Novel Description
A group of scientists discovers that in about 50 years, the world as we know it will end due to the corrupt ways that food is grown and produced. They set aside several "Bubble Communities" across the globe where tribes of people live as humans would have lived several hundred years ago. These tribes are meant to preserve the human race...but they don't know it. The story follows two girls: one in present-day (which is really the future) United States, where the Earth is deteriorating; and the other in one of the Bubble Communities. Both girls obtain information that they are not supposed to know, and both have to make a choice whether or not to reveal it, all while their lives collide in the greatest of coincidences. As the Earth suffers and is destroyed inside-out, everyone must make a fundamental decision - which sometimes isn't the most moral.
Excerpts
Preface
A knock on the door resounded through the house, its vibration reaching so far as to shake the remaining tomato soup in Dr. Robert Garner’s bowl. He kept staring into the deep ceramic bowl for a moment, his spoon still submerged, the next perfect bite of soup already filling its cup. Sighing, he placed his spoon carefully on the edge of the bowl so as to not make a sound, and methodically pushed his dining room chair back and got up. The candle on the wide wooden table flickered, illuminating the blank walls and sleek bookshelves of Dr. Garner’s house. He padded along the carpet in his newly shined black leather shoes. When he stepped onto the smooth wooden floor of the entryway, they made a sweet clacking sound. With a slight grin, Dr. Garner put his hand on the cold metal doorknob and turned it.
“Hm…not long, for you.” The man outside had his fist raised, ready to knock once more, and the worn sleeve pulled up on his other arm – he had been checking the time. He looked Dr. Garner in the eye questionably, his left eyebrow raised. A lock of his disobedient, graying bangs began to fall into his eyes, and the man impatiently gave his head a shake, never removing his dark, deep set eyes from Dr. Garner. He was stubbornly not wearing a hat, but his boisterous hair refused to be trodden on by the rain – it stuck up in an annoyingly attractive way, as always. “Well, you gonna let me in, old friend?”
Without a word, Dr. Garner stepped aside and swept out his hand in a perfectly practiced arc. The man outside wiped his feet exasperatingly on the mat outside, and stepped across the threshold. Robert Garner grimaced as water dripped onto his polished floor, but he didn’t say anything. He knew his old friend wouldn’t stand for another one his picky corrections. Dr. Garner noticed four things about his friend as he came inside: one, that he was starting to grow some stubble and so had probably been traveling interminably for a while; two, that his classic black-and-yellow plaid shirt was soaked through to the bone despite the sensible brown coat he wore – unbuttoned of course – over it; three, that he carried only a simple black briefcase; and four, he could tell by the way he scanned the dark room with his brow furrowed and his eyes skittering that he had a special twinkle in his eye – the twinkle that Dr. Garner knew very well meant his friend had a secret.
“I need to sit down,” said the man.
“Of course, how could I deny you that? Clearly, you expect my undivided hospitality, what with your wonderful manners as you entered. Nevertheless, a place to sit is an easy request – just don’t expect much more from me, I’m a busy man.” As the host led his almost-chuckling guest through the house to the dining room table, he grinned half-heartedly, the pretended stern tone of his little monologue dissolving his tension.
Once the men had settled into the dining room chairs and Dr. Garner had not asked his guest if he wanted any provisions (this was expected), a blaring silence filled the room, broken only by the continuous fall of raindrops on the roof.
“What do you want, Finkle?” Dr. Garner finally inquired...
“Hm…not long, for you.” The man outside had his fist raised, ready to knock once more, and the worn sleeve pulled up on his other arm – he had been checking the time. He looked Dr. Garner in the eye questionably, his left eyebrow raised. A lock of his disobedient, graying bangs began to fall into his eyes, and the man impatiently gave his head a shake, never removing his dark, deep set eyes from Dr. Garner. He was stubbornly not wearing a hat, but his boisterous hair refused to be trodden on by the rain – it stuck up in an annoyingly attractive way, as always. “Well, you gonna let me in, old friend?”
