what the Guardians called their form of law. Nobody knew if it was under the guise of The Republic or not.

The lift began to ascend, and Zack, still under the watchful eye of the two Guardians, allowed his head to drop back down. He wanted to appear small, insignificant like an insect that was nothing more than a bother to them. Not an easy task when you stand at six foot three and tower over one of the Guardians confronting you.

“So you’ve got number fever, eh?” laughed the smaller of the two Guardians, the one on the right whose trigger-happy hand had been quick to his Assister. His teeth were blackened and intermittently missing. It could have been radiation related, but more likely was due to tobacco chewing and poor hygiene. There was a smell coming from him that made Zack want to be sick. He was certain that he had never seen this Guardian before. “Thinks he might win!” he sniggered as he slapped the quieter, bigger Guardian on the arm. “You think a scummy Deltarite like you is going to win the lottery?” He took his Assister out and in one single fluid movement he slid the handle straight into Zack’s side. A movement of memory. The Guardian was cackling like a hyena back and forth as Zack buckled to his knees in pain. “You ever heard of somebody from Delta winning?” he spat as he leaned over Zack, a brown globule oozing from his mouth and dribbling onto Zack’s cheek. From the corner of his eye Zack saw the Assister rise above him, the Guardian’s arm high and ready to strike. All the while he was sniggering, drunk on the power of his position, a fire raging in his eyes as if he was God and creator. Zack braced himself, but as the lift stopped and the doors opened he saw the calmer of the two Guardians grip the wrist of the other before nodding at Zack to get out. Zack scrambled to his feet, the eyes of the nearest onlookers wondering what he had done wrong as he fell to the floor outside the lift. He turned back just before the doors closed behind him to see the Assister of the larger Guardian uppercut the jaw of the other.

Zack ran up the corridor ignoring the sounds of the televisions, dodging people as he passed. He hammered his fist against the door of Leonard’s room until he saw a finger poke through the blind to pull down a slat. Leonard’s eye peeped through. He opened the door, his hair dishevelled, his eyes puffy and narrow as arrow slits on the tower of a castle.

“What the hell do you want?” Leonard said. “I haven’t heard the bell for dinner. I was resting.”

“Screw dinner,” said Zack, pushing Leonard back into the room and closing the door behind him. “I want to hear everything you know about the lights you have seen. Where are they?” Zack was at the window, hands pressed against it, and for the first time ever since he became stuck in Delta he saw nothing of the ruins outside the window. Now he believed there was something more than the surface truth which he saw all around him. “When do you see them? Where do they show up?”

Leonard scratched his head, his eyes wrinkled as his palm and fingers investigated the sockets in an attempt to force himself awake. He smoothed his hair into place and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I thought you said I was crazy. That the lights were nonsense.”

“I was wrong, Leo. This,” Zack said pointing out of the window, “this is not our world. There is something more to it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I met a girl.” Leonard rolled his eyes, stood up from the edge of the bed, but Zack dashed over and put his hands on Leonard’s shoulders to encourage him back down. “Not like that. I met a girl in the sublevels.”

Leonard rolled his eyes again, more exaggerated this time, sure about where the conversation was going. He shook his head, shook Zack’s hands from his shoulders. “No, Leo. Not like that either. She isn’t from Delta.”

“No. You mean that she is from the sublevels. I’ve heard the stories from down there, Zachary. I know what goes on. But I thought you were better than that.”

Zack took a step back, inhaled a deep breath, and filled his lungs with The Republic of New Omega air. He looked towards the black clouds, the blanket of death that no person would be able survive if they went outside. If Emily had got into Delta, what he saw before him could not be the truth. Not the full extent of it. He turned to Leonard who still wore the look of a disappointed father, and Zack knew that he was about to disappoint him even further. “She is from Omega.”

“We are all from New Omega, Zachary.”

“I don’t mean The Republic of New Omega. I mean Omega Tower.”

“Nonsense,” Leonard scoffed.

“She is from Omega Tower, I’m telling you. I saw her wrist. She has a tattoo of a small black Omega sign. And she left this.” Zack reached into his pocket and pulled out the iPod. He watched as Leonard’s face turned from sceptical to confused. As if he had just provided proof of alien life on Earth.

“What is that?” Leonard said, reaching out a cautious hand.

“An iPod. It’s from the old world, Leo.” Zack crouched down onto his heels, leant in closer to Leonard’s face. “It’s from the past. And it works.” He took the earphones and positioned them in Leonard’s ears. He pressed play and watched as the music began. He watched as Leonard’s muscles relaxed, his shoulders sinking into the melody of the music. Leonard closed his eyes and for the duration of the song Zack waited and didn’t disturb him.

“I haven’t heard something so beautiful in so long,” Leonard said as he fumbled at the earphones. Zack reached up and pulled them out.

“You see,” Zack said as he took the earphones. “For this to have survived she had to be underground when the bombs landed. But she can’t be from the underground because there is no electricity down there to charge this. She has to be from a tower and her wrist doesn’t say Delta. Her wrist says Omega.”

“But how? Look at it out there. If you go out in that it’s as good as suicide. And how would she get out? The Guardians stop us from going out. Why would anybody want to come here from Omega?”

Zack sat down on the edge of the bed next to Leonard. “I’ve never seen a Guardian’s number. Have you? Maybe they are all in on it. Maybe there are tunnels, cars, something. I don’t know. But she got into this tower, and she is not from here.” Zack fumbled with the iPod whilst Leonard thought about what he had just said.

“No. I have never seen a Guardian’s wrist. But they wear the gloves. It’s to stop the spread of infection. The scabies mite is a real problem, Zachary. What would we do if all the Guardians got sick? The tower would fall apart.”

“Would it? Would it really?” Zack turned to Leonard, bringing one bent leg up onto the bed. “Leo, I saw something else today. Something awful.”

“What?” Leonard asked, as he edged closer.

“I found a boy. From level forty eight. He was sick.”

“What were you doing up there?”

“I was coming down from forty nine. I was up there to look at the old city.”

“Torturing yourself again,” Leonard said as he rubbed his hand across Zack’s shoulders, his disappointment long past.

“He was in the corridor. He was sick. I carried him down. I took him to the sick bay. I’m still covered in his piss.” Zack got up, walked over to the window, pressed both hands on the sill before resting his head against the glass. The chill of the air outside crept across his skin. “He died, Leo. This place. It killed him.”

“I’m sorry, Zachary, but you did what you could. Most would have left him there.” He stood up and joined Zack at the window. “You have to accept that, Zachary. You must because you cannot undo what is done.”

“He was so small, Leo. His wrists,” Zack said as he looked at his own and saw how thin they seemed in comparison to how they once were. “Tiny,” he said shaking his head. “That’s why I went to the sublevels, to take my mind off it. That’s when I saw her.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be going up or down,” Leonard whispered, his eyes downcast. “You can’t change the things you did in the past, Zachary. I know why you go up there. I’ve seen you looking north from Delta. It’s not right to live with the guilt of a choice that you made in haste.” They both knew that they were no longer talking about the boy from level forty eight. “You might have gone home that night and made a completely different decision. It wasn’t too late to change your mind and make it right. It was just that the chance was taken away from you when the bombs fell.”

“She died believing that I let her down, Leo.” They both stared at their feet. They both searched in the realms of impossibility to find a solution to a problem that couldn’t hope to be resolved. “It doesn’t matter what I might have done, or what I could have done. It’s what I did that counts. The truth is that Samantha died believing that I didn’t want our child.” Zack reached up and wiped his eyes. He was so tired, and yet he knew even if he tried to he wouldn’t sleep. He looked at Leonard’s aged face, the lines etched into his skin amongst the dry cracks and crevices. The image of his only friend. “Something doesn’t make sense anymore,” Zack said, breaking the silence. “If Emily can get in, it means she can get out.”

