CHAPTER 1 (SAMPLE CHAPTER)
"THE ALARM"
I’m just sitting down to a mundane breakfast, when the alarm blares to life and my limited supply of air begins to leak out. My name is Barton Miller Junior, and today is my thirteenth birthday.
Two hours earlier…
I wake up at exactly eight o’clock like I’ve done every morning for eight years. I like routine, it makes me feel safe. I sit on the side of my twin bed, letting my eyes adjust to the sun lamps that click on above me. My gaze first falls on the same item every morning: an old, worn photograph of two smiling people waving from the top of a tall mountain: my parents. If not for pictures, I would probably have forgotten what they look like by now.
“Morning greetings, sir.” STAG’s disembodied voice welcomes me as it always does with its infernal monotony. I run my hand through the mop of shaggy black hair which is sticking out at all angles from my head, and try to remember the last time I cared enough to comb it.
“Morning circuit-head! What’s on the agenda?” I ask, only mildly interested. The “agenda” is always the same, but I feel better when I ask, thinking maybe today something new will happen.
“Birthday Congratulations.” From the corner of the room, a pathetic confetti cannon pops, shooting glitter in my face. I spit it out.
“Don’t remind me,” I grumble.
“Calendar Reminder,” STAG drones on, “thirteenth year, day of birth: pubescence and transition discussion scheduled. Lesson will begin in three, two, one. Chapter one, Body changes. Puberty is a confusing and difficult time. The changes experienced in the body and the growth of hair in-“
“Whoa!” I shout, covering my ears. “No-no. None of that please.”
“Pubescence and transition discussion scheduled,” he insists, and I pretend I hear an indignant tone in his voice. Of course that’s impossible, he’s nothing but information.
“Delete scheduling. Let’s stick to the usual, for now, STAG.” I answer, rubbing my skinny, pale arms to get some feeling into them. “I don’t think we have any heavy partying in us.” I haven’t celebrated a birthday in six years; I don’t intend to start now. The last thing I need is a reminder of how long I’ve been down here.
“Pubescence and transition-“ he tries.
“Daily checklist,” I bark out, harsher than I mean to.
“Daily checklist,” STAG finally responds. “O-eight hundred hours, wake-up routine, hair combing no longer optional. Eight-thirty, exercise, Bo staff training scheduled today. Bo staff saved as default favorite. O-nine hundred hours, full body cleansing, supervised scrubbing for optimal cleanliness. Nine-thirty, medication and marrow tap in the Medical Section. Ten AM, breakfast. Ten-thirty-“
“What’s for breakfast?” Anything but trail mix, I silently pray.
“Fruit and nut trail mix bars,” he answers, swiftly ruining all my hopes. I’m so sick of the taste of nuts and berries I would eat tree bark if it was available. Unfortunately, all that is available is what my Pops stockpiled in the food stores all those years ago and it was designed to last. Taste wasn’t a part of the consideration. “Schedule continuation, Barton?”
I sometimes find it strange when STAG calls me by my first name. I have to remind myself daily that STAG is only a computer nanny, designed to keep me fed, watered and give me some form of company, like I’m a houseplant. I’m always at risk of treating him like a parent. Though STAG’s not what you would call a real friend, I’m afraid I can’t remember any other voice but his.
“Status report?” I continue, refusing to give into thoughts about a family I can’t remember having.
“Sector?” STAG responds, as I make my way to the command center at the back of the main room. I avoid looking at the mess of clothes and random items on the floor, hoping it will miraculously clean itself before I have to do it. Where are the magical-maid animals and helpful gnomes I keep reading about, when I need them?
“Food supply.” The two widescreens come to life, displaying a thousand different numbers, most of which are unimportant to me at the moment and I wave them away. The touch sensitive screen obeys me. I wait for STAG to bring up the proper statistics, while I plot about how to make fruit and nuts taste like a steak. I can’t even recall the last time I smelled meat. That went first.
