Reactance: A DiaZem Novella (DiaZem Trilogy) Read online

  Reactance

  Dacia M Arnold

  Also By Dacia M Arnold

  Apparent Power

  December 2018

  Shifting Power

  2019

  Releasing Power

  2020

  Anthologies:

  Colp: The Passage of Time

  2018

  © 2018 Dacia M Arnold

  https://daciamarnold.com

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-7325870-0-7 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-7325870-1-4 (paperback)

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  For information about subsidiary rights, bulk purchases, live events, or any other questions, please contact Dacia M Arnold at [email protected] or visit https://daciamarnold.com/contact

  Cover Art By Max Seidel

  http://maxseidel.tumblr.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  To Jude and Valerie.

  I love you more than myself.

  Contents

  Preface

  Day 0

  Day 1

  Day 2

  Day 4

  Day 5

  Day 7

  Day 8

  Day 9

  Day 10

  Day 11

  Day 12

  Day 42

  Month 2 ½

  Month 3

  Month 3 1/2

  T Minus 10 Days

  T Minus 8 Days

  T Minus 7 Days

  T Minus 6 Days

  T Minus 5 Days

  T Minus 4 Days

  T Minus 3 days

  T Minus 1 Day

  Today is the Day…

  T Minus O (Again)

  Epilogue

  Addendum

  Sneak Peak of Apparent Power: Book 1 of the DiaZem Trilogy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Preface

  On August 20th, 2020 at approximately 7:55 a.m., the positively identified female driver acted purposefully to block the intersection of Colfax Avenue at Logan Street along with four accomplices in other vehicles. The suspect fled the scene in the vehicle used in the road block. City surveillance located the car used in the crime registered to a Kyle Fowler of Denver, Colorado. When approached by law enforcement, the suspect was still inside and followed all instructions given by the arresting officers. She was detained peacefully and brought in for questioning.

  Exhibit A: Journal hand-written by the defendant, Sasha Bowman, formerly of Brighton, Colorado, found on her person at the time of arrest.

  Day 0

  My name is Sasha Bowman. I am starting this journal because today something terrible happened in the world. I need to get these thoughts out of my head, and maybe I can make sense of everything. So many people died today. I am sure millions of people all over the world died in a matter of minutes. I witnessed some of the destruction myself. If I had gone to school, I would be dead too. All my friends are gone. My teachers, everyone. I guess I should start from the beginning or else I will never sort this out.

  I am eighteen years old. A senior with a few more weeks before I am supposed to graduate. I was accepted to the University of Colorado Boulder next year, but I have a sinking feeling school is canceled indefinitely.

  This morning I woke up feeling dizzy. When I went to my car, I tripped in the garage. I was trying to catch myself from falling, and I cut my palm deep on my dad’s hedge trimmers hanging from the wall. I went back inside the house and woke my mom up. She was in a self-medicated sleep. Took me thirty minutes, and five different explanations to wake her up and get her ready to go with me to the hospital. I did not want to drive by myself in case they gave me pain medication, and then I’d be stranded there until she sobered up enough to get me.

  So, I drove us to the ER and mom drank her coffee, trying to remember where she was. I needed college. I needed a way out of here, so I could be a typical teenager instead of my mother’s mother. Occasionally I can go a whole day without making sure my mother eats and drinks enough water to sustain life, but in her depression, she can hardly take care of herself, much less me.

  The emergency room at the hospital was not busy. I had wrapped my hand in a bath towel and waited about forty-five minutes for them to call me back, numb me up, and give me twenty stitches. They wrote me a prescription which my mom seemed very concerned with so, the pain medication must have been the kind she likes. Otherwise, she would have had me drop her off at home before I went to pick them up, but she insisted on tagging along.

  I was standing in line at the grocery store pharmacy window, and I felt another wave of dizziness. I sat on the floor, so I would not fall again. My mom knelt beside me to make sure I was okay, which was the most motherly thing she had done all day. Then, everything went wrong. We both passed out. I woke up with my mom lying on my legs. People were screaming; a few others were lying on the ground, too. There was some glass around us, and most of the lights in the store had broken. I could smell burning plastic, like when my hair dryer shorted out last year.

  “Let’s get home. Something’s not right,” Mom kept repeating over and over. I am guessing she was in shock, but so was I. So, I did not argue with her. My hand was still numb, and we had Tylenol at home. The narcotics could wait.