“Emily?” Leonard asked, confused.

“The girl from Omega.”

Chapter Nine

When he slammed the door she was already lying on her bed. She was propped up on three pillows, the quilt buckled up like a stormy ocean beneath her as she pulled her feet in closer, her arms wrapped around her knees. She knew it was coming. She knew he was home as soon as she saw his shoes by the door. She had tried to tiptoe into her bedroom, but he had heard her pass by his office. He called her name in the deep voice that she still feared as much as she had as a child, and when she chose not to answer, she knew that he would follow.

He was standing in the doorway, his cheeks pink. His blood pressure was up. “Emily, where the hell have you been at this time of day? Why weren’t you here for dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care if you are hungry or not, I expect you here. There are rules, young lady. You have been there again, haven’t you? You’ve been back.”

“Dad, I’m a grown woman. I can do whatever, and go wherever, I like. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“As long as you are under this roof I can demand what is expected of you. What is necessary.” Emily tutted, looked away, and drew her knees in closer still like a battle shield. His hand was outstretched, his fingers manipulated into a single point of authority like the point of an archer’s arrow. “And you cannot do whatever and go wherever you like. There are rules, Emily. Not my rules,” he said, stabbing at his own chest. “The rules of the Republic. This has to stop. You are supposed to be an example. How do you think this behaviour reflects on me? This has to stop right now.”

“The Republic’s rules are your rules, Dad.”

He picked up the rucksack that she had discarded on the floor. She lunged upright on her knees and reached out for the bag, but he snatched it away from her reach. He pulled out the top half of a grey-white overall. It was the Republic’s issue. He shook his head as he looked around the room, throwing the bag back on the floor. “And this,” he said, pointing at the wall of windows. The view was consumed by thick grey cloud cover, the same that hung over Delta Tower. The bare walls were painted a pale beige colour, warm and comforting like hot sand. “Why do you insist on watching this?” He stomped across the floor, his hand outstretched as he reached for the remote control panel.

“Stop it, Dad. Leave it!” She burst from her bed, snatched the remote panel from his hand before sinking back into the soft waves of the duvet beneath her. He stood with his hands on his hips, his breathing erratic and nerves frayed.

“I just don’t understand you, Emily. I don’t understand this need that you have.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on the tops of his knees. He turned slightly, but avoided eye contact as she edged herself away from him. When she was a child, a tiny bundle curled up in his lap, he used to imagine the day when she would hit puberty and become distant from him. He knew that with the growth of breasts and the surge in hormones his daughter would push him away, and that he too would find it hard to reach her as she grew into a woman. He had always dreaded that feeling of her effortlessly slipping beyond his control, but knew he would live through it a thousand times over if he could go back to that now. If he could choose to be the father she despised because he stopped her dating a wayward boyfriend, or imposed an unreasonable curfew, he would trade in a second. “You have to try to accept your life,” he said, more kindly than he had set out to be when he had first sat down.

“I can’t.”

“You’re not a child anymore, Emily. You are a grown up, just like you say you are. I know I treat you like you are still fourteen years old, but you persist in acting like it.” He turned closer but she drew her knees away from him, shifted across the satin bed sheets that Beda would be arriving to turn down shortly. She would be bringing clean towels for the bathroom, too. “I only want the best for you. I know what that is, I promise. You have to trust me.” He stood up and wandered over to her dressing table. He regarded her things as one might a box of old coins. He rifled a fingertip through her belongings. A selection of dated magazines, a hairbrush, a pot of lip balm that had lost its smell, and a few dog-eared photographs. He picked one up. “I remember this being taken,” he said as he turned and looked at her, tapping the photograph with the back of his fingers. Her silence remained like a noose around his neck. He knew that at any moment he could say the wrong thing and she could kick the stool out from underneath him. He placed the photograph back down from where he had picked it up from amongst the meagre possessions from her childhood.

“I don’t know why you keep all these old things. I have seen the girls of your age on the Community Level. They spend lots of time getting different colours on their fingertips and their eyes. You don’t do anything like that.”

“They don’t have anything else to do.”

“Why don’t you spend some time out of the house with them?” he suggested. “It could be nice. You might enjoy their company. You used to enjoy going down to the lobby and playing with the others. You used to enjoy the Community Level, and the dance classes.” The Community Level was supposed to be a place of unity, a place where people could go and always find company. Loneliness was dealt with by the third creed of the Omega Manifesto: No citizen of New Omega shall feel alone. That’s what they promised. Emily had been avoiding the Community level even before she found out, she knew something wasn’t right, even then. She didn’t want to be around the girls completing their forced Population Planning Checks, or the men carrying out Renunciation Pledges like robots. Not when everybody knew that she didn’t have to do the same.

“I used to be fourteen, Dad.” He nodded his head to show that he understood. “They spend time down there making themselves look stupid and eating too much, and then worrying about getting fat and ugly because they are bored. I am not bored.”

“Well, what else do they like to do?” he asked, not able to accept that he was beaten, or that he couldn’t drive the conversation where he wanted it to go. “Maybe there is something else you could do together.” She looked up without moving her sunken head.

“They go up to level seventy two.”

“Excellent. It is very nice up there.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What, you’re trying to tell me you have never been?”

“Never,” she said, before he had even taken a breath. Emily couldn’t work out if he was awkwardly putting his hands in and out of his pockets because she had never been to the outside viewing deck, or because he didn’t know that she had never been. They had drifted so far apart. Or rather he had pushed her. But it was hard not to relent when he looked so bewildered. “It was easier before, Dad,” she said, relaxing her shoulders and her hard line stance. She placed the remote control panel, a small glass square that looked almost transparent, back on the edge of her bedside table. “It was easier when I didn’t know.”

Her last comment burdened him, his back curved, surrendering to the responsibility. If he could take time back, he would. He would keep her in the dark like the rest of the remaining world, tell her that they still had no choice. At least this way she would accept the world before her as the truth, and she would accept that there was a purpose to their way of life other than self serving greed. “I wish you had never found out.”

“Maybe so, but you can’t expect me just to accept it now that I have. I can’t, Dad. I just can’t.”

“But you don’t have a choice,” he said. Again they remained in silence, her staring at her feet and him staring at his hands. Lies were easier believed when they were told convincingly, she thought. She had read that somewhere. She always knew he was being truthful when he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. When he couldn’t handle her judgement. “Regardless of how you feel, this whole charade of yours of going backwards and forwards to whichever tower it is,” he raised his finger again, “has to stop. If I find out who is helping you I’ll…..”

“You’ll what? Cut their oxygen rations?”

“I don’t know what you think you know about the other towers, Emily, but here in Omega Tower there are rules. We must abide by them. However you convinced one of the Coordinators to take you I’ll never know.”

“Guardians, Dad. They call them Guardians.”

“What if you are seen?”

“What if I am?” She considered the words already on her tongue, and before she could stop herself she was already saying, “Maybe I already have been.”

