Pearl Blankenship, an autistic investigative journalist, witnesses the end of the world. Before the nuclear fallout can kill her, a mysterious being offers her a choice: come with him or stay on a dying planet Earth.
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Dumuzi, the being who offe...
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PEARL
People sometimes said time was a social construct.
They were most decidedly full of shit.
Time passed like an aching bruise, blending my sense of reality with numbness ever since I arrived at the underground bunker. Hours could have been minutes. Minutes could have been days. Days could have been weeks.
How much time had trulypassed?
Green foliage turned rustic red from the fallout; radioactivity altered all forms of carbon-based life, our radio had said. The only thing left was that same radio that worked little, and the seven dirty, sweaty men that sat on all the corners of our small shelter, being polite enough to give me some space.
I said polite, but they were anything but. They made me want to bang my head against the concrete wall whenever they spoke. They didn't give a flip about the millions dying; just about how much money they had before the world was set ablaze. Their cars. Their boats. Their millions which meant nothing now.
Truth be told, I had little to lose myself. As a child of the system, I was a ward of the court until I was eighteen. Out on my own, pretty much. Friendships were only surface-level and fleeting. Just the basics of keeping good relationships with your contacts as a journalist, nothing more.
I spoke little. I sat in my corner, arms wrapped around my knees, focusing on my breathing. Just breathe. Breathe what I could of this polluted air, tinged with body odor and the sickly sweet smell of rotting food. The smell of the only food left, as if things couldn't get any worse.
I looked at my dirty nails, wondering if there would ever be a chance to get clean again. My dark brown hair was greasy and clumped together, framing my face. I wanted to get out of here. I hated it here.
But if I left the shelter, I'd die of radiation sickness.
From what I knew about radiation exposure, is that in high doses, it would alter your DNA. Break down your biological makeup. Bust open your veins before you even have the chance to administer morphine for the pain. The insignificant burns I had before would be nothing compared to opening the bunker door.
An explosion made the walls of our shelter shake. Particles of dust rained on me, adding to the grit in my hair. I didn't even flinch.
"The fighting is less frequent," Brandon observed.
He stood at the far end of the shelter, looking bored.
Even though he saved my life, I didn't enjoy his company. He was a cocky jerk, possibly worse than the rest of them here. Call me spiteful if you will, but pointing a gun at me was too far. Too much. My eyes stung with fresh tears—surprising, because I was probably dehydrated.