“Nutrition back-stock at thirty three percent,” STAG says, and I feel a strange chill in my bones. Just a third of my original stock left. That’s a daunting number.
It had only been eight years since my Pops, Barton Miller, Sr., stocked the food and water supplies to keep me going. Even being a renowned doctor, it took him and the team of engineers gathered in secret, a year to build and program STAG, to prep and supply the underground bunker and make this place sustainable. It was the final year of his life, spent entirely on my future.
Now here I am, only eight years later, and I’ve gone through two thirds of their hard work. The first few years, STAG managed my portions, oxygen rations and battery usage. When I turned eight, he started giving me more and more responsibility, the way I assume a parent should, but I still have no plan for when the food runs out. Sometimes it’s like living on a ticking bomb, watching the timer count down.
“Life support systems?” I ask. It’s part of my daily routine to check the life support and air flow, because it’s by far the most important. My condition requires that the oxygen and nitrogen in the air be kept at a specific level. Instead of making a self-contained system, Pops had decided fresh air was important, so oxygen is filtered down through air ducts that lead above ground. Any fluctuations could mean a tear in the line and the entire system would collapse in moments, leaving me buried far underground with no air from the surface.
“System functioning properly, sir, yet-“ He stops, unsure. He is never unsure.
“What’s up?” I ask, feeling a warm prickle on the back of my neck.
“The systems register normal. Discrepancy in the seal sensor, malfunction suspected.”
“Are we leaking air?” My heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my throat.
“Levels: steady. Sensor damage: critical.”
“Can it be repaired?” I watch the lights flicker across the screen as STAG “thinks” about it.
“RoboTech deployed, sir. Estimated time of completion: an hour.”
I feel the panic recede like a wave and try to calm myself. We’ve had a few of these scares over the years, moments when minor malfunctions could mean the end of my life. STAG has handled them marvelously every time, however the danger still exists. Without the safety of my enclosure, my compromised immune system wouldn’t be able to deal with the bacteria and viruses outside. This is why I’ve spent all of my thirteen years in sealed plastic rooms of various sizes.
I let the RoboTech do their work and go through my morning routine without much enthusiasm. I wish I had someone to complain to, someone I could shout at when I’m frustrated or who could witness my tantrums and actually feel something. Unfortunately, STAG always responds to my temper outbreaks by knocking me out with sleeping gas. One minute I’m yelling at the top of my lungs and the next-thump. My least favorite of the “parenting modules” in his mainframe, but you can’t argue with results.
My morning exercise routine has changed over the years. When I was five, I was always running around, so there was no need to set aside time for physical fitness. A few years after my parents’ death, I went through what STAG calls my “dark times”, and I became a “lazy slob”—also his term. My robotic caretaker decided it was time to add physical activity to my routine, before I lost all use of my muscles except the fingers I used on my game controller. At first, I whined and threw tantrums like any child, which mostly ended with my being knocked out every day. After a while, I realized I was tired of spending half my time asleep, so I decided to follow STAG’s advice.
A few weeks into a specially designed physical training program, modeled after the former Navy Seal boot camp exercises, I realized I actually liked it. It was a challenge, something I could overcome. With STAG’s help, I designed my own PT which included kickboxing, karate, jiu jitsu and tai-chi. I had reached the equivalent of a brown-belt by the time I was eleven, so we advanced to light weapons training. I’ve always wondered what I will do with these skills, but no answer has come yet.
Today I’m working with the Bo staff in the Rec-Room, a large circular offshoot of my main living quarters. I favor the Bo over any of my other training because I have a natural talent for it. The robotic targets STAG designed come equipped with extension arms which counter my attacks and give me a more realistic combat situation. It’s my favorite part of the day.
I go a little over my allotted time today, and STAG rushes me. For a week I’ve been working on perfecting a strike technique where I feint to the left and, balancing on the staff, throw myself into an upward spin to strike from the right. I still haven’t been able to get off the ground with enough momentum to complete the three-sixty spin. Today, I’m sure I’ll get it right.
