C James - Dome Six

The building wind in the vast river valley heralded the approach of low, slate-gray clouds plump with moisture. The morning sun that had been so warm and brilliant as it broke over the distant hills faded and disappeared, and soon it began to rain. It was barely enough to penetrate the canopy along the banks but sporadic breaks let some through. It fell on their hair, their faces, their flimsy hemp clothes. It seemed miraculous to them, at least for a while.

The novelty wore off quickly.

As the wind built, the temperature plummeted. They would huddle together and shiver here and there, sharing wads of multimeal from rations they’d packed away. Sometimes Elle led, sometimes Owen, sometimes even Aaron. They occasionally thought they heard the sound of aircraft rising above the patter of wind and rain, ready to swoop down on them like a hawk, but nothing appeared.

It was Dee who finally noted that they posed no threat to the people with the planes and the guns. They could kill 100,000 people with the flip of a switch, so why would they go to any trouble at all to find when they’d almost certainly die of exposure or starvation?

Owen didn’t know if that was true, but at least it gave them hope.

Toward the end of the day, they found shelter — a generous limestone overhang set well back from the edge of the river. The thought of a fire was so utterly delicious that Owen instantly wished he could banish it from his mind. They knew nothing of fires. He might as well have wished for a bowl of ice cream. They ate mushy vegetables from their packs and drank water from the river, though they feared it might make them sick.

Warmth only came to those who sought it in each other’s arms. The rest just shivered through the endless night under their torn and tattered UV blankets. Owen couldn’t have said whether they covered five kilometers or 10. When light broke the next morning, they got up and kept moving.

Tower work had toned Owen and Aaron’s bodies, so he tried to not seem annoyed when the others needed to rest. Their under-used muscles cramped and ached. Lungs that had never tasted real air felt raw.

Still, minds that had only known toil and stultifying routine slowly opened to the possibilities of a world that was both ancient and new. Every leaf on every tree, every nattering insect, every bird overhead was as new to them as if they came from a distant star. They were still alive and Owen never felt more electric. He was cold and hungry and scared, but even those felt like gifts.

By mid morning, the sun had chased the shadows from the valley. The cliffs they’d followed leveled out into a low marsh. A peculiar smell hung in the air.

“I smell smoke,” Byron said.

Owen was aware of it now, too. But this was not the acrid, greasy kind of smoke that came from fried relays or the incinerator in the Dome. This smoke was… nice. Dee pointed over the trees in the far distance, on a low, long rise that began not far from where they stood. Just beyond that rose a column of smoke, scattered by the faint breeze as it reached the tops of the trees.

Elle looked at him, and he knew she was thinking the same thing. They had to risk it. There was no telling if they would find civilization again.

It was slow going. The marsh grass was tall and thick, requiring high steps. Occasionally someone would find a hole with their foot and they would all have to stop while it was extracted, often without a shoe. Even so, Owen felt driven forward by some unseen force that gave fresh speed to his muscular legs. He would’ve liked nothing more than to scout ahead but he couldn’t.

“Look!” said Byron.

He turned and traced the line of Byron’s finger to a point on the horizon, near a line of trees.

“Hold up,” Owen said, and the group stopped.

“I think it’s a building!” Byron said excitedly.

They continued through the tall grass for a few hundred meters until they could discern that it was a cabin, smoke rising lazily from the peak of its canted roof. The grass abruptly ended at a cultivated field of strawberries. Beyond that grew plants taller than he was, which he guessed to be corn. One by one, the others came out of the grass and stood in a U shape around the edge of the field, agape at the bounty of it.

Delia stepped forward and plucked one.

“Wait,” Owen said. “Do we know that’s a strawberry for sure? It’s so much smaller.”

Byron bent down next to his daughter to inspect the one she plucked and took one for himself. He sniffed it, took a nibble, and shrugged.

“If it looks like a strawberry, smells like a strawberry, and tastes like a strawberry…” Byron said, and took a bigger bite. “It’s good. A little under, but you won’t care.”

Owen didn’t know what to think. While he equivocated, Byron popped the whole thing in his mouth and chewed, then Dee followed suit.

They pounced on the berry patch, shoving the under-ripe fruit into their faces as fast as they could. Owen joined them. Mostly ripe ones were tucked away here and there, and they tasted like candy. Juice dripped from their chins.

“Stay close, everyone,” Owen said, his mouth full.

He was fixated on the ground, picking every one he saw. Only a few minutes had passed and they’d already decimated the first few rows.

“Just like old times,” Aaron joked.

“Yeah, just,” said Owen.

He felt a sharp whap on his left shoulder. Elle sat on her heels, fixated on something ahead. Owen whirled back o see a shiny black barrel emerge from between the rows of corn — a gun with a thick barrel, brandished by a skinny man in his fifties with a long, scraggly beard. Everyone stopped their gorging.

He swept the barrel across them slowly, as though evaluating the threat they posed. When he saw their terrified faces, particularly the children, his face softened and he lowered the gun to waist height.

“What the hell is this?” he asked.

“We just found your field,” Elle said, her hands raised. “We’re hungry.”

“Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you all wearing pajamas?”

“We’re from Dome Six,” Owen offered.

His eyes narrowed and he snapped the stock back to his shoulder, wide-eyed and swinging the gun around. “Very funny, kid,” he snorted. “You think I was born yesterday? MIGHT AS WELL COME OUT, DIPSHITS!”

The man was a lunatic. Owen shook his head vigorously. “It’s just us! I swear!”

He cocked his head and scanned their eyes for some sign of deception. He found none. “I gotta say, if you people are fucking with me, you are goddamned good at it.”

“Please,” Owen urged. “We need your help. There are people after us.”

“What people?”

“I don’t know,” Owen said. “Men in aircraft. I think they’re from Cytocorp.”

“Of course they’re from Cytocorp,” he spat, as though it was the dumbest thing anyone ever said.

“This is everyone,” Owen said, hoping he looked as confused as he was. “We’re all that’s left.”

He nodded at the gun hanging from Elle’s pack and nodded to it. “What’s that, missy?”

“It’s a neurogun.” She carefully removed it from its loop and held it up by one finger. He reached in and grabbed it from her, then studied it curiously.

“Any other weapons I should know about?” he asked.

“I have some tools,” Byron said, indicating his small pack. “That’s all.”

The man sighed and lowered his gun to the side. “You can stay in the barn tonight. There’s food and clean water. But you’re out at first light. Anyone comes near the house, they get blasted.”

Elle checked with the others and nodded. “Thank you.”

He regarded their filthy hemp uniforms with curiosity. “Tell me where you’re really from and don’t lie. You sure as hell aren’t exiles.”