“What?” he screamed as he reached forward and took her chin in his hand. He gripped her so hard she bit the inside of her cheek and the metallic taste of blood streamed into her mouth. “We’ll talk about that in the morning. You won’t be going anywhere until then. Got it?” He released her from his grip, shoving her backwards and she ended up lying in a heap on her bed. She swallowed the blood in her mouth and suddenly felt hungry. It was hours since she had eaten. He snatched the control panel away from her bedside table. He was fast, and although she reached out to intercept him she missed, and instead slipped forward in time to see him holding it in his hands. “The first thing,” he said, pressing one of the glass icons. A sun. “This has to go. I can’t watch it, and I will not have you watch it either like some sort of prisoner.” Before she could say anything the room filled with sunlight, golden shards of it pouring through, refracting through the glass. It was close to sunset. She saw the greenery in the background, the oversized clouds which were made up of so many colours they hurt her eyes. “This is how your room will stay. Do not let me catch you with that old programme. I’m going to have it uninstalled.”

“Then I’ll never come home.”

“With that attitude, you’ll never go out. I’ll keep you locked here until you face up to it. Until you are begging for the opportunity that I have given you.”

“Like a prisoner,” she said, slumping down on her bed.

“You’re the one that always says you want to know how it must feel for them. I’ll teach you. See if you like their life any better than you do yours. I’m pretty sure you’ll soon know what’s for the best.” He slid the control panel into his suit pocket. He was one of the few people who still dressed like a person from the old world. He wore a suit each day. Today was a tweed jacket and casual trousers. His evening wear. He only wore Republic issued clothes during presidential engagements.

“I’m already a prisoner,” she spat, her lips stained red with blood. He noticed but ignored it, and pressed on regardless.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said as he tapped a series of icons on the control panel until music could be heard filtering through the walls. Music of nature, panpipe music with the occasional interjection of a bird singing. Something that would have once been played in a spa. “There, that’s better.”

“If it wasn’t for you I could have had a life. A real life.” She wiped her lip with the back of her hand, sweeping a streak of blood across her cheek.

“If it wasn’t for me you’d already be dead.”

“Like Grandpa, who you killed,” she shouted as he turned to leave the room. “And when Mum dies you will have killed her too.” He stopped, his hand gripping the door handle, his jaw bone clenched and his teeth set together. “You’re the reason the war started.”

“That’s very unfair, Emily,” he said, his words flat and emotionless, but he knew he was teetering on the brink of disaster. She could always do this to him. She could always break him. It was so easy for a daughter to slice you apart when you managed to be strong against the rest of the world. “The only reason anybody survived is because of what I did.”

He stepped out of the room and slammed the door shut. She jumped off the bed and tried the door handle. She was too slow. He had locked her in. She drummed her fists against the door and screamed, “No, Dad. You are the only reason that anybody died.” She slipped down the door, the earliest of tears forming in her eyes.

She didn’t know that her father was also on the floor, their heads pressed together, separated only by the door that he had trapped her behind. She didn’t know he was still listening as she said, “You’re the reason the war started, and you’re the reason why for everybody who survived, it will never end.”

Chapter Ten

Zack couldn’t concentrate for the next series of bells and alarms. On occasion he would realise that he was still working even when the next shift had begun, and then later in his room he would find himself still lying on his bed staring at the sky when the bell had sounded for him to be back at the water treatment plant. The Tenth Creed: Every Citizen of New Omega shall work for a better future without complaint or malaise. Since he met Emily, the rules had started to feel breakable.

There were two main problems on his mind that he couldn’t, no matter what he tried, shift from his conscious thought. The first was how Emily had slipped into Delta, at least the sublevels, and then mysteriously slipped away again, even though everywhere was either boarded up or tightly controlled by Guardians. But the second was altogether more troubling. Why the hell would she be here?

Everybody in Delta wanted to escape. Everybody wanted out. There were those on the highest levels who were doing it with drugs. There were those who spent all their credits on lottery numbers, desperately hoping to be selected for redistribution into Omega. There were those who did it in the sublevels with beakers of Moonshine and in the embrace of a woman like Roxanna. And then there were those who did it through denial, by keeping their head down, doing what they could to survive. But all of them wanted the same thing. They all wanted out. People from Omega just didn’t come to a place like Delta Tower. The towers were there to serve, to provide, to be regulated and controlled. Delta Tower didn’t offer anything that Omega Tower didn’t already have.

The oxygen was produced by Alpha Tower. This is what made Alpha Citizens so precious. The delivery of oxygen to Delta Tower came every sixth shift, the gas pumped through giant pipes that cut through the sky, just as it was to each tower. The previous lotteries, with the only exception the first ever draw, had all been won by Alpha residents. Alpha was rumoured to be almost as good as Omega inside, with Community Levels rather than Mess Rooms, shops spend credits, and food so good that nobody ever went hungry. He had heard they only worked one shift a day. Zack wasn’t sure he believed it, though.

Delta was the water tower, and it too had its delivery quotas to meet. It was from these delivery quotas that people had started to estimate the size of the other towers. If you knew how much water they used it was easy to guess which of the towers must contain the most citizens. Epsilon was the largest, save Omega Tower. These guesses were was also where the rumours about the deaths in Gamma Tower had originated. Their water supply had been suspended for a while, but then after six missed deliveries they had been instructed to resume water transportation. The delivery quantities had been halved. The previous residents couldn’t have survived on half a water supply. Not unless there were half the number of citizens. The supply to Omega was over ten times the size of Epsilon.

The worst thing to come directly from Omega was the live stream. The lobby was brilliant white, interrupted only by the green trees and ice blue water of the pool. There was a fountain that trickled water over a series of rocks, cascading across a manmade waterfall. There were children playing, their clothes clean and bright, A-line dresses for the girls, red and blue and yellow like a spilt tube of sugary sweets. Smart shorts for the boys, long trousers in the winter, white shirts and jumpers. The adults all wore the same. White A-line dresses for the women, similar to the girls’ dresses but sleeker in design, and for the men, outfits that looked like white hospital scrubs. Omega Tower was white because it was clean. They introduced the uniform, the regulation dress, within what Zack imagined to be the first year. The clothes were distributed and cleaned centrally, another perk of Omega life. They had been promised in all towers, but Delta hadn’t got them yet. It was designed so that nobody felt different or excluded. The Eighth Creed: No citizen of New Omega shall feel inferior to another. What a joke, Zack thought. There had been talk about Alpha having the uniforms but nobody could be sure. Nobody had them in Delta. That was what was important. Nobody could be sure about the other towers because there was no way of communicating with them. At least until now.

Leonard had seen the lights again, but Zack hadn’t got there in time. They had developed a signal that when the lights appeared Leonard would pummel his fists against the dividing wall six times. The first time Zack hadn’t heard the knocking because he had got lost in the iPod. In the period after the triple bell Zack had listened to it so much that by the time the next shift had started the battery was already flat. The next time when Leonard knocked the wall, Zack had been asleep. The third time Zack was ready, sitting coiled like a spring waiting, but he scanned the sky with the same attention that a hawk would scan a cornfield and he saw nothing. Leonard came blustering in after that time, didn’t even knock.

“How can you not see it?” Leonard asked, his hands working up and down his side, scratching through his clothes. “It was right around here,” he said as he pointed at a particularly dark section of cloud. “It’s gone now, but I promise you I just saw it.” Zack’s belief in the lights had been fading with the same certainty that light would disappear at the end of a sunset in the old world. But he didn’t want to be honest with Leonard, he didn’t want to shatter his dreams or extinguish that flicker of hope that he carried within him. Plus, he realised that he was also asking Leonard to believe in something both impossible and dangerous, and yet Zack had no doubts about what he had seen. He hadn’t been back to NAVIMEG since he had seen the Omega tattoo on Emily’s wrist.