Without a word, Dr. Garner stepped aside and swept out his hand in a perfectly practiced arc. The man outside wiped his feet exasperatingly on the mat outside, and stepped across the threshold. Robert Garner grimaced as water dripped onto his polished floor, but he didn’t say anything. He knew his old friend wouldn’t stand for another one his picky corrections. Dr. Garner noticed four things about his friend as he came inside: one, that he was starting to grow some stubble and so had probably been traveling interminably for a while; two, that his classic black-and-yellow plaid shirt was soaked through to the bone despite the sensible brown coat he wore – unbuttoned of course – over it; three, that he carried only a simple black briefcase; and four, he could tell by the way he scanned the dark room with his brow furrowed and his eyes skittering that he had a special twinkle in his eye – the twinkle that Dr. Garner knew very well meant his friend had a secret.
“I need to sit down,” said the man.
“Of course, how could I deny you that? Clearly, you expect my undivided hospitality, what with your wonderful manners as you entered. Nevertheless, a place to sit is an easy request – just don’t expect much more from me, I’m a busy man.” As the host led his almost-chuckling guest through the house to the dining room table, he grinned half-heartedly, the pretended stern tone of his little monologue dissolving his tension.
Once the men had settled into the dining room chairs and Dr. Garner had not asked his guest if he wanted any provisions (this was expected), a blaring silence filled the room, broken only by the continuous fall of raindrops on the roof.
“What do you want, Finkle?” Dr. Garner finally inquired...
..."Think about our food system these days. Food is grown in fields, harvested in bulk, and sold that way too. Farmers produce mass amounts of food at a time, letting our country eat and eat and eat. Prices are not ridiculously high so that normal Americans can buy and buy and buy. Everything is great. But there’s a little something called GMOs: genetically modified organisms. You see Garner, it may not be clear, but these little organisms are destroying not only our health, but they are annihilating every genuine crop in the country. They are destroying our food one seed at a time, and pretty soon Garner – pretty soon – there won’t be any real food left. We’re being destroyed from the inside-out by the thing we need to keep us alive....Now I have with me here...” He reached down to his side and lifted up the briefcase that was sitting by his chair. He placed it gently on the table, and with his hand help protectively on top of it, presented the idea of the century. “I have with me here a plan. A plan, Garner, to save the world. And it starts with these seeds. With these seeds, we can save the human race. I’ve found areas of land that are – unbelievably – ‘good as new.’ There’s one on each continent, except for Antarctica – which, due to its overwhelming population and worldly input is such a bummer.” Finkle paused to let Garner absorb the joke, but when his friend remained frowning, deep in contemplation, he went on unfazed. “With these seeds we can preserve life on this planet and start a new civilization that is completely immune to the damaged conditions on Earth. But I need you with me. You’re the best science mind of the century, and that’s exactly what I need on this. I’m the theorist, you’re the scientist. Are you with me?”
Dr. Garner cocked his head to the side and considered the choice. He watched the last of the candle wax drip dramatically into the bowl-like holder that his candle had been sitting in. The charred wick floated in the liquid wax, and the flame burned bright for a moment before being extinguished by an un-originated gust of air. Dr. Garner and Mr. Finkle sat in the silence of friendship and secrets and life-changing decisions for a moment listening to the faint, imagined murmur of a storm gone by outside.
“I’m in.”
Dr. Garner cocked his head to the side and considered the choice. He watched the last of the candle wax drip dramatically into the bowl-like holder that his candle had been sitting in. The charred wick floated in the liquid wax, and the flame burned bright for a moment before being extinguished by an un-originated gust of air. Dr. Garner and Mr. Finkle sat in the silence of friendship and secrets and life-changing decisions for a moment listening to the faint, imagined murmur of a storm gone by outside.
“I’m in.”
A Death
The pavement was cold and wet under the child’s feet, bits of long-forgotten leaves trampled under the last night’s downpour. She slowly made her way down from the front porch on the brick steps until she was standing on the front walkway of her home. She hadn’t been here in days, weeks. Her world had consisted only of the TV and her books, her pencils and pens, her piano…and the violin she still grasped tightly in her little hand. But now she was leaving all of that behind. Staying inside and keeping a close watch on the news and Virtuals wasn’t entirely a bad idea, for she had been able to contact the Heads of State, and she was one of the few across the country whom pods were being sent out to, to rescue.