  When we reached the front of the store, planes started falling. Every flight in motion at that very moment fell from the sky. Just outside the glass doors someone had forced open, I saw the last three planes float to the ground, like the kind you make of paper that never catch in the wind. They were silent, no whining of engines or evidence of power at all. These must have been the highest in the area because fire and smoke rose in pillars at other obvious crash sites already. I did not stay to count, but there must have been about fifteen to twenty scattered in all directions. One landed on my school. I found out about my friends when my neighbor got home earlier to tell us. I am having a hard time believing anything right now. After a few hours, the numbing shots are wearing off and my hand is starting to hurt. Though, the pain makes me realize this is all real and not a dream.

  Back to the grocery store, Mom and I ran to the car after the planes fell so we could get home and make sure Dad was okay. He owns his own window washing business and today is his office day at home. But when we got to my car, the engine would not start. Power locks did not even work, like the battery had died. We live exactly one mile from the store, so we walked. Mom was dehydrated and struggled, but I have run cross country track since freshman year, so the uphill trek was nothing to me.

  Dad was fine. Scared for us, but fine. The power in our house was acting weird. Like, the coffee pot would turn off every time I reached for the brew button. Dad had the magic touch because he could turn the machine back on. I could not. Mom escaped into her bedroom and shut the door. She is in there popping her pills to sleep off the world as long as she can. Dad had the TV turned on to the news. I could not watch becaus
e, like the coffee pot, the screen would go black every time I walked by and it was pissing Dad off. He is pretty laid back most days, but under the circumstances, both of us are on edge.

  Nolan Hillard, the neighbor guy, came over. He worked the night shift at a factory in the industrial part of downtown and was on his way home. He saw the plane hit the school. He came to tell my dad and was relieved to see I had not gone today. He stayed over and helped cook dinner. They talked about combining their “fall-out” supplies, and there was a brief discussion about escaping to the mountains because martial law was in effect and looting would start soon.

  All the scenarios they discussed freaked me out, so I came up here to write all of this down. If this is the beginning of the end for us, someone needs to give an account of what happened for surviving generations. One thing I learned in my history class, if no one writes stuff down it’s like nothing ever happened.

  Dad came upstairs and knocked on my door. I let him in, and he sat on my bed.

  “Um, there’s a condition you have,” was how he started. “The world was covered with electricity.”

  “What?!?” He is a smart man but not always the most articulate.

  “Umm, a wave covered the world with electricity, knocking the power out of the airplanes. Some people were affected, too. Like you and your mom.”

  “Okay, wait. You’re trying to say, like, an electromagnetic pulse knocked every plane out of the sky and also hit mom and me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what does that mean?”

  “They are taking people for treatment to make sure they’re okay. I called and let them know what happened to you at the store. They said you could pack a small bag to take with you. No cell phones or electronics, because they won’t work.”

  “What? Does Mom know? Are you coming with us? Who is taking us where?”

  “The CDC is making sure everyone is okay. Only you and your mom are going. They said if there is room, I can come and see you. We want to make sure you two are okay.”

  He just left my room to tell my mom. I have thrown some random things into a bag, like clothes, underwear, socks. I did not count anything or make sure I had a whole outfit. I am having a hard time figuring out where we are going and why. But I do know I am taking my cell phone. I do not care who these people are.

  I have been waiting for an hour or so since Mr. Hillard left, and Dad called the CDC. I keep grabbing my phone to text my friends, but my cell does not work either. Maybe one of them was sick this morning too and stayed home. I know this is not likely. All my friends are dead. My best friend, Sierra; Jonathan, who has always been kind to me; Mrs. Lancaster. All gone.

  I heard a truck pull up. Out my window, four blue-uniformed people got out of the vehicle and walked toward my house. One pointed at me through the window. So, now I am hiding in my bathroom with my pen and paper, terrified those security guard looking people will take my journal away. Scared I will end up sick and dying in a plastic-coated room from some weird disease.

  Day 1

  1 a.m. I think

  They brought us to the Denver airport near my house. Mom was scared they would put us on a plane and crash every one of us into the ocean, but when we got to the stairs, they made us go down instead of up to the terminals. Two levels down, they had this giant room where we filled out paperwork. There are areas where the “affected” are not allowed near where the lights and machines all work fine. They scanned our drivers license and x rayed all our things there. I hid my cell phone in my notebook and with all the commotion, my stuff went through the scanner, and no one noticed. Thousands of glow sticks light everywhere else. This is not even the strangest thing.