“I don’t know, Leonard.” Zack sat up and swung his feet off the edge of the bed. The third double bell rang, signalling that it was time to go back to work. Zack worked his feet into the old trainers that he had been wearing every day since his Delta incarceration began. He reached down, his head dizzy with hunger, nausea creeping over him from the emptiness of his stomach. He swallowed hard and tied up the laces. “But if you say it’s there, I’ll take your word for it.” Zack stood up and picked up his water container, and pulled his ration card out of the wall-mounted card reader box. There was about an inch of water left. It would be enough to see him through the shift. The Guardians were rigorous in checking the water supplies of those who worked in the Water Distribution Centre. Trades were allowed. Stealing was punishable by denunciation under the rule of the First Creed: No citizen of New Omega shall steal from another. Nobody really knew what denunciation meant, but when it was threatened by the hyped-up Guardians, it never sounded like something anybody wanted to experience. “Anyway, what’s with the scratching?”

“You’re only saying you believe me, because you want me to believe your crazy stories,” Leonard said as he continued to grate his fingernails over his ribcage. “I think I’ve only gone and got the damn scabies.” Zack was sniggering, but Leonard didn’t see the funny side. Leonard broke the scratching for a second and reached down to pick up the small bag that Zack had taken to carrying with him over the last few days. “You want this?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said taking the satchel and throwing it over his shoulder.

“I don’t understand why you have started carrying that with you. It’ll make the Guardians suspicious. What do you need so much that you’ll lug it around all day?” Zack was cautious, eyeing his open door. He walked towards it and pushed it shut.

“Listen,” he said, hoisting the bag onto a propped up knee. “I’m searching. I have been down to the basement every day since. I have been looking at each floor, trying to see where she could have exited from.” He opened the bag and offered it up for Leonard to rummage inside; the iPod, an old magazine, a book called Super Structures, and one ration of water that he had risked denunciation for.

“But why are you carrying these things with you?” Leonard asked, pointing at the bag.

“If I find out how she got in,” Zack said, shaking the items back down into the dirty satchel, “then I can get out that way too.” Leonard was shaking his head, unimpressed by the plan. He looked back at the windows to made one final check for sunlight. There was none.

“I think you’re mad,” he whispered as they closed the door behind them, their conversation concealed by the sounds of New Omega Television. “I’ve said before that to go out in that is suicide. Dawn is coming, but it’s a slow process, Zachary. Omega will tell us when it is safe.”

“But you believe that the clouds are breaking enough for sunlight to come through. The atmosphere might have changed. It must have changed.” They stopped talking as they arrived at the entrance to the lift, several other men and women, a small crowd of familiar faces all waiting for it to arrive. Two Guardians were standing at the side, both with their hands on their Assisters. Zack leant into Leonard’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. “She got in somehow.”

Leonard exited the lift on level twenty one and walked towards the laundry where he worked. Zack saw him punch his card into the check-in slot, and before the lift doors closed Leonard turned around and flashed Zack a wink. He also shook his head left to right with a smile, demonstrating the freedom of movement. The pillow really had helped him. He never complained anymore. It made Zack feel good.

That shift for Zack, just like the rest of his shifts since he had seen Emily’s tattoo, passed by in a daze. He was unfocussed and distracted, and desperate for the bell so that he could just get out, eat, and get himself down to the basement to continue his search. There was no way that she had made it up to the lobby and got out that way. It had to be the basement. He had searched level one, and two. Tonight was level three.

As soon as the triple bell sounded he was out of the water treatment plant. He waited for the lift, and as expected, Leonard joined him on level twenty one. They rode in the claustrophobic space packed with people, several of which Zack noticed to be preoccupied by scratching their limbs and fingers. They queued for their long-term antibiotics and continued into the Food Hall.

Beyond the doors they found chaos. There were people jostling for seats, people running, actually running with their food to get a place at the tables. It was true, there were more people in here than usual, but what was the hurry? Zack looked over at the serving hatch to see mineral-enriched porridge being heaped onto a tray, and he turned to Leonard and said, “Well, the rush isn’t about the food, that’s for sure.”

They got in line and more people filtered in behind them. They reached the serving hatch and as Leonard handed over his tray, Zack asked the server, “What did you put in the food tonight? Everyone has gone crazy.” The server handed the tray back to Leonard and held out her hand for Zack’s. She was a small woman, pretty face, or perhaps might have had at some point. She had bright blue eyes that always seemed to shine, and Zack often found that he looked forward to seeing her because she looked so alive, even when she didn’t smile. Which was every day.

“You haven’t heard, have you?” she said, as she dolloped a lump of porridge into his tray. Zack looked to Leonard who was already staring back at him, both of them wondering what they had missed. Zack took the tray and the steam from the porridge wafted up and caressed his chin. Maybe this was why he liked the server. It was one of the few times he felt the comfort of warmth.

“Heard what?” they both asked in unison.

“They announced the lottery. It’s starting any time now.”

They found an empty couple of seats next to each other, the best they could find with a view to at least two televisions. They had only just sat down as the music cut in, a mix of trumpets and electronic piano like a fanfare mixed with 1980s electric pop.

Tonight, began the voice over. The Republic of New Omega is bringing you your lottery, live from Omega Tower. The lottery of the people is coming to your tower. Tonight, somebody will leave their old life behind and join us to begin a new life here in Omega Tower. Tonight, somebody will be sleeping in a new bed, wearing new clothes. Tonight, it might be your world that is set to change. One of you becomes the future. You become your neighbour’s future. Tonight one of you becomes The New Omega Lottery Winner.

This same spiel was playing every third advert, which meant it was getting close. Every time it started it brought the hungry crowd to its knees. The silence would descend, catch every breath and pull all eyes to the screen as the same enthusiastic voice repeated the same words.

One hundred and twenty credits for a blood transfusion. Thirty credits for scabies treatment. The crowd went quiet and the ecstatic voice played again. Next, fifty credits for a dental check. Regulation clothing for all towers coming soon. A great time to peddle lies. Tonight you become your neighbour’s future……

Zack had to zone out. He couldn’t take the crescendo. The butterflies were fluttering around his chest, dipping and diving into his stomach so that the porridge couldn’t settle. Leonard was scratching himself, concentrating on his armpits. He had definitely caught scabies. Zack’s head began itching and he hoped that it was just psychosomatic. He turned to see that Leonard had already finished his porridge and was eating his cracker bread like popcorn, one arm wrapped around the tray, the other mindlessly shovelling shards of cracker past his badly fitting false teeth, occasionally stopping to wriggle them back into place when chewing was troubled. There was a gnawing in Zack’s stomach that might or might not have been hunger related, but there was no hope of him getting another mouthful of porridge down. He pushed his tray aside. Leonard turned to look at him, temporarily distracted by the insanity of wasting food.

“Take it,” Zack said, and without a second thought Leonard pulled the plate towards him and finished it off in four gigantic mouthfuls. Leonard held up the small water ration out of courtesy to enquire if Zack wanted it or not. Zack waved his hand to surrender it and Leonard knocked it back like a Russian would vodka. Zack could see that Leonard kept checking his wrist, rubbing at the number with his left hand, clearing any debris or dust that might somehow impair his chances. Zack was sure that his number was worthless, nothing more than an out of date ticket. He guessed that sometimes in ignorance, hope could live on as brightly as a rainbow after the early spring rains.

There were people still filing in, some just realising that the lottery was starting. The queue for food had become madness because even the servers were distracted. Zack turned around in time to see somebody land a fist in the cheek of another citizen. It took only a second for two Guardians to step in, and with the help of their Assisters they brought the situation under control for the benefit of all citizens. The Second Creed. All citizens of New Omega have the right to live safely without fear or threat. Threats from the Guardians didn’t count.

