The union, p.1
The Union, page 1
The Union
T.H. Hernandez
Copyright © 2014 by T.H. Hernandez.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author by email with the subject line: “Permission Request” at the address below.
T.H. Hernandez
thhernandezauthor@gmail.com
http://thhernandez.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover Art © 2013 by Mark Sgarbossa (www.popgroovy.com)
Edited by Barbara Trageser and E.J. Hernandez
Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com
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The Union / T.H. Hernandez. -- 1st ed.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
ISBN 978-0-9908688-0-4 (Kindle)
To Ernie, for believing in me
I wonder if I would’ve spent so much time agonizing over my future if I’d known I’d be dead so soon. Something tells me I would have done a lot of things differently. If I’d known, maybe I would have done everything differently.
When I try to breathe in deeply, wrenching pain stops me short. Every inch of my body is consumed by a bottomless ache, including my lungs.
It’s been days since I’ve had anything to eat, but I no longer feel hungry. I know this is a really bad sign.
Lifting my head sends a sharp twinge shooting through my skull, and I grimace, stretching my bottom lip until it cracks and bleeds. The burned coppery taste of blood hits my tongue, making me retch.
I curl into a ball, trying to hide from the pain, but there is no escaping. The packed dirt, small jagged rocks that scrape my cheek, and the putrid odor of decaying leaves all remind me of where I am.
Despair flows from my soul, drowning every last remnant of hope. I begin to cry, but without enough fluid left in my body to produce tears and a throat so ravaged no sound comes out, my body heaves with dry silent sobs until I am empty.
Soon the emptiness gives way to an unexpected calm. I lift my hand over my head and study the tiny rivers of dried blood crisscrossing my palm before it floats to my chest like one of the many brown and lifeless leaves that surround me.
With a resigned sigh, I close my eyes, no longer afraid it might mean never opening them again. In just a short time, I’ve gone through the five stages of grief and have arrived at acceptance.
What I know of death comes from entertainment. Movie deaths are noisy and dramatic, filled with action and brutal emotion. By contrast, mine will be silent and serene.
I wonder if they’ll ever find my body out here or if my family will be left to always wonder what happened to me. My heart breaks for what losing me will do to them.
In my last moments of life, I try to piece together the events that brought me here. It all started that evening in May when I took Barklyn for a walk in the park to clear my head. Back when my biggest concern was the lack of any plans for my future.
Now I know my future. My life ends here. Alone. In the Ruins.
Book 1 – The Union
100 Years After the Second U.S. Civil War
“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”
―William Shakespeare
1 My Biggest Concern
It’s no big deal, just the rest of my life.
I’m no closer now to picking a career than I was a week ago, a month ago, or even a year ago. With graduation only a few weeks away, the pressure to choose something increases every day.
Before the war, people had more time to sort out their futures – four additional years of school. Of all the changes the Union made, enhancing our first twelve years of education, eliminating college, and sending us straight into internships, was one of the better ones. The idea of spending even one more day in a classroom is gag-worthy.
I drop my electronic tablet with my history notes onto the bed and blow out a slow breath, sending crazy red curls flying in a dozen directions.
The late afternoon sun cuts a bright swath across my room. Outside the open window, desalinated ocean water gurgles along the channel, delivering fresh water throughout the Union. But neither the cheerful sun nor the sounds of the manmade stream do anything to improve my mood.
Rolling off my bed, I pad across the wood floor and fling open my bedroom door. I make my way down the curved staircase into the great room where my mom sits at the kitchen counter reading her tablet. My twin half-sisters, Katie and Rachel, are sprawled across the cream-colored velour couch watching some idiotic tween show.
Our dog, Barklyn, a purebred Havanese, leaps down from where he’d been curled up between Thing 1 and Thing 2, and bounds over to me, tongue out, head cocked to the side.
We could both use a change of scenery. I grab his leash and tell my mom I’m going for a walk.
She glances up from her tablet, her crystal green eyes taking in my attire. “Like that?”
I glance down at my gray yoga pants and faded Epic Vinyl rock T-shirt and shrug. “Sure. I’m only going to the park.”
“Evan, I wish you’d pay a little more attention to how you dress when you go out.”
I roll my eyes so hard, I nearly fall over. As a former model, she’s far more concerned with appearances than I’ll ever be.
My sisters have their father’s dark coloring and our mother’s height and beauty. I inherited my cheekbones, full lips, and nose from her, but my hair is the result of a recessive gene somewhere down the family line. My bi-colored hazel eyes and short stature are courtesy of my bio-dad, Epic Vinyl frontman, Eddie McIntyre.
“I refuse to be a walking billboard for M Clothing.”
“No one is asking you to, but could you at least put on a shirt without holes?”
The holes aren’t the problem, but she’ll never admit it. I hate this shirt and only wear it to annoy her. Mission accomplished.
When I don’t make a move to change, she waves me off with a huff. “Joe will be home in an hour. Be back by then for dinner.”
