earthsense
Summary: In a post-apocalyptic world, six survivors stumble upon a hidden underground library with books that hold the key to rebuilding society.
The caves were meant to hide us. Just for the night.
Abandoned caves—especially caving systems—were rare. The most intact were already far underground, buried beneath rough, roaring water. They hold the skeletons of people long passed. People who didn’t have the good sense to climb. People who waited in darkness so long that the darkness swallowed them, cold and suffocating and wet.
Len wanted to bar the entrance. But it was small, barely noticeable. You crawl in. Suddenly you can stand. If you’re quick enough, you just disappear.
“There’s no point in blocking it,” I argued. “What if we have to run out?”
“There’s six of us,” Len shot back. Because of course, she does. “We’re not running.”
Still, we don’t block the entrance. We light torches, feeling our way along the walls. The tunnels stretched deep, deep into the heart of the mountain. And down, down.
We walk and walk and walk.
There are six of us. Len and I, we’re the oldest. She’s got three years on me. Three inches, too. Taller. Stronger. She spent the final years of her childhood holed up in one of the last floating cities, catching gulls and fish and everything in between. She’s much stronger in water than she is on land. Even now, her steps wobbled on the craggy cave floor. But her eyes were shining.
The temperature was cooler here. And, even during the scorching heat of day, it would remain cool. It was a godsend. A godsend only if it was safe.
Then Farah. Unlike the rest of us, his parents were still alive. Probably. They, being genius engineers, were drafted into Orbit, meaning they toiled endlessly aboard glittering space stations high in the sky in exchange for Farah’s continued safety on Earth.
But that was sixteen years ago. When the cities sank, so did communications between the space stations and Earth, and so did Farah’s promise of safety. Still, he toughened up. Joined a squad. Became a great hunter. A great fighter. His skin and hair were almost the exact same shade of sandstone, blending eerily together, and he had sharp, catlike eyes the color of burnt umber.
Issa was Farah’s sister but not really. She grew up with a band of mercenaries. All dead now but her. For good reason. Issa’s people were not good people. They robbed and pillaged and murdered in exchange for food and shelter, which wasn’t new. But they also tortured for the hell of it. For the fun of it. Farah had been a target, separated from his gang and all alone on one of the great plateaus of the continent, and when he escaped with wounds as deep as the scars that marred her body, Issa nursed him back to health. And then they ran away together.
Our two youngest were real siblings. Kids. Eight and thirteen. We don’t know much about them. They don’t trust us beyond the fundamentals, yet. They’re tiny but fiercely smart. Incredibly smart, surviving this long.
Amir’s the older one. Smiley. Bold. He remembers his parents, and he’s always telling us stories. But behind his shining facade, there’s an undercurrent of something darker. He moves silently. When he speaks, there’s a dangerous lilt, sometimes. He tangoes with forest creatures under the scorching sun and springs across jagged mountainsides. Born here. Raised here. He knows the mountain like the back of his hand.
Harper is only eight. Stunning—how youthful that is. She’s watchful, with eyes that are a deep, verdant green but fragile. She barely speaks, but when she does, her words are almost silent, carrying an accent or intonation only Amir can understand.
It’s rare to find kids on the Continent. But Amir and Harper had strong parents. Skilled, well-respected, too. We don’t know what happened to them. We assume they’re dead now. We found both kids while exploring the mountains. Harper was sick. Amir was desperate. Issa was a healer. The rest is history.
And me.
My name’s Keishara. I’m from space.
No one believes me. I hardly believe me. But the memories are there, bubbling up occasionally in my mind.
Memories of Earth at a far enough distance to see its curve and the blue, blue of its surface. Of staring at maps in too-bright rooms that held maps of complex underwater cave systems. Peering out windows that stretched into an endless darkness. Complex, ergonomic machinery that controlled gravity, pressure, and oxygen. I’m from space, but I don’t know how I got down here. What I’m doing down here. I just remember men and women in thick white clothes. Then noise. Loud, incredible, all-encompassing noise. Then nothing.
We walk for hours until hunger forces us back. Then we return to the entrance to hunt, only to walk further the next day. Then the next.
It’s weeks until something bad happens. Issa takes a step, then falls. The ground just… crumbles beneath her, and she’s gone. We hear her screams from where we stand, mouth agape, torches lit, from high above. And then Farah’s running, desperate to find a way down. Len goes after him. I crouch with the kids, looking stupid. Feeling stupid. I think about just yesterday, Issa braiding my hair like she always does. Teaching me songs. And I think about how she probably won’t be doing both ever again if we don’t do something.
Eventually, we find a way down. Even deeper down than before. More steep, more hazardous. We slip, and we think we’re digging a grave for ourselves. The kids don’t come. We don’t let them. None of us are leaving Issa behind, even if we’re buried with her.
It’s another day until we find her. Limp. Unmoving. She’s breathing, but there’s no way she could make it. Both her legs are broken. She’s in agony. It’s worse to find her like this. Any minute now, she may wake and beg us to kill her.
Farah won’t see reason. He refuses to acknowledge that she’s dying. He goes deeper into the cavern. We’re terrified, praying he won’t fall. The kids call to us from above. It’s only through my tears and desperation that I find the will to call back to them. To reassure them that the rest of us are okay.
When Farah returns, his face is indecipherable. Part-agonized, streaked with tears. Part-mystified. Overwhelmed. In his hands, he holds… a book?
