Laura Martin - Edge of Extinction

Three days later, my dad disappeared. He’d tucked me into bed, and the next thing I knew I was waking up to the marines searching our apartment. One of them had taken my compound-issued backpack and stuffed some of my clothes into it before making me sit outside in the tunnel. I must have been a sorry sight: seven years old, terrified and crying so hard my eyes had practically swollen shut as everything in our apartment was confiscated. No one searched my bag, though. It went unnoticed in the chaos. If they had, they’d have found the journal, cleverly concealed within the lining at the bottom of the bag. My dad had managed to hide it for me in the one place the marines wouldn’t think to look. It had been so well hidden that I hadn’t found it until weeks later when I noticed that my bag was heavier than it should be. I could still remember how excited I’d been.

I’d opened the journal eagerly, expecting a letter from my dad explaining why he’d left the way he had, and when he was going to come back for me. But as I paged through and found it blank, my heart sank. He had left me nothing.

It wasn’t until I reached the back half of the journal that I discovered its secret, and I gasped at what my dad had done to my birthday present. A rough circle had been cut out of the back half-inch of pages, creating the perfect hiding spot for his worn brass compass. I gingerly pulled it out of its paper nest, rubbing my fingers across the worn brass. The lid of the compass had long ago broken off and the small dial inside that was supposed to point north was stuck halfway between south and west. I’d flipped through the remaining pages, each with a gaping hole in its centre, but every single one was blank. No note. No explanation. What good were hundreds of blank pages if he couldn’t even fill one?

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut, and for a moment I almost believed the marines. Maybe my dad really was just a selfish criminal. Maybe he didn’t have a reason for leaving the compound, and me, behind. I’d squeezed my eyes shut and let the pain and anger roar through me until all that was left was a hollow pinched feeling in my chest.

But then I’d opened my eyes, set the compass back inside the journal for safekeeping and pushed away my doubts. Although I’d still been bitter that he’d had time to hide his precious compass but not to write even one word to me, I knew my dad. He wouldn’t have left me unless he absolutely had to.

After that day, I’d begun researching dinosaurs and putting my findings on to those empty pages. We knew about the dinosaurs of a hundred and fifty years ago, but no one was brave enough to do any kind of extended study on the dinosaurs that roamed our world now. So I read the few books we had in our library, trying to understand what my dad might have faced when he left the compound to survive topside.

Surviving topside. The statement alone was one of those oxymorons, like friendly takeover or loud whisper. No one could survive topside. The human race was no longer at the top of the food chain. In fact, we were somewhere near the bottom these days. And after centuries of being the predator, we weren’t very good at being the prey. The thought of what my dad had encountered up there terrified me. If I was brutally honest with myself, I knew the odds were against him surviving very long, but part of me was unwilling to give up the hope that he was out there somewhere. So while I waited underground, desperate for answers, I researched the creatures that made the topside world so deadly.

I opened my journal to the beginning and looked at my early sketches. I couldn’t help but notice that my drawing skills had really improved. The first dinosaur I’d drawn was weirdly disproportional, and a little froglike. The compound buzzer sounded, and I jumped guiltily. School, I’d forgotten all about school. I ran a hand through my dishevelled curls, making them stand up and frizz out alarmingly. I was still wearing my grimy overalls from the night before, and I looked awful and smelled worse. A shower was not optional this morning. Grabbing my towel, I threw open my door, and yelped in surprise to find Shawn standing there, his hand poised to knock.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, putting my hand to my pounding heart.

“Hello to you too,” Shawn said. He looked me up and down, an eyebrow raised. “Although I have to admit, you’ve looked better. Trying out a new unshowered-crazy-person look I should know about?”

“I was just heading to the shower,” I said.

“I thought you said that you needed my help?” He glanced up and down the tunnel to make sure it was clear and then leaned in conspiratorially. “A certain scan plug you wanted looked at?”

“Right!” I said, feeling excitement bubble up in my chest. “Did you bring it with you?”

Shawn nodded and came inside holding up the port screen. Unlike our standard-issue port screen, his was one of the bigger, older models that had been retired years ago. I jumped on my bed to retrieve the scan plug, but no sooner had I unscrewed my light than it flickered and died. Sending us into darkness.

“Not again,” I groaned, reaching for the flashlight by my bed.

Shawn looked up at my light and shrugged. “It’s probably just one of the wires coming loose. It wasn’t really meant to have someone pulling it out of the ceiling every day.”

“Says the boy who showed me how to do it,” I said, feeling indignant.

“That wasn’t my point,” Shawn said, climbing on my bed to remove the metal panel on the side of the light. “All I’m saying is that none of the compound systems was built to last as long as they have. It’s really pretty impressive when you think about it.”

“What I don’t get,” I grumbled, interrupting him before he could get any momentum in his admiration of the Noah’s ingenuity in shared resources or compound sustainability, two of his favourite topics, “is how we get new port screens and holoscreens every few years, but we can’t get new lights?”

“Well,” Shawn said, inspecting the guts of the light, “our government values port screens and holoscreens. They are small, and West Compound has the equipment to manufacture them. The Noah’s plane can deliver them. They are what you call portable.” He began pawing through the inside of the light, twisting here and tightening there. “Industrial-sized lights,” he went on, “aren’t exactly portable. And since updating them isn’t vital to our survival, no one is spending precious time and energy making new ones.”

He was right. I hated the technology disconnect in North Compound. So many of the things we used were just patched-up versions of what the original survivors had brought with them.

Shawn twisted something inside the light and it flashed back to life. Grinning broadly, he jumped off my bed and took the massive port screen from my hand. Shawn had found it during one of his work details sorting for recyclable materials in the compound’s trash heap and, after months of work and scavenging parts, had managed to get it up and running. I hadn’t really understood the point when we each had working ports, but I’d quickly changed my tune when I realised that, unlike our ports, his was off the grid.

I handed the scan plug to Shawn.

“Can you get it uploaded while I shower?” I asked.

He grunted absentmindedly, perching on my bed to tap at the screen. Shawn loved these behind-the-scenes glimpses of the inner working of the compounds, the coming and going of supplies, the nitty-gritty details that went into keeping the remains of the human race alive. After I’d had a chance to look it over for any information about my dad, he would spend days poring over the files. I could picture him as a top compound official someday, or maybe even the Noah. The thought filled me with pride.