  When we were all checked in, they gave us new clothes. Everything is white. The walls, our shoes, the floor. Everything. We were handed bed linens (white again) and uncracked glow sticks and led even farther underground. A group of twenty of us circled down a metal stair case five more floors and came out to this balcony. You cannot see the bottom of this crazy underground city they have taken us to. Mom used to say nothing was built over the old arsenal because there was an underground city built there. I did not believe her. Now I do. There are rows and rows of balconies going down as far as I can see, like miles of skyscrapers but underground.

  They gave us a room to ourselves. The place is like a giant hotel room. We have a bed and a couch. I am supposed to be sleeping on the couch, but everything is so darn white. The apartment is too bright to sleep even without any lights. Writing in the dark is not difficult because of how lit the place is. Occasionally, flashes of electricity come from me to this metal bar which goes along every wall. The bolt of lightning does not hurt because the energy comes from me. Then the TV will flash and turn back off. My phone will vibrate in my pocket too, but does not stay on long enough to even pull it out. I need to talk to Dad and let him know we are okay and where we are. Maybe he can come to visit us or something. Maybe not, since we are in quarantine.

  8 a.m.

  Mom left for breakfast, but I can’t go until I write this down. I am shaking so bad because things keep getting weirder.

  At 6 a.m. (this is the time the TV displayed when it came on and stayed on). All the power came on. I opened the door to the balcony overlooking the rest of the living area. There is a steady hum of electricity which was not there when we arrived. I came back into the room and faced a young version of my mom sitting up in her bed. I do not know how else to describe what I saw. Mom looked like she could be my sister. What bothered me even more about this, was her reaction. She pulled me to the vanity outside the toilet room (because they are separate). And kept touching her face, then feeling my face and saying things like “Oh your brows are higher than mine.” And “I have a better hairline.” And “you got your dad’s thin lips.” Like she was Miss Popular in the girl’s bathroom comparing bodies to the class nerd. This is my mother! She was also sober. I cannot even remember the last time my mom was unmedicated without making a scene with a public mental breakdown.

  While I was in the vanity mirror with Mom, I felt something in my left hand. I looked down and my skin had pushed out all the sutures placed by the doctor yesterday morning. There is not even a scar where I accidentally cut myself. My anxiety is through the roof and there is very little explanation for any of this.

  The TV displays a series of instructions. One of which was breakfast. After reading the announcement, Mom adjusted her boobs in her bra and left me without even asking if I was hungry. I am stuck between a place of being mortified by her behavior and terrified she might be a ticking time bomb of absolute insanity. I am also exhausted from not sleeping, and a bit hungry. Guess I should go and keep an eye on her.

  9 a.m.

  Mom parked herself next to some young dude at breakfast. But everyone here is young. Yesterday, I saw people of all ages go through the in-processing room, but now there is not a single person older than 20. Or they are older, like my mom, and woke up young. I ate what I could—a banana and some oatmeal—before there was an announcement to return to our rooms for a “class.” The program was supposed to have come on already. There is an image on the TV reading: Standby for an Important Message.

  Afternoon

  I watched the class. I should have written down what was said because now I am more confused than ever.

  The human body uses electricity to metabolize food and to keep your heart beating. I learned all this in biology. But according to the TV, I am a human battery. This metal bar in my room pulls from the electricity stored in my body and powers everything from the TV, to the lights and air conditioning. For older people, the process also releases their metabolism. This is how they tried to explain Mom looking my age. They issued us badges which hint to our actual ages but there is hardly a difference between me being eighteen and my mom being forty-five. We are both adults and have the same color on our ID cards. Never mind that I have not even graduated high school yet.

  My phone is working now, too. It
evens stays charged at one-hundred percent without having to plug it in. So, I called Dad after Mom left to explore The Facility. I have never known her to be social. I think a lot has to do with Dad not being here and her not being overweight anymore.

  “Your kitty, Julio has been keeping me company.” My dad sounded good. “Though, I miss you. There’s no one here to scoop his litter box.”

  I want to tell you about my dad because I miss him so much. Jeremy Alexander Bowman is my father. He has owned many different businesses since I was a baby. He is tall and has black hair. His eyes are not brown, though, like Mom's and mine. He has super blue eyes. My dad is a funny man. He sings made up songs all the time and has a million nicknames for Julio and me. He does not call Mom any nicknames. He calls her by her real name unless he is poking fun at her or her condition, though never to her face. My father never yells, unless you count during sporting events.

  The commentary of my dad is relevant because all my friends are gone, and with Mom and me in quarantine, there is no telling what will happen to us. If something does happen to me and you find this journal, I hope you would return this to him.