I'm a fucking idiot.
I'm never going to ace this algebra test and finish my last year of school with good grades, and it's inevitable; I'm always going to be a Grub.
I throw my HoloTablet onto the tattered couch next to me. My hands reach up through my hair to rub at my throbbing headache.
What's even the point? People in the compound follow in their parent's footsteps, and I'm going to wash dishes for the rest of my life like my mother.
Grubs are the people here that do everything that matters. They're the cooks, the mechanics, the toilet scrubbers, and the people who care for all the Richling's ridiculous needs. We didn't give ourselves this name. If I were to name us, it would be something like the People Who Get Shit Done or the People Who Deserve to Be Here the Most. The Richlings started calling us Grubs when we ran out of food one harvest, and they served us bugs and animal food. The name stuck.
I know. Richling isn't the most appealing name either. Over the years, the Grubs decided the name was appropriate since the Richlings came to this compound entitled and, as we say, free from sin. By free from sin, I don't mean a priest blessed them. I mean free from poverty. They used their enormous inheritances, laundered cash, or drug money to buy a ticket and save themselves from the great nuclear war, or so we call it, Patorum. Deprivation before the war condemned you in the compound. Everything here is a ranking system, and I'm at the dead bottom. Of course, the highest-ranked person is the Founder, who built this place. Then comes the people who either gave the Founder a handsome donation when making the compound or paid an ungodly amount of money for tickets. The soldiers and guards are next in rank. They help keep the peace, so they say and expect everyone to believe. They're here to keep the Grubs from rioting when another person dies of starvation. The people in the middle of our system are intelligent and mostly come from college-educated careers. The scientists, engineers, and politicians are the select few who are using their time to try and make life easier and figure out if it's safe to go outside. They are looked at as Richlings since their jobs are the most important. Then comes the Grubs. Dead last. The people who do the most work for the least amount of food ration credits. I wasn't even poor before the war; my family was in the middle class. But down here, that doesn't matter.
Richlings live in luxurious penthouses at the bottom of the compound. Of course, they are the furthest away from the nuclear blasts, and toxic gas running ramped outside. I've heard the penthouses are ridiculous, dressed to the nines with elegant furniture and the latest technology. Although, I remember Mr. Alan Cambridge, the old governor of New Mexico, was dissatisfied with his living quarters and asked for a hot tub to be put in. It's all he talks about now. If that doesn't show you the type of people I'm living with, I don't know what will.
The Grubs have small living quarters with one bedroom and a small bathroom. It doesn't matter how big the family is. You could have five kids, and all must share the two twin beds in the bedroom and the small loveseat in the living area. Though, I don't think there's a family here with five children since the limit is two. I know I should be thankful I get my own space. We could have been smashed into a big room with bunk beds as far as the eye could see. But I digress.
I stand up and walk over to the kitchenette on the other side of the cramped living space. I grab the glass of water I poured before starting my homework and sip on it. I find myself staring at the picture taped to my rusted refrigerator again. It's a photograph of my family a couple of years before the war. I was about ten years old, and I had just won my first baseball game. I wore my red uniform in the picture and had my favorite Louisville Slugger baseball bat my father bought me gripped in my hands. My mother and father are standing next to me with their arms wrapped around my shoulders. My mother wore a pink floral dress, which she always wore in the spring. Her curly brown hair is twisted up in a claw clip. My father has the happiest smile on his face. He had on my team's baseball cap, the same one I was wearing.
Every time I look at this picture, I end up with tears. My father died with the other billions of people worldwide from the nuclear bombs that started the war. When the bombing started, he was at work an hour away. When my mother and I took off for the six-hour journey to the compound, my mother told me my dad would meet us here, and he never showed.
I was a mess. It took my mother hours to calm me down, and it took weeks for me to speak again. It's been six years, and I miss him every day.
Before I take another sip from my glass, the front door's electronic chime fills the room.
"Dallas Trenchhart has arrived at your residence." The automated female voice says through the speakers.
"Let him in." I take another sip as the metal door slides open.
He walks in, looking the same as he always does, dirty and sweaty. The deep purple bags under his eyes accentuate his hollow cheeks. The small amount of black oil smeared on his chin tells me he just got off work. His torn red t-shirt is also covered in oil, making it look like it came straight out of a car's engine. He's wearing the blue baseball cap he always wears with Houston, TX, written in bold white lettering across the front. His shaggy brown hair peeks out from the sides of the cap and clings to his sweaty face.