“That’s his chances shot,” said Leonard as both he and Zack turned away just as the Guardians dragged away the assailant. Zack wondered if he could really be held responsible for his crime. Surely the crime was attributable to Omega. For a moment he felt the hatred rise up and push the butterflies of excitement aside as he remembered how much he despised Omega for being everything he craved and everything he didn’t have. But being on their team was better than being their opponent, and the hopes soon resurfaced along with the same tingling in his fingers as his heart started to gallop.

The television screens went black as the final advert was cut short. There was no time left. Within minutes there would be another New Omega Lottery Winner. Zack tucked his hands into his lap, pushing up his right sleeve with the stained thumb of his left hand. Eight. Six. Five. Two.

In the final moments before the programme began he imagined the smell of ice cream as it melted on a summer’s day, the sensation of grass crumpled beneath the bare sole of his foot. The warmth of a bed, the embrace of a partner, of Samantha, and of the child that they should have been raising. He would have done it. He wouldn’t have failed her. He would have put things right, right? In the vision of his mind he saw his son, somewhere between six and ten years old blowing out the candles on an oversized birthday cake. There were presents at his feet and Samantha was crying happy tears with her forehead nuzzled into his jaw line, her lips kissing him and whispering thank you for a wonderful life.

Just before he heard the music begin, he allowed himself to dream that he deserved another chance.

Chapter Eleven

Hello and good evening to each and every one of you out there. We are only moments away from revealing the lucky winner of tonight’s New Omega Lottery. Tonight, one of you will trade your life and become the future of our world. Tonight, you will be sleeping in Omega. Yes, that’s right people, tonight it could be you!

The crowds of Omega citizens sat in organised rows watching Daley Cartwell. He was wearing a green suit, his hair shinier than a black diamond. His smile was wider and whiter than a Himalayan crevasse. There were no Guardians that Zack could see, although it could be hard to spot them because everybody was wearing white. Only the children were wearing colour, the bright dresses and shirts interwoven through the crowds like a ribbon in a braid of hair. An audience waiting to see the latest recruit. Each time Daley Cartwell stopped talking, they began applauding. Rows and rows of clean white uniforms, freshly laundered and pressed, like the smell of grass after rain.

We have been preparing all week and the whole community is waiting to welcome you. The machine is ready. The numbers are ready. Your room is ready. We, your fellow citizens, are ready.

Daley Cartwell cast his eyes down, the microphone pressed against his chin underneath his lip.

We are ready to welcome you, he said as the cameras zoomed in for a close up. Together we will help you become a citizen of Omega Tower, to live once again with freedom, to play your part in rebuilding our world so that all, and each, and every one of you will once again live as free men and women!

Daley Cartwell flung a triumphant hand in the air which initiated rapturous applause from the crowd. The cameras panned across the rows of spectators who were nodding and celebrating the arrival of a stranger as if their own freedoms would somehow be that much sweeter by welcoming a new resident into Omega Tower. Zack could see the important faces sitting high up above the crowds. The camera zoomed in for a close up of President Grayson dressed in his official uniform, issued by The Republic. He was a president for which nobody Zack knew had voted. He nodded his head as if to confirm the value of this moment, the months and years of work that had gone into opening this one place in Omega. It seemed that in Omega they too might be watching the large screens, because when the president’s face came into view the cheering intensified in Omega Tower. A few people in Delta also applauded. A couple cheered. Leonard reached over and squeezed Zack’s arm and they both felt the tension. A woman close to the largest television jumped up from the crowd and threw a chunk of unleavened bread at the screen. The Guardians inched in but another two Delta residents wrestled her down into the crowd. People tutted at the inconvenience and the Guardians were kept back. Outbursts would not be tolerated tonight. Not by anybody.

Daley Cartwell was standing at the side of another large screen towards the back of his stage. The stage was lit by concentric rings of lights on the floor as if he was literally walking across the stars. The screen was playing images of Omega citizens walking with a purpose but without a destination. Next they were sitting in libraries reading books as if they had cause to learn. Images of thinking and working and hardship that were nothing more than a pathetic facade of real life. Zack knew this because he knew that every other tower was responsible for providing what they needed. Omega didn’t work for anything. Zack could imagine the next generations of Omega citizens born into a life of privilege. It would be even worse then.

Here in Omega we are rebuilding. Every day is a challenge to reconstruct our society as we once knew it. To build a life again for us all to enjoy. Here in Omega we do not seek exclusivity. We are not working for ourselves. We do not sit here in an ivory tower on our laurels whilst you toil in less than perfect conditions.

Daley Cartwell said this with one eyebrow raised and with his tongue sticking into his cheek as if he was in on the joke of what the other towers thought about Omega residents. As if he was saying, we know what you think about us, but it doesn’t matter. We understand. We forgive you. The camera cut to the crowd and some of them were laughing. We are working, as one, for you, he continued.

More applause. Cheering on Delta level twenty five.

We are here tonight not to celebrate what we have achieved to date. We are here, one and all, to celebrate our ability to welcome another citizen, to open our doors and say that this place is your new home. Tonight we celebrate our opportunity to grow in strength, to accept another member into our arms and build our team so that we can fight even harder to rebuild the world for us all. So let’s not delay, let us begin. Let us begin the search for a new citizen of Omega Tower. Let us grow in strength. Let us build a better future. Your future.

Quiet. So quiet that Zack could hear breathing all around him. Maybe it was just his own.

Daley Cartwell held up a finger, pointed it in the direction of every set of eyes on Delta level twenty five, and Zack imagined, every set of eyes in New Omega outside the ivory tower. He was looking at each and every one of them.

Let us find you.

The numbers on Zack’s wrist felt hot with excitement, so much so that they were pulsating. There were deep breaths coming from left and right as if the whole room had been gripped in a meditative state, broken only as the next set of adverts kicked in. Blood transfusions. Special offer, now only eighty credits. Scabies treatment, fifteen credits, also reduced. They know there will be disappointments. People had to fall back into reality but Omega knew how to cushion the blow.

Can you tell us what this lottery meant to you? Daley Cartwell was talking again, leaning in close to a healthy looking woman, his forehead almost resting against the side of her temple in sympathy for the horror that he was asking her to recall. In your own words.

Everybody focussed again. The commercials were over.

Yes, Daley. Before, life was very hard in Alpha Tower. Some days there was no food. When my number was drawn out, I knew I was being given an opportunity to help my people, to help them grow, and to provide for their future. I have worked to help improve the food supplies for all towers. My Tower is still my responsibility.

Controlled applause in Omega. Silence in Delta, save the occasional late comer still shuffling into the room at the back. A few people were confused, trying to remember if the food had ever been worse. More music. Most of the Omega crowd looked on with smug half smiles. Zack saw one of them wipe away a tear. The camera paid her particular attention.

And you, fellow citizen. Daley Cartwell worked his way along the five previous winners on the stage. A man, big and strong, healthy looking in a way that didn’t seem normal to Zack anymore. Can you tell us what being selected means to you?

“I wish they would just get on and announce it,” Leonard said as he stuffed the last chunk of bread into his mouth. “I can’t take this much longer.” He scratched at his armpits, and Zack inched away.

Yes, Daley. Gamma isn’t able to produce much for themselves that benefits the residents directly, and we were a small tower with little space for comfort. There was almost no privacy. This made rationing a complicated matter. Because of Omega I have been able to play my part in resolving this issue. My Tower is still my responsibility.

