Erik Otto - Detonation

He was perched at an unblemished desk, writing computer code, towers dominating the expanse from his Old World skyscraper office window. Day turned to night, and he somehow appeared above the buildings, floating through the sky above Seeville, constellations of light visible both above and below him. He would look to the side and be enraptured by a host of airplanes piercing the darkness next to him, their contrails blazing arcs into the sky.

Eventually he would see his house in the perforated cityscape and land softly in his yard.

Upon landing a huge hologram of a budding flower sprouted from his house. It cast pyrotechnic beams of golden light on the houses around him. The light was full of hope, full of progress and potential. The smiles of his mother and sisters surrounded him as they pointed at the flower blossoming around them.

The hologram would illuminate the bunker in his backyard as well. But there was a sliver of black on the bunker, a mutinous anomaly against the indulgent blaze. The sliver would draw him to the bunker. As he approached, the golden light of the hologram turned to a more ominous shade of blue. The sliver of black resolved itself. It was the edge of a door, a door that was slightly ajar.

He would hover at the door, and his heart would hammer in his chest. The light cast on the bunker morphed again, to purple and then red. The light was no longer glorious. It was a sickly thing, holding no virtue. Red was the color of urgency; red was the color of danger; red was the color of blood.

And finally, his clammy hand would pull at the door, and open it.

Flora was awakened by a glint of sun creeping up through the center of the tent. Upon hearing Reed’s rhythmic breathing beside her, she lifted the sheets off carefully to avoid rousing him and tiptoed over to the cupboards.

She grabbed a bruised apple and bit into it as quietly as she could. It looked like the kids had left their bed unmade. At least they hadn’t disturbed Reed before leaving. A number of empty glasses littered the few tables in the tent, and a faint smell of alcohol remained in the air.

She glanced into the mirror under the washbasin. She looked tired. Her short-cropped red hair was particularly oily and unkempt, and her gray eyes certainly didn’t resemble the gemstones Granger raved about. Or at least, if they were gemstones, they certainly needed polishing.

She looked through the cupboard but couldn’t find the oats and berries she’d prepared for the kids. Figuring Talon must have already grabbed them, she quickly changed, packed her bag and strode through the tent flap.

Still groggy, she nearly walked right into a gaggle of five men, one of them murmuring in Spanish. They were heading down the laneway with purpose, carrying bundles of wheat and pails of water. She could see another two groups ahead of them, one with an ox-pulled cart, and another pulling a line of horses laden with linens.

It used to be she knew everyone on the streets. People would even stop by to chat or say hello. Now she rarely recognized anyone, and those she knew seemed rushed and distant, more intent on their task than what was happening around them. With the population of Grand Caverns doubling in the last year alone, traffic like this had become the norm rather than the exception.

Her breath turned to bursts of fog as she hiked through the settlement in the crisp autumn air. Up and down, up and down. Long, semipermanent tents punctuated the hills, concentrating into more permanent buildings closer to the caverns’ entrance.

She tried to take the lesser-used streets through the town center. Sharp odors buffeted her on the busiest avenues—hot porridge, urine, incense, feces and rotting food.

When walking up Oak Boulevard she could see the new dwellings stacked in front of her, lining the hill around the cavern massif. They were boxy, wooden things with a solitary window on each side. They were nothing like the ornate Old World houses she’d seen in books, but still a strong upgrade from the makeshift tents and crude A-frames used by Flora and most other Essentialists. Reed had spoken about moving into one of the sturdier buildings, closer to the caverns, but she couldn’t commit. Just the thought of moving was exhausting, and she preferred to be away from the action.

Three new wagons were parked near the main entrance to the caverns, their owners unpacking boxes and bringing the contents inside. The leathery housings of these wagons were adorned with colorful pastel decorations. Their owners uttered the occasional phrase in Spanish. The third wagon was more Spartan, the owners muted, and the faces appeared to be mostly Asian. All of the new immigrants had the green-ringed eyes symbolic of their status as disciples of the curator.

Every day, new wagons. Every day, new people. Every day, hopefuls arrived at the vanguard of the great eastern frontier.

Flora wasn’t one of those who belittled the color of their skin or shunned their foreign tongues. And she didn’t care that they didn’t have blood from the Wood, Wind, or Water clans, as some complained about. Yes, there were language issues and constant work to build new dwellings, but these people were tough and driven, and they quickly found productive lives in the settlement.

It did worry Flora the rate at which these people were arriving. There was only so much land, and if they were to move farther east it would drive them right into Spoke territory, to the earth’s tormentors, to the defiled land of grease and gears—or so they’d been taught. It was hard to see how these ambitious opportunists wouldn’t find some reason to push the boundary farther.

Flora knew all too well the Spoke people weren’t to be trifled with.

She made an arc around the cavern entrance and descended the hill to the valley. Below her was a long, makeshift tent attached to a number of boxy buildings with long roof extensions, making up the Grand Caverns school grounds. Flora would often read to the kids here while they ate their breakfast in the mornings.

Today she saw the table they typically used was empty. No one was at any of the other tables either.

Looking down the rows of tents and overhangs, Flora could see a large gathering was taking place at the school’s outdoor amphitheater.

She felt a pang of anxiety. She wondered if she’d forgotten about an announcement, or one of the school events, as she often did.

Making her way over to the gathering, she grabbed an empty chair to stand on, so she could see the speaker over the huddle. She saw Talon, Clover and Skye down by the front, listening intently. The speaker had a rounded belly, was dressed in a layered leather frock and had green-ringed eyes. She recognized him as sub-chief Ember Thisslewood.

“While one can not tell what perversion makes this craft rip through our sky,” Ember was saying, “or even what this abhorrence is made of, our disciples have faced similar Old World artifacts before.”

“How do we know it will be taken care of? That our children will not stumble across this thing?” One of the mothers asked.

“Our best teams will be sent to scout the area. You can be assured we will find and cleanse the remnants of this thing, should any exist.”

Ember waited to see if there were any further questions. Hearing none, he nodded and said, “That is all. You may go. May sun, soil, and seed provide you with bounty on this day.”

The crowd dispersed gradually as people chatted and nodded. Flora waited patiently for the kids to see her. Skye’s eyes found her first. “There’s Mommy!” she said. Clover and Skye ran to her, the way only five-year-olds could, as if Flora had been gone for weeks and not hours.

Flora smiled and waited until the two girls ran into her open arms. Talon lingered behind, kicking at the dirt, looking thoughtful.