Lillian had lived through many things now in her short seven years. But the last six months seemed like her whole life now, like everything that had ever existed. She had been afraid, afraid with everyone else when she heard of the GMO Crisis, and she had believed that it could not be possible. But gradually she had come to accept their new way of life, and eventually she realized that this was simply how things were going to be. For how long…that was the question. Lillian had eaten beans out of the can, apples straight off the tree, off the only real, non-contaminated tree. She had gotten used to being out on the streets in her neighborhood, her always safe little neighborhood, and witnessing a fight between children only less than ten years her senior over a box of Nutri-Grain bars, and having to just sit there and not interfere. Not interfering had become a way of life. She had seen one child, after winning a fight by hurting her opponent just enough that they decided it was no longer worth it, sink her teeth into a bright, fleshy orange, her eyes wide and hungry…and then the smile had wiped off of her face, and she had stared down at the orange, half-peeled in her hand, and let it drop in the gutter. She clutched her stomach, her throat. And right then and there, just down the street from where Lillian was standing over a fire with her family and neighbors – neighbors they had never even known before – the little girl had died, groveling on the side of the road, lying in a puddle where the road had been worn away. And the next morning, when her body still lay there, drenched in rain water and white as an egg, there was a funeral for her. No one knew her, no one remembered her from anywhere, but everyone was human enough to acknowledge a life that was once lived. She was buried in the makeshift graveyard that had been started, and Lillian never forgot her.
People left and tried to find less desolate areas. Some just gave up and retreated to their own homes, figuring they would live as long as possible and when their supply of food ran out…they would just let it run out. Some tried to be noble, and organize a system, but the plague of food was too strong. Eventually, after many weeks of struggle, Lillian was the only one left. Even her parents had succumbed and slipped away from her gradually, the contaminated nutrients spreading throughout their bloodstream and stopping their heart.
But Lillian never gave up. She watched, and listened, and was very cautious. She set her jaw and walked into houses of people she had known, people that had died, people that still had cans of food. And she had taken it, because no one else could use it now. She had barely eaten, not knowing how long she would be there or if she would ever get out, but determined to live. Lillian was a true survivor, and her efforts had paid off.
Now, she stood on her front walkway as the rain fell steadily down all around her. It glanced off the shiny wood of her violin and splashed onto the brick walkway below. Her hair became plastered to her face, and she laughed, for she had not taken a shower in who knows how long. She gazed up at the sky, the white, cloud-covered sky, and she wondered whether things would ever be the same again. This day was exactly like the day the little girl had died in the gutter. Rain fell, and fell, and fell, trying to provide relief, speaking the mood of all the people. But today was different. Today Lillian was going to be saved, and the rain spoke of liberation and a new world, and moving on. It was washing out all the things that she had experienced here. And it was weeping.
She felt a nudge on her bare ankle and looked down to see her sopping wet tabby cat. His eyes stared imploringly up at her, and his whiskers drooped with rain. She smiled, glad he was still here. She was still horrified at the fact that she was supposed to inject him with one of the poisoned foods that had been announced on the TV. Pets were of no use, they had said, and they would only cause troubles. They must be gotten rid of. The words still echoed in her mind. But Lillian had not followed the rules, and she had kept her tabby with her. There was no way to tell on her, and in her mind, a possible tattle-tale was the only reason to follow the rules. But she still couldn’t bring him with her.
“Howie,” she said, and paused. She had barely spoken since those two months ago that her parents had died, and she certainly had spoken outside. Her voice sounded so small, so insignificant, out in wide, rain-filled space. Lillian was surprised she still could talk. “Howard. I can’t bring you with me. You’ve got to stay here. I’m sorry Howard. I’m sorry. But cats aren’t allowed in the Princess’s Castle.”
This is what she had come to refer to her rescue as: “The Princess’s Castle.” She knew she was no princess, and she knew she would not be living in a castle, but princesses and castles had always been a fancy to her, and to keep herself from sobbing over what had been and wondering what was to come, she fantasized about what her new life would be like.
Howard stroked her leg with his wet little nose and purred. Unable to resist, she sat down on the pavement, deciding she couldn’t get any more wet than she was, put her violin in her lap, and began to stroke him.
And she began to sing.