Zack noticed that both of the previous winners had excellent teeth. They smiled from atop a special platform which seemed to house all five previous winners. Each of them was smiling, except for when one of them spoke. When they spoke it was always about the difficulty of their old life in their old tower. Nobody in Delta knew what having a winner felt like. Would it really mean improved conditions for the rest of the tower?

“I’d improve the clothes,” said Zack. “It gets so cold in here because it’s huge, and nobody has enough to wear. Nothing fancy, I don’t mean for us all to look like Omega.”

“I’d give everybody scabies treatment,” said Leonard, still scratching. “And there is no point looking at me like that, or moving further away. If I’ve got it, you’ve got it too.”

Next they showed the room. All white. It was large in comparison to anything in Delta, white, clean walls with not a mark on them, and a whole wall of windows. Zack saw the new sky programme playing. It was a clear night sky, full of stars. They twinkled like sun drenched diamonds refracting light in a million directions. Zack allowed himself a wish, even though he knew they weren’t real. The bed was a large single, wider than his. The mattress looked plump and there was a bag of linen at the end of the bed.

This is where our winner will sleep, but not before spending time in our state of the art health facility, where he or she will receive a full medical and dental appraisal, all with the full compliments of our great president.

The cameras cut to President Grayson again. He was sitting with a humble look on his face, his eyes downcast and lips pursed together. The excitement of the crowd intensified in both Omega and Delta towers when he appeared on the screen. Zack was distracted by Leonard’s continued irritations with his skin. He had started scratching at his ribs again. Intermittently he would stop, stare at the wrist of his right hand to look at his numbers. Zack could see his lips moving, mouthing them over and over as if in a moment of silent prayer. As Zack looked around the room he could see lots of people checking their wrists as if they didn’t already know their numbers off by heart. He thought of Ronson, in his bar none the wiser about what was happening above ground. If Zack won tonight he would be unlikely to ever see him again, and it made him regret that he hadn’t offered him more the last time they were together.

Ladies and gentlemen, there is no more time for delay. The lottery of the people is coming to you tonight. Tonight one of you becomes the future. You become your neighbour’s future. One of you becomes the winner. Let’s make that happen, right here, right now!

Zack was near-deafened by applause so loud that nobody could hear their nearest neighbour. Zack was on his feet cheering, throwing off whoops and yeahs in all directions, celebrating with people at his side and behind him who he had never met before. Somebody was rubbing his shoulder. The crowd was energised, smashing into each other like charged atomic particles. Fusion. That’s what happened the last time the world ended. A few people began to sit, others remained standing. It took a while for Zack to take his seat on the bench, and next to him Leonard still looked like he was praying. His hands were clasped together, knuckles white, jaw tight and set in place. It seemed like the organisers of the lottery and the citizens of Omega must have expected the commotion because when the din finally passed and people sat in their seats, the programme didn’t appear to have moved on at all.

Chapter Twelve

“What do you think, Zack?” Leonard reached over, placed one of his sweaty palms on Zack’s hand. “Do you think it really could be one of us?” Zack wasn’t paying attention, even though Leonard was shouting over the noise of the crowd to be heard. His eyes were set firmly on the television set, waiting for the draw to start. Once Daley Cartwell started talking again a hiss whipped around the room, and soon all was quiet. There was a ringing in Zack’s head, loud like the beat of a drum, a fizzing in his ears. He wasn’t used to noise anymore. People stayed quiet now. There was little in the way of conversation or excitement in Delta tower, and when suddenly it was everywhere it created a sensory overload.

“Shush,” Zack muttered, patting Leonard’s hand. “He’s talking.”

Daley Cartwell announced a celebration dance, and a series of multicoloured children, red, blue, and yellow, entered the stage. The clothes were excessive, sore on the eye. They danced in lines, in circles, perfectly choreographed. Zack could see the excitement once again rippling through the crowd. People’s eyes were wide, primitive and savage-like. They weren’t used to colour anymore, their palette had been subdued. The desire of the crowd was ferocious and somehow terrifying in comparison to the relaxed calm of the Omega crowd as they sat and watched. They were sitting in even rows around the lobby like a fashion show from the old time, people cool and relaxed, and yet simultaneously on edge, afraid to look out of place. They sat cocooned in safety, their luxury of cleanliness and plenty. It was the people who were the prize. A community that didn’t want for anything. The idea of being part of it was thrilling, like a stimulant more empowering than any drug the sublevels could produce. Zack was just starting to wonder where all the children came from when the dancing stopped and Daley Cartwell came into view, wide white smiles as the children filtered from the stage. More applause.

Two white-gloved and white-clothed workers pushed a spherical beast of a machine with a rotating drum from behind, bent double as if they were worshipping it. They positioned it in the centre of the lobby, and the children who had only moments before been dancing on the stage filled with stars formed two circles of primary colours around the machine. Daley Cartwell announced it as Sisyphus, and the children with their hands clasped together skipped in opposite directions around it which drew delighted smiles and cheers from the crowd. As the cameras panned back they revealed a canopy of green from eight huge trees, rising as tall as the columns of the Parthenon. Occasionally the trees seemed to move as if in a breeze, which Zack knew was impossible and a sign of how intoxicatingly destructive the atmosphere really was. After this was all finished, the memory of it would fester like an open wound, putrefying what was left of his life. He stood up at one point, the sudden movement sending Leonard’s arm flying off to the side. He gasped for breath, panting for air. His sides were so tight it felt like his lungs couldn’t even expand, like new balloons impossible to inflate. Even with all of his effort behind it, breathing was hard. Leonard pulled on his arm, gentle encouragement to sit back down. Zack hadn’t noticed them, but the Guardians had already noticed him. There was a ring of them around the perimeter of the Food Hall. Leonard nodded to Zack, and one of the Guardians used his Assister to motion for him to sit.

“Relax, Zachary.” Leonard returned the hand to Zack’s shoulder. “Relax.” It was the name his parents used. It was the name people who loved him spoke of. It was the name Samantha used. It was the name of familiarity. Of the past.

“OK, OK,” Zack said. He breathed deeply. He stared at his wrist, at the tattoo, at his number.

“They’re about to draw the first ball.” Leonard said.

In his effort to breathe there were definitely parts of the show that Zack had missed because there was another small stage that had been pushed into place that wasn’t there before. It was topped with the same twinkling lights, and the main lights in the Omega lobby had been dimmed. He couldn’t focus on the show anymore. Just hearing the name Zachary had rolled him straight back into a time when he felt, when he cried, loved, danced, and hurt. When he was anything but numb and desperate. In this moment he caught the smell the musky scent of Samantha’s perfume as she slipped her naked leg between his, and her arm across his chest as she slept. In the day she would speak of future plans that seemed like crazy ideas, able to scare him half to death with just the suggestion of a lifetime together. What he would give to listen to all those words that he had once filtered out. Her crumbs in the bed. The hair in the bath. The coffee rings she left on magazines about architecture that he was planning to keep. Now he would treasure anything if it was hers. As he opened his eyes he thought he saw her for a moment, smiling, her image faint and hazy in front of him. Within seconds the image had faded but still he reached out for her, his arm stroking the air. But even though he knew it was impossible, she was here with him somehow. There was a smell of musk in the air, and his leg tingled as if she had been resting hers on his. Somewhere she still lived, inside of him. He always thought there was nothing left, but the energy of the night had reignited something. There were still memories in him, feelings, a passion he thought was lost or taken from him as a punishment and yet now here in this night, with Leonard still steadying him, he felt it. He felt a connection he thought had been burned when the bombs rained down and fire had torched his world and his life. She was here. He was here. They still lived, and it had taken the possibility of a future to be able to taste the past. Perhaps he could believe that he could forgive himself for his mistakes, knowing it was the only thing that could really set him free.