Of course, I don’t. Frustrated with my failure and STAG’s constant badgering, I break my sparring Bo in two. Great! Now the RoboTech will have to find, process and decontaminate a new one. Add that to the list of tasks they have to complete on their next run outside the perimeter. The RoboTech devices are like sophisticated remote cars with robotic arms that STAG controls whenever we need something from the outside world. I’m often jealous of them. It seems like they’re the only ones around here with any freedom.
“We are behind schedule, Barton,” STAG prods, though I doubt he’s ever been behind schedule since he was soldered together.
“Who cares?” I spit back, feeling the familiar surge of anger rising from the pit of my stomach. I’d been getting testier and testier over the last year. STAG’s been trying to introduce the “pubescence and transition talk” for months now, but I can’t seem to make myself endure it. He’s monitored my emotional spikes and recorded the data, but none of that feels like he’s listening to me.
“I do, sir,” STAG answers back. I hate how he never gets ruffled, never even so much as a raised syllable. If I have to talk to only one “person” for the rest of my life, they should at least be interesting.
“Any chance the water will be warm today?” I ask, dumping my clothes on the ground as I move through the enclosure to the sanitary section. It’s white and sheeted in heavy plastic.
“The temperature outside has increased by three units. Today’s tank temp reads eighty degrees Fahrenheit.”
Well, that’s better than I’d hoped for. I relieve myself in the toilet which immediately begins to filter and recycle the water once I flush. Except the air filtered in from above ground, everything in my home is a closed circuit. Water, trash, everything is recycled and repurposed. The shower has a motion sensor and temperature regulator with a default setting. Of course our heating coils broke a few years ago, and we haven’t been able to get the right parts to fix them. Living as a scavenger can suck sometimes. So, the warmth of my showers depends on whether or not the sun’s been out. In Albuquerque, New Mexico, thankfully that’s often, but winters are the worst.
Once I’m done with my shower, I wait for the full-body dryer to complete its function and I throw on whatever clothes STAG has prepared for me. Today it’s a red, checkered button-up with acid stained jeans. I haven’t bothered with shoes in years. I brush my teeth quickly and head to the Medical Section.
MedSec is the place I like least out of my entire enclosure because it reminds me of a horror movie. It’s a small room in the back, filled with terrifying instruments I have no interest in understanding. This is the room where pain happens. The needles and probes glimmer like a creepy smile, but I know, logically, that this is for my own good. The shots, the transfusions, the tests, are all an attempt at curing the disease keeping me trapped in this place. The disease that saved my life.
The virus struck when I was four years old. I get most of my information from STAG who had been programmed with what he calls a “snapshot” of the Internet at the time he was built. From there I can get limited information about what happened. No one knew what it was or where it had come from. They called it the Loki virus, because it constantly mutated, changed, overcoming any and all antidotes the doctors tried to create. It spread across the world like wildfire, killing everyone in its path. Animals remained unharmed, but in six months, more than half the population of Earth was dead, my mother along with them. After she passed away, Pops went to work. Because of my condition: Severe Combined Immunodeficiency, or SCID, Pops knew I’d be safe in my sterile, air-tight environment. He wanted to make sure I had every chance of survival after he was gone. He was a brilliant man, or so STAG tells me, and he knew the chances of his survival were non-existent, nor could he hide with me without risk to my health. So, he worked day and night with engineers hired in secret, to build an everlasting battery which would run the entire system and created STAG to take his place when he was gone. The project had to be kept hidden for my own safety. When the world is dying, people get desperate, make choices they never would otherwise, so he kept my location and his work under lock and key. I was five when he finally passed away.
I try to shut out the thoughts of that time. The truth is I don’t remember any of it, nothing beyond my time in this room, with STAG, alone. I have no memory of my parents but the images I see on the Internet. I strap myself down to the examination chair and the robotic arms begin to move on their own. I try to concentrate on my Bo training while they work, anything to ignore the pain. Even though I’ve received these shots every day, the pain is still excruciating.
