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Except for Zion. Right.
My heart beats fast in anticipation.
I struggle with my black hoodie that feels too hot. Everything seems too hot. The temperatures are hotter than usual in May.
Usual.
That has become a strange word. But in two years, the strangest things become usual—internment, martial law, food rations, drastic climate change, tsunamis, protective gear, gas masks.
Death…
I have no one. It’s a tragedy that, combined with millions of others, became a statistic.
You don’t dwell on the loss, you feel lucky you survived.
Or so they keep telling you at the weekly communal therapy.
I finally tear off my hoodie, tie it around my hips, and walk up to Katura, who laughs as she talks to the captain.
She is a gorgeous creature. Puerto Rican father. Ukrainian mother. Built like Wonder Woman. With the attitude of Commando.
I wish I had as much strength as her. At nineteen, she is an Amazon—an expert in first aid, weapons, and martial arts. I clung to her for the last three days we spent at the Transfer Center. She seems like she has her shit together. And I, three years her senior, still feel like the world doesn’t make sense or has a purpose.
Katura talks to everyone—she is the social type.
“Hey, babe, hold this.” Katura tosses her backpack at me and smiles at the tattooed captain with dark hair, beard, and a charming smile, who leads her away, grinning, down to the captain’s cabin.
Ugh.
Those two have been rubbing together ever since the Transfer Center.
A scrawny guy with glasses, an Elon Musk meme shirt, and cargo pants comes over to stand next to me as we both stare at the ocean in silence. He is around my age. They say barely anyone over their mid-twenties is chosen to go to Zion.
The geeky-looking guy pushes the center of his glasses onto his nose with his forefinger and smiles awkwardly at me.
“Are you excited?” He looks around like he was born in a Minecraft world and nature is alien to him.
I wonder what he got selected for. Everyone has to have good looks and a talent or a skill. At least, that was what the network hustlers said. Zion doesn’t choose just anyone.
I smirk at the thought. It’s a frat-sorority world all over again. But can you blame them?
“What’s your card?” I ask the guy instead.
“IT.”
Of course.
They can overlook your appearance if you have skills like that. With a failed banking system and disrupted communication, IT is more valuable than food. They say Zion has its own satellite tower and data center.
“We are lucky, you know,” he says when I don’t answer.
The ones who still have families left are the lucky ones.
I am so over these conversations.
I shift the backpack onto my shoulder—the only thing we were allowed to bring with us—then grab Katura’s and head toward the cabin. Whatever Katura is up to—talking, smoking pot—I’d rather be with her.
I walk down the steps, inhaling the smell of salt and damp leather and decontamination spray, and halt.