“Fine.”
I let myself out the front door and walk down the curved path, dodging a delivery drone bringing a package to our neighbor. Taking my favorite shortcut, I cross through the plaza, pass the greenhouses, and swing open the iron gate leading to the park.
Tall trees on either side of the path reach out tangled fingers and pull at one another, creating a leafy canopy. Late spring flowers fill the air with aromas of lavender and orange. Other than the slapping of my flip-flops against my feet, the park is quiet, but even immersed in all this serenity, my mind won’t shut up.
Frustration billows inside me like an angry cloud, the pressure building to epic proportions. Okay, so maybe I’m being a bit dramatic, but between my mom, stepdad, and bio-dad, I feel like a three-sided wishbone with the winner getting the broken me.
I don’t know why I’m having such a hard time with this. All my friends have declared and lined up summer internships, but I don’t know what I want to do. What I do know is I want to do something that matters, to make a difference in the world.
I let Barklyn off his leash and he zips across the park, a blur of brown and white fur. He spots a group of pigeons and lowers his front paws, raising his back end, before launching himself at them. The terrorized birds scatter in a burst of beating wings and flustered coos.
Barklyn has the perfect life, and it hits me that I’m envious of my dog. Food magically appears in his bowl, he gets belly rubs whenever he wants, and the biggest decision he’ll ever need to make is which tree to pee on first.
My wallowing in the pool of self-pity is disrupted when a beautiful husky wanders into the park followed by his equally beautiful owner, Bryce Vaughn, sending my central nervous system into a frenzy.
Bryce’s skin is the color of cappuccino and his slate gray eyes are like the winter sky. And if that combination wasn’t striking enough to make my knees turn to jelly, the dimples that appear when he smiles make my heart forget how to beat.
I whistle for Barklyn and he bounds over to me, giving up on the birds. But the whistle also catches Bryce’s attention, and he turns and waves. Oh dear God he’s coming over here. To talk to me. And I’m wearing my rattiest shirt. Yep, spiting my mom worked out just great.
I snap on Barklyn’s leash and steel myself, turning to face him. Bryce is currently dating Alivia Benton, Queen Bee of Moores Academy and my arch nemesis. This could be craptastically awkward. Hopefully it’s a short conversation. But when his eyes meet mine and my lungs stall, I could stay here forever, just staring at him.
“Hey, Evan.” His smooth and sexy voice causes my pulse to do funny things.
“Bryce.” I nod my head in what I hope is a casual acknowledgment, but the jerky movement probably looks more like I have nerve damage somewhere in my nec
He stands with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. “Do you live nearby? I’ve never seen you here before.”
I glance at his dog sniffing the plants Barklyn just peed on. “Uh…yeah, over there.” I point in the general direction of our apartment, struggling with something else to say as my mind goes blank. “Uh…I…I usually come right after school,” I blurt out, “but today I had to study for my history final.” I’m not normally nervous around boys, but Bryce isn’t a normal boy. He has superpowers that zap my ability to function coherently.
“I took it this morning. It’s not too hard. Mostly it focuses on the American Revolution, the War on Terror, and the government regulations on greenhouse gasses and guns leading to the second Civil War.”
“I’m okay with that stuff, but trying to remember all those dates freaks me out. Does it really matter if the first shot was fired on…” Oh hell, I can’t remember the date.
He smiles. “July 4, 2052, for the record.”
“See? And I heard half the test is dates.” A breeze sails across the park, sending pieces of hair into my eyes. I twist my head to get them out of my face, using my hand to shove one of the more offensive curls behind my ear.
“No one can remember dates, at least not easily. The only way I can remember them is to make up poems. Like the one we learned in grade four, ‘In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.’ So I came up with a bunch of new ones, like ‘In February, 2065, the war ended with more dead than alive.’”
“Clever, and yet oddly morose.”
He pulls his hands out of his pockets, shifting his feet, as if he’s nervous, which is totally bizarre. In no universe would Bryce Vaughn be nervous around me. “The secret is to make them as twisted as possible.”
I struggle to pay attention to what he’s saying instead of staring at those perfect, kissable lips.
“…but what I want to do is mix my love of history and literature. Write about the people who founded the Union. It must have been so cool to live back then.”
I imagine what his lips would feel like pressed against mine and smile.
“What?” He asks, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
Crap, crap, crap. He caught me ogling his mouth. Color creeps into my cheeks. “You seem so…I don’t know, excited, I guess, about your career choice.”
“Well, what’s yours? Surely you feel the same way.”
I stare at my toes, wiggling them. “I haven’t declared yet.”
“That’s not unusual. Lots of kids take the summer after graduation off.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I glance up and get pulled into his eyes. “I’m probably going into the family business anyway. My stepdad wants me work for him. Hell, he expects it.”
“He’s a pretty big deal.” His gaze drops to my T-shirt, probably wondering why a fashion slob would consider going into the biz. “Tons of kids at school would kill to work for him.”