The bodiless arms lift the shirt from my back and I feel the cold spray of disinfectant on my spine. There is a port in my back, a small tube that’s always attached to me, through which I receive injections and samples of marrow are drawn. It hurts like crazy. I breathe evenly like I’ve been taught to do, and try to focus on the tai-chi lessons. Those are the most helpful in dealing with pain and stress and they’ve taught me how the right breathing can keep me calm. The agony is blinding when the serum goes into the port in my vertebra, sending ripples down my back and making me want to curl in around myself. I would take a thousand needles, over this paralyzing serum.
I remain faithfully motionless. I know that if I shift even a fraction of an inch, it’s likely that the machine will sever my nerves and leave me paralyzed. I ‘m scared of that more than anything else in the world. Everything already seems so stifling and oppressive; I can’t imagine being stuck in a chair for the rest of my life. I don’t move.
The machines are well programmed and they finish much quicker than a human would. Soon the excruciating pain is only a dull ache. I release a loud sigh when I’m given the all clear and once again my thoughts turn to the upcoming breakfast.
“Well done today, sir,” STAG says flatly.
“Any chance I can get a brownie as a reward?” I hopelessly try.
“All sugar based products have been consumed,“ is the only answer I receive.
“Let’s get it over with, then.” I’m heading to breakfast like I’m going to my own execution. “What’s the deal with the RoboTech?”
“Sensor isolated and currently being replaced. Estimated time of completion: fifteen minutes.”
I drop into the chair at my computer and type the log-in password. I sometimes think how ridiculous it is to even have a password, when there’s no one left to break into your computer anyway. It’s like locking your door when you live on top of Mount Everest.
Other than STAG, my ancient Macbook Pro has been the one thing keeping me sane over the last eight years. In the beginning, I had the “dark times”, moments when I wanted everything to just end, especially the loneliness. Not normal thoughts for a six year old, according to STAG, so he taught me how to use the computer. It opened up my tiny little world into one of infinite possibility. Though there are no new pages or updates anymore, the archives still exist. The entire history of the human race is right at my fingertips. I can’t imagine who found “foodie blogs” interesting back in the day, but considering my current nutritional situation, they’re my favorite. I’ll spend hours watching the shows, reading the posts and even longer going through people’s comments. Sometimes, I even post my own, though I know it’s useless. Still, it feels like I’m having a conversation with an actual person, something I can’t remember ever doing.
“I’ll eat here,” I mumble to STAG, who I imagine nods curtly to himself. There is a moment of silence before he speaks.
“Fancy a chocolate milk, Barton?”
I feel something squeeze painfully in the center of my chest. It’s probably just a pleasant phrase Pops programmed into STAG’s memory to give me comfort, but it’s exactly what my mother used to say. I don’t remember it, in fact everything I know about her, I learned from her YouTube cooking channel. She had a knack in the kitchen, “a real iron chef” STAG calls her. Every time I have to swallow down another mouthful of sludge that tastes like cardboard, I miss her even more.
“How are you going to do that?” I ask STAG mockingly, “all sugar based products have been consumed.”
“Milk and chocolate cereal in stock. A re-hydrated combination should produce the desired results.” He pauses, and with as much compassion as his circuits can mange asks, “Fancy a chocolate milk?”
I consider this question carefully. I feel strangely hollow, empty, like I don’t want anything ever again. What’s the point? What’s the point of another birthday, another year spent underground, alone, talking to myself? What will I ever do with my life? I can feel the anger rising from that void inside me and I wonder if this will be one of those days I end up unconscious.
I’m trying to calm myself using every Tai-chi technique I know, when the alarm screams to life behind me.
END OF SAMPLE
To see what happens to Barton next
Purchase THE ADVENTURES OF BARTON MILLER JR.