I met Dally when I first arrived. Despite our three-year age gap, we've become best friends. The first time we met was right after my mother, and I entered the compound. I was sitting alone while my mother took care of our paperwork. Dally strolled up to me, chocolate bar in hand, and gave me a piece. He said I looked hungry, but I think he needed someone at that moment since he came to the compound alone. It was a strange, new, and terror-ridden place. Having someone around my age to talk to made the fact that the Earth outside was withering away a little more bearable.
Dally's had a hard life. Thrown out of his parent's house at fourteen for being uncontrollable, he moved into his grandparent's house. They were strict, as Dally says. The year he was with them was the worst of his life. He was in and out of police cars, causing trouble with other kids in school, and being disobedient to anyone of authority. However, Dally's grandfather had a soft spot for him. He helped him get out of trouble numerous times. And when the whisper of Patorum started, his grandfather sold everything he had, even the clothes off his back, to get Dally a ticket to the compound. It wasn't enough. Dally had to come into the compound the hard way, just like the rest of the Grubs. He signed his life away to work in hard labor and use his blood, sweat, and tears to pay off his spot here. That's why he works in Mechanical.
Dally's eased into the compound life, not causing trouble like he used to. I'm glad. I didn't want to be friends with a heathen.
"Ethan, my man!" He walks up to me and gives me a pat on the back.
"Always nice to see you, Dally." I put my glass back on the kitchenette counter.
Dally plops down on the loveseat. He eyes my still bright HoloTablet and picks it up. "Ah, the Pythagorean Theorem. I remember failing that test."
"Not a surprise," I join him on the couch.
"Oh, shut up," He sets my HoloTablet on the coffee table, made of wooden pallets that grocery stores used to get their food off their trucks. "Good grades don't get you anywhere down here," Dally adds.
"Uh, it does. Good grades get you a better job. What if I want to work in Cultivation or Air Purification?"
"Ethan Cooper working Cultivation? You got to be joking." Dally laughs with a grin that stretches from ear to ear.
I roll my eyes. "I'd rather work with plants than in Mechanical surrounded by boilers, furnaces, and engines daily like you."
"You're a Grub man, and they'll never move you up to one of those smart people jobs. You know the Richlings run ramped there."
"I just want a future that doesn't involve almost dying from exhaustion all day."
The ranking system here is pretty set in stone. However, there are ways to advance yourself. The students with the highest grades get a chance to work in higher-ranked jobs. Grubs usually can't advance, though, since the Richlings can pay for tutors and other ways to ace their tests. The only Grub I know that was able to move up was Jason Allen. He was intelligent beyond belief, and I honestly think he's gifted. But when he was awarded his job in Cultivation, the other Grubs got jealous and started treating him like a Richling.
Being a Richling does sound tempting, but I don't care about titles and ranks, and I want enough food in my belly for my mother and me.
Dally stands up off the couch and walks, with his boots clattering on the metal flooring, to my half-drank glass of water on the kitchenette and gulps the rest of it down. "Why you got to be so negative?" He says after a swallow.
"I'm just tired of being down here. Tired of being hungry."
"Aren't we all?" Dally says, putting the empty glass back on the counter.
"You think we'll get out of here soon?" I ask.
"You know the drill. The scientists say the air out there is a year away from becoming breathable again. But that next year comes, and they say the same shit every time."
"Well, if I work in Air Purification, I'll get to see how the air is out there myself."
"They won't let you outside." Dally rolls his eyes. "I have a theory. Patorum never happened, and we're all down here to be controlled."
I laugh. "You have a big imagination."
"Think about it! We all have curfews, guards patrolling the hallways every day, and they have fucking guns. Why would they have guns if not to control us?"
"You've seen the riots firsthand, Dally. You know how out of hand things can get."
"You can't change my mind." Dally tucks a piece of loose hair into his hat.
"Why'd you come over here anyway? I've got homework to do, and I can't have you taking up all my time." I grab my HoloTablet off the coffee table.
"Put that shit down! It's Friday night! We're getting drunk." Dally smirks.
"With what alcohol?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Paige Smith's alcohol."
"Count me out. I'm not getting in trouble for stealing the Founder's liquor."
"You're telling me you're going to pass on getting drunk with the girl you've had a thing for since I can remember?"
"I've never had a thing for her." I sigh while fiddling with my hands. "Do I have a choice?"
Dally winks as he walks towards the door, and it opens just as he gets close to it. "Come on. Let's have some fun."