We have a zero! A zero is the first number!

The balls tumbled around in the drum, each one skirting across the hole, missing its purpose. The next slotted into place and the crowd held their breath.

A zero! Another zero! We are still waiting folks!

That ruled out Eta Tower, And Theta Tower. This was the normal start. Next ball was another zero. Had to be. The balls continued round and round and the children danced in circles. Daley Cartwell cheered and the crowds sat with their hands together. All eyes were fixed on the drum, the coloured balls leaping over one another as if they didn’t want the responsibility of being next. Another fell into the hole. Another zero?

We have an eight. An eight! The first number of the winner is an eight!

Every resident of Delta leapt to its feet, rising as a single unit. Even Leonard. It could be a citizen of Delta. There were six numbers in total, and the first two were always zeros. The next was always a two or three, except for the first draw when it was a five and somebody from Gamma won. But now it was an eight. Some had started crying just knowing they were this close. It looked as if it being close could be enough for them. Or maybe the thought of leaving was too much. To lose a second life for something else unknown, just like before, well, maybe that was worse than staying here. At least here you knew what you had got. Zack tried to focus on the screen even though everybody, Leonard included, was still up on their feet cheering. He sat, tried to breath. Somebody knocked him from behind, winding him. Somebody else was shouting for everybody to calm down. It could have been a Guardian. People were shouting all around and like the balls of the machine only snippets of information made it through to his ears. The rest was just noise filtering rampantly through the crowd, carried on a wave of excitement. Daley Cartwell was already announcing the fourth ball.

The crowd settled down but not in the same lifeless way that it was normally subdued. There was a stir of trepidation, people wanting to be calm and listen but unable. Zack was no different. He stood, he sat. He held his hands together and then rested them on the table. None of the Guardians moved. It was as if they wouldn’t dare. What were the numbers? Leonard was sitting talking to himself, his head in his hand. He was crying. Zack focused on his shoulders shaking, and the tear as it fell from Leonard’s face and struck the metal table.

“I’m out. I’m out. It’s over, Zachary.” Zack looked towards the television screen over a sea of sad faces. Some were holding their heads, others pulling at their hair. Some were crying and others, stronger types, the ones who would try to pick people up again when it was all over, were already trying to calm their neighbours. This was the only time when Zack had ever believed there was some element of community amongst the Delta residents. People just like Leonard were realising their chance was over, their excitement replaced by fear that they had no hope of a brighter tomorrow. Whatever tomorrow was. It would still be today. It would be yesterday, and the day before. An endless Groundhog Day where there was no choice left, and they just had to get on with it.

As another person sat down there were only three people left on their feet. One of them was Zack. Zero. Zero. Eight. Six. Five. Five balls out. Zack glanced down at his tattoo even though there was no need. They were his numbers. He was one number away. He clutched his wrist, his left thumb covering the length of the tattoo, only the triangle for Delta visible.

And the last number is……. wait for it, Delta Tower. We know it’s one of you. What do we have?

The camera panned to the children, then the crowds, then the president’s seat, and then back to Daley Cartwell.

Number two! We have a winner. Delta Tower, who is your winner? Is he there with you now?

As the final ball fell into the hole, with the orgasmic announcement of the last number, the woman and the man near the front of the Food Hall fell to their knees. Zack’s thumb pressed down harder on the tattoo, stifling it, smothering it. He covered the triangle, squashed it out, before closing his eyes. There was silence for the briefest of moments, before a bullet strikes, the look in the eye of a lamb before slaughter, the moment before impact when there is no turning back. The noise began to filter back in, the muffled sounds destroyed as Leonard shouted at him, his hands gripping Zack’s upper arms. He was shaking him.

“You’re in! You’re in, Zachary!” He was crying tears of joy mixed with tears of loss and sadness. He let go and threw his arms around him, his short stature causing his hairs to tickle at Zack’s slack jaw. “You’re in!” he said again. “You won!”

Zack’s knees buckled and he collapsed onto the bench, pulling the weight of Leonard with him. People nearby, red-faced and disappointed, smiled and congratulated him, satisfied that it was at least one of them. It was the selfless kind of happiness that a parent might feel for a child’s success at the expense of their own. They consoled themselves in the hope that the chosen one might share their dreams and help make their life better. Perhaps Delta would be remembered, unforgotten in the future of the Republic of New Omega.

Delta Tower, we have the name of your winner.

“It’s Zack,” somebody shouted.

“We already know it!” shouted another.

Zachary Christian, your moment has arrived! The future of your tower begins with you, right here on this night! It’s time to get to the lobby. We are coming for you!

The crowd in Omega Tower was clapping, their applause still controlled and the smiles on their faces measured and planned. The children were forming two lines, those at the front carrying the Omega flag, the green background and blue central diamond, topped by the yellow sun with eight rays to represent each tower. The crowd in Delta Tower was crazed. He heard somebody shouting, “It’s Zack, it’s Zack.” The voice was running away, filtering the news down into the lower levels. He started thinking about Leonard who was still crying, rubbing Zack’s arms from his position at the side. Nothing but pride on his face.

Get ready, Zachary. Tonight you sleep here with us. Omega Tower welcomes you!

Somebody pulled him to his feet. It could have been Leonard. He was walking, moving, being pulled. There were Guardians forming lines keeping the crowds away. One of them pulled at Leonard but Zack clung onto him. No Guardian would strike him now. Not before the cameras arrived in Delta. Nobody wanted a winner with a bloody face. Somebody guided him into the lift and he became squashed by bodies before somebody……….

Samantha was sitting on the dining table. She was wearing only her underwear and a shirt of Zack’s, blue stripes and oversized. She was balancing her feet on the bench seat and smiling over her cup of coffee. She was looking in Zack’s direction whilst he buttered the toast, her almond shaped eyes almost no wider than the slits of oysters. She looked at him with such cheek on her face, like they were both in on a joke. In this moment the world was their own. His hand stretched out and took the coffee cup from her before he took a sip. He pushed her backwards and she began to unbutton the shirt.

……….shouted that the lift had been over-filled and that it wasn’t moving. There were too many people and the Guardians were pulling people out. Zack saw an Assister rise up and strike somebody’s shoulder. Somebody was shouting that he didn’t want to get out and that he wasn’t the last in and that he was my friend and he wanted to…………..

Zack’s mother positioned the hat on his head, just to the side as he had insisted. She helped him drape the blue and red scarf around his shoulders so it hung properly over the black gown. His father watched. He was smiling and saying how proud he was. He was saying what a wonderful engineer he would make and that today was the first day of his future. His mum kissed him and his dad made a joke about the lipstick before rubbing his cheek with his thumb. Samantha was nearby with her parents. She was looking over her shoulder smiling too.

……….and the doors opened and Leonard was pulling on his arm saying that they didn’t have long. It was time to grab the things he wanted. He was asking where the bag was. They were on level thirty and somebody was shouting that they had the winner, like the celebration of a successful hunt. Leonard was shouting at somebody that there wasn’t time to do something like that, and that the idea was insane. There was no way they were doing a lap of every floor. The man looked angry and shoved Leonard, but then……….

