Survival

Chapter 26 Tainted Optimism

One question burned, itched, clawed its way through Cynthia’s mind. John. Her better half. As the self-righteous leader walked them around the refitted hangar area, her mind considered two options. He could be living here with Winston, who wished to surprise her. The far more likely scenario, her husband hadn’t made it out alive.

“-dinning area with clean food preparation-“ Mr. M continued on.

Winston’s eyes followed that man’s every gesture, word and smile. Boy, did that man smile a lot. Far too many of them came in her direction. Each one a knife to the chest, twisted and yanked.

“Yeah, my mom loves those!” Winston’s excitement shone through his big bright eyes, his father’s deep shade. A lump formed in her dry throat.

“You will have to share the recipe with us,” Mr. M said.

His teeth gleamed from the light of the lamp above. Clearly, he had had access to grooming instruments. Despite her good upbringing, the dismissal of his remark and the whole conversation left no mark on her conscious. Cynthia’s eyes followed the lamp’s cord to find the power source, a generator, with wires leading up to the roof. The ability to procure power, one point for this community.  

She tapped her fingers on her leg as they walked towards the matted area where at least two dozen people rested. Some stayed together like packs and others slept in solitude. The sun had hardly set. If their group valued production this was poor practise. A quick once over confirmed that her husband wasn’t among them. He would have stood out in this sea of white and Hispanic faces, not uncommon in New Mexico. She had always felt a bit like a token herself. New Mexico’s African American population left a lot to be desired, in terms of numbers.

“When do people work?” Vita asked. Good girl.

“We share the workload here at Nouveau Depart. Shifts depend on the nature of the job. Our security team needs to be well rested for the night shifts.”

That must have been the snoring man with a fiery beard. His scarred face and thick torso would intimidate most people on a good day. Mr. M would certainly do the trick as well, although Cynthia figured he could talk his way out of the situation instead of resorting to violence.

“Some of the cooking and gardening staff has top heavy mornings as well, so this is their rest time.”

“I could probably be good at that. My family used to love my spaghetti carbonara,” Vita said.

Cynthia sighed, optimism was a trait limited to the younger generation. Hers faded down a black hole.

“It must be wonderful. Cynthia, what are your specialties?”

A scowl tugged at her lips. What a useless topic to discuss. A more fitting thought, how could she get her son back to Pele’s?

“Actually, we need to use the bathroom.”

It would have required less force to lift a car than to move her son at this moment. His hurt gaze tore through her patchwork heart.

“Don’t you want to see the rest, mom? The greenhouse is the best part!”

“Okay, after the greenhouse,” she reassured him with a gentle squeeze of the hand.

They walked through the hangar warehouse, footsteps echoed on the concrete floors until they reached a door at the far end. It led into a large vegetated area, rich with ferns, shrubs and plants. Gentle splashing trickled away, an oddball reverberation. Mr. M had a knowing smile.

“You looked confused. You must hear our aquaponic system going. Closed systems are ideal for what we hope to achieve here. Come take a look. We manage to harvest a few small crops as well as raise fish all in this enclosed space.”