“Rock-a-bye baby
In the treetop.
When the wind blows,
The cradle will rock.
When the bow breaks,
The cradle will fall.
And down will come baby,
Cradle and all.”
Her sweet voice rang with the melancholy of a thousand children as she sang the ancient lullaby. She never faltered over the words, and she never cried. She was strong. As the last syllable faded away into the rain, Lillian saw something.
The bushes across the street had rustled. And soon, to her disbelief, Lillian saw a girl. She looked about fifteen, and she looked like she was dying.
Her skin was clinging to her bones, and Lillian almost thought she could see the white of her jawbone. Her hair, which Lillian assumed must have been blond due to its pale whiteness now, was scarce and stuck out as if she had been electrocuted. The girl’s cheeks were hallowed and her eyes bugged. Lillian was sure they were bloodshot, even all the way from across the street. As she stumbled along, muttering, Lillian saw the tomato clutched in her skeletal hand and gasped. Tomatoes carried the disease that made your organs eat you up, that made everything you consumed after take a little more out of you. After eating even a tomato seed, survival was impossible. And this girl had clearly eaten much more than a seed. Lillian realized she must have eaten the fatal bite some time ago, possibly a week, for the effects of the virus were slow-acting. Not like the others where you would be dead in a day or less. But there was no undoing them. All Lillian could do was watch, and she made sure to keep herself hidden so the girl would not come to her for help. For Lillian could not do a thing.
The girl collapsed on the ground in the middle of the street, and she began writhing, tearing at her clothes and yelling, “They have to know! I have to tell them!” When this became too much she would simply shout, “The box! The box!” Lillian could see that under her shirt the girl was nothing but bone, and her skin was becoming almost transparent. She became too weak to move anymore, and she lay on her side, panting, crying, trying to hold on. As Lillian watched, and petted Howard, she began to cry for the first time in months.
She stopped her stroking for a moment, considering. Then she took her hand off of Howard’s sodden fur and lifted up her violin. He got the message and slinked off her lap, and Lillian stood up.
She began to play. The notes were sad and drawn out, and they were perfect. More perfect than any seven-year-old should have been able to play. The melody pervaded the open air and all the raindrops, the earth under her feet, the tree branches up above. The girl lying on the street seemed barely to take notice at first. Her chest kept heaving with ragged breaths and sobs. But she was silent now, not talking. And not after long the girl opened her eyes and looked at Lillian. Her eyelashes seemed white and sticky, and her eyes were pale, as if all the color had been sucked out of them.
Then she smiled. She smiled peacefully, and she stopped crying, and she watched Lillian.
Lillian kept playing. She kept playing as the girl closed her eyes again, and her smiled slackened, and she stopped moving entirely. The tomato in the girl’s hand, the whole tomato that she had been about to destroy so no one could ever eat one as she had, rolled out of her loosened fist a few feet across the road.
And still Lillian played.
She was so engrossed in her playing that when the pod arrived, and parked on the road in front of her house, about forty feet from the girl lying in the street, she didn’t stop. But the song’s tone became a little more lively. Still sad, but hopeful. And as the last note dragged out, and the men in the pod had put the last shovelful of dirt on the girl’s body they had buried, one more tear leaked out of Lillian’s eye. She looked down at Howard, and when she was sure the men weren’t watching, she hugged him tight.
“Now go, Howard. Don’t let them see you. And don’t eat any tomatoes. Just cat stuff. Just things cats eat. Good luck, Howie. I love you.” And she kissed him on his little head, right between his ears, and he purred, and then he leaped away, streaking behind the house to a hiding place. Lillian smiled and then walked to the road, every step seeming a great leap into her future. She made her way to the two men who had buried the girl and were now whispering in hushed tones. They had thought she was Lillian, and they had been too late. She approached from behind, and cleared her throat so they would notice her. The expressions of relief on their faces outweighed the initial surprise they had shown at seeing another live human being. After making the required introductions, they led her onto the pod and quickly began the departure.
Still clutching her violin and bow tightly in her hand, Lillian gazed out the tinted window. Her world was a mess, and her life had been torn apart. But things were going to be all right. She would live. She would help continue the human race. For little Lillian Summers, the sun was rising.