Zack was standing outside his office block. His reflection was staring back at him in the mirrored glass. He was saying that he was sorry but it had to be this way. That he wasn’t ready. It wasn’t her fault, but he wasn’t ready for it. What was she supposed to do, she was asking. He was saying he would help her. He was saying that he would go with her and be there for her, and that afterwards they would still be together. He just wasn’t ready for the responsibility. She was crying, and he was making his excuses. He told her he would speak to her later. She told him she loved him. He repeated that he would speak to her later.

………Leonard was shouting at somebody to get out the way. He was still holding onto Zack’s arm and pulling him forwards and………

Zack went inside and put his telephone into his pocket. He took the lift up to the thirtieth floor. Leonard was there, younger with fuller cheeks. He asked him if he wanted to talk about it but Zack said that he didn’t, that it was personal. Leonard told him that if he changed his mind he would be there. He made a coffee. He sat at his desk and got out his diary. The office filled with light, streaming in as if every dawn was rising in unison. He ran to Leonard’s office. The floor beneath him rumbled, a sensation that he had never felt before, like the floor was resting on a surface of jelly.

……..then Leonard slammed the door shut.

“Zachary, are you OK?” Leonard was peering down at him, his eyes wide, and his smile fixed and tight. “You looked in a daze there for a moment.” Zack was sitting on the edge of his bed, his room, his home, his life for an unknown and poorly counted number of years.

“I can’t believe it, Leo.” Zack’s hands were resting on his chest, across his heart. He was trying to breathe, his lips pursed together like they were sucking on a straw.

“That’s it, Zachary. Just take a few deep breaths,” Leonard said as he sat crouched in front of him. His face was still red, his eyes swollen and sore. In that vision Zack realised that the only thing that matched his luck was the incredible loss of every other resident, not only in Delta, but the rest of New Omega.

“I’m sorry, Leo.” Tears welled in Zack’s eyes and a single droplet escaped onto his cheek which Leonard brushed away.

“Sorry?” Leonard asked. “Don’t be sorry. Come on now,” he said, resting a comforting arm across his shoulders as he sat at Zack’s side. He was the closest thing Zack had to a friend or a father left. “What could I do with a life in Omega Tower? I’m old. I’m not even sure they let old chaps like me in there. Now come on, they’re coming for you. It’s time to get yourself together. I’ve snatched you a few quiet moments by getting you here for your things, but we have to leave in a few minutes.”

Zack sat nodding, agreeable and thankful for Leonard’s willingness not to show his disappointment. They both knew it existed. He had lost too. A wife, a family, a home. There was nothing left for him except this. This was his reality. But Zack could no longer sympathise with his misfortunes. They were no longer the same. Zack stood up and grabbed his blanket and pillow from the bed and bundled them up before thrusting them into Leonard’s arms.

“You have to take my things, Leo.” This room will be ransacked once word gets out. Nothing will be left. You have to take anything you can.” Zack searched around looking for something of use. A spare overall, too big but available. A jumper, holey but still an extra layer. He opened the satchel and pulled out the iPod and pushed it along with the clothes into a pile in Leonard’s arms. He reached under the mattress, pulled out three ration cards.

“Be careful with these. Don’t go crazy with them. There are enough water rations on here to see you through a month without your own.” He reached into another drawer, pulled out an old wallet. There was a photograph in there. It was Zack and Samantha in the summer, when days were long and life felt even longer. Youth lived in the couple who Zack no longer recognised as himself ever being part of. They were cuddling on top of some steps. “Paris,” Zack said. “Years ago.” He took the picture and tore it in half, separating their heads. He slipped the half with Samantha on it into his pocket, handed the other half to Leonard.

“Why?” Leonard said. “I’m not going to forget you.”

“There is always part of me that stayed outside of this tower, but I thought that part of me had died. Now I can feel it again. But the part of me in here,” he paused to wipe away another tear, “it was only kept alive by you. Part of me will stay here with you, and maybe on some of the darker days you can look at this and remember that. Maybe it will help.”

“It will,” Leonard said, his eyes glassing over. “We have to go,” he said quickly, slipping the photograph in his overall pocket.

“No, stay here.” Leonard looked surprised. “If you come, somebody else will get this stuff. The crowd will probably follow me. Can’t you hear them?” Outside the door there was a chant of Zack’s name, demanding their hero winner. “Take the things next door as soon as we have gone. Leonard nodded.

Zack stepped forwards and crouched down. He opened his arms and wrapped them around Leonard’s body. They held each other, both knowing that something else had ended. Their heads rested on each other’s shoulders, and Zack drank in the smell of him without any care for any disease that he might catch. It wasn’t important anymore.

“You take care, Zachary.” They both stood up. “I don’t know what I would have done without you in those early days. I’ll miss you.”

“Likewise, old man. Don’t lose hope. Maybe your clouds will clear after all.”

“Maybe,” Leonard said, not seeming convinced.

“And if not, I’ll find a way to bring back some sunshine into your life.” He held Leonard’s cheek in his hand, Leonard fighting back the first tears of a goodbye, Zack’s fingers sliding around to grip his neck. He pulled him closer. “There is a way out of here, and this is not the only way.” They both nodded their heads, only one of them really believing it. “I’m coming back for you one day.” He walked to the door, opened it a fraction and the cheering became louder. Leonard sat back down. The cheering faded as Zack closed the door.

He was gone.

JUMP STRAIGHT INTO BOOK TWO OF THE DAWN SERIES NOW

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I was born in the town of Warwick in 1981. It is a small historical town in the heart of England, and Ι was the fifth child born into a family of boys. I developed a huge interest in the written world from a young age, and with more than a little help from Roald Dahl found quite the taste for anything gross and gory. Book club at primary school only proved to increase my love of escaping into the world of a book. Whilst six years at secondary school did little to quell the romantic notion of one day sitting in my mountain cabin and smoking a celebratory cigarette as the first novel was born, somewhere within those six years the dream of becoming a writer got put on hold. Still resting quietly in the background were those long and lingering desires to once again rediscover those old aspirations to write.

About six years ago, with the smouldering embers of a childhood dream sparking uncomfortably underfoot there was what can only be called an epiphany. Who is it that actually becomes a writer? It’s the people who write. It’s the people who actually do more than say, ‘I have a dream’. Whilst this may sound simplistic, it was the revelation I needed to sit down and type Chapter One. The first book, The Loss of Deference was no longer just a fantasy and slowly became a workable manuscript. It was then sent out in eagerness before it was properly edited and therefore it was duly returned, and along with it I collected a nice set of standard rejection letters. Six years later, having uprooted from England to settle on the southern Mediterranean shores of Cyprus, the dream to publish the book once deemed nothing more than a pipe dream is now a reality. I am still working as a part time scientist, but I am also writing daily. When I am not sat at the computer typing about the darker side of life, you will find me hiking in the mountains, drinking frappe at the beach, or talking to myself in the kitchen in the style of an American celebrity chef. Just think Ina Garten

Thank you for purchasing this novel. If you would like more information regarding future work, or wish to sign up to the mailing list, you can visit my website.

www.michellemuckley.com

and before you go….

Please consider leaving a review for The Dawn: The Bombs Fall (book one) on Amazon

Copyright

Copyright © 2014 Michelle Muckley

British English Edition

First Edition

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual people, places, or events is in every respect coincidental.

This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment, but may be lent and copied without prior permission. These permissions extend to your personal use only, and do not intend to cover the copying of the material for distribution to the general public.

For extra copies, and further information about the author, please visit:

www.michellemuckley.com

All rights reserved

ISBN-13: 978-1501024672

ISBN-10: 1501024671

Content

Michelle Muckley
THE DAWN
THE BOMBS FALL

Author’s Note

THE OMEGA MANIFESTO

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Copyright