No doubt his girlfriend is one of them. She was a child model for M Clothing until Joe fired her for tormenting me. “Yeah, I suppose, but not me.”
“You should do what you love, Evan. Find out what that is and don’t settle for less.”
I like the way he says my name, it makes little swirly happy feelings dance in my stomach. Mental head slap. He’s totally off limits.
Barklyn pulls at his leash, smelling something out of range. I reach down and unhook him so he can investigate. “Go on, Barklyn.” He darts off followed by Bryce’s dog.
Bryce raises his eyebrows. “Barklyn?”
I roll my eyes at the stupid name. “Yeah. My mom’s idea. She combined Brooklyn from Old New York, with bark because, well, he’s a dog… She does that. Combines stuff to come up with weird names. Like mine.”
A smile tips up the corners of his mouth. “She named you after Evansville, Indiana?”
I laugh. “Funny, but no. She named me after my grandmother, Eve, and my grandfather, Nathan.”
His smile broadens, revealing his dimples. “It suits you. It’s beautiful and unique.”
I arch an eyebrow. Is he flirting with me? This conversation just detoured into dangerous territory. It’s safe to dream about Bryce from a distance, but in the real world, he has a girlfriend. And she hates me. If she finds out her boyfriend is flirting with me, I am so dead.
I whistle for Barklyn and snap on his leash. “I should be getting back.”
Bryce throws me a casual wave. “Maybe I’ll see you and Barklyn here again sometime.”
I turn and walk to the steps but can’t resist a quick glance over my shoulder.
He’s watching me go, his devastating smile lighting up his face. “See you tomorrow, Evansville.”
2 Tomorrow
Crap, I overslept by fifteen minutes. Throwing off my sheet with a loud groan, I stumble out of bed. Sleep was nearly impossible last night. My conversation with Bryce replayed in my head until I convinced myself I imagined the whole flirting thing. Except I’m pretty sure I didn’t.
Barklyn, lying at the end of my bed, lifts his head and yawns. He watches me for a few seconds before rolling to his side and closing his eyes again. Even he’s not ready to get up.
I shuffle down the hall to the bathroom, my sisters’ voices rising in anger from the kitchen below. Apparently they can’t agree on which boy band has the hottest lead singer.
After a quick shower, I return to my room and dress in a pair of faded jeans. I grab a T-shirt from my drawer, but my gaze shifts from the shirt in my hand to my closet. My mom keeps it stocked with the latest fashions from M Clothing, my stepdad Joe Minelli’s company. I rarely wear any of it, preferring comfort over style, but this morning I’m second-guessing my fashion philosophy.
Inside my closet, a white ruffled swing tank from Joe’s spring collection catches my eye. I slip it on, but now my flip-flops seem too casual. I cross the hall to my mom’s room and rifle through her shoes, finding a pair of strappy sandals that perfectly match the top. Yay Mom.
I examine the results in the mirror and cringe at my hair. The frizzled mess that greets me is a complete disaster. With enough time, a big round brush, and a blow dryer, I can coax my hair into soft waves. Today, I have to settle for applying some product and twirling the strands into ringlets.
When I’m satisfied with my hair, I add a touch of mascara and a little lip gloss. I’m blessed with long, thick lashes, but they’re a shade lighter than I’d prefer thanks to the same mutant gene responsible for my hair color.
By now it’s too late to eat breakfast. Fashion sucks. All I did was change my shirt. Somehow that one small decision created a domino effect. Seriously, who the hell has time for this every day?
I rush back to my room, jam my tablet into my shoulder bag, and fly down the stairs, taking care not to trip over the heels I’m not used to wearing. After grabbing a protein bar from the counter, I kiss my mom goodbye, and race out the door.
The commuter station is overflowing with bodies, and I have to wait until the third train to board. By the time I get on, all the enclosed seating areas are full. I prefer those, because they’re quieter, sort of like mini isolation chambers.
Scanning the car for any open seat, I find one in the galley. When the train pulls out, I stumble, nearly landing in the lap of the woman sitting next to the seat I’m aiming for.
“Sorry,” I mumble, dropping down next to her. I lean my head against the teal padded seat back and close my eyes. The soft hum of the electric motor is soon drowned out by the buzz of dozens of conversations. A mixture of body odor and coffee assaults my nose.
I do my best to block out the external stimuli and run through history dates in my head. Numbers rush behind my eyelids and Bryce’s rhymes come to mind. Thinking about his dimples instead of my final makes me smile. I force my thoughts back to history, working my way from Christopher Columbus through Union Formation Day. I’m sure I forgot a few, but the overhead voice announces my stop is next.
My feet silently flip me off as I step off the train and walk across the terminal. The pain is a constant reminder that I’m dressed very differently than normal. What was I thinking? Oh yeah, Bryce. What if everyone figures out I dressed up for him? What if Bryce figures it out? Oh God, I can’t do this. Screw my history final.
