Jacqui Castle - The Seclusion

THE

SECLUSION

JACQUI CASTLE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright 2018 Jacqui Castle

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Inkshares, Inc., Oakland, California

www.inkshares.com

Edited by Matt Harry and Kaitlin Severini

Cover Design by CoverKitchen

Interior design by Kevin G. Summers

ISBN: 9781947848511

e-ISBN: 9781947848337

LCCN: 2017962692

First edition

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to

my grandmother Patricia Webb Ahearn

June 26, 1937May 27, 2014

and

my mother, Suzanne Ahearn Regan

Unite this Nation

Through storm and drought

Sister North and Brother South

Sturdy; strong

Built to last

Shelter us from troubles past

From adversaries

Far and wide

All dangers on the other side

Give us hope;

Fill us with awe

With pride we serve the Board, the law

In your shadow

We will be

Secure for all eternity

Dedication to the Walls

(Composed in 2031 by the Board)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

THE WALL LOOMED OVER ME.

The first time I laid eyes on it, I was in awe of its vastnessan iconic monument, stretching to the horizon in either direction. As strong and secure as its sister up north. Ten feet wide by thirty feet high by 1,954 miles long. We were told a substantial portion of it also went below ground, but for security reasons we werent given the exact details. The devil lies in the details, the Board was fond of saying. Leave the devil to us.

It was widely agreed that the Walls were our greatest achievement. They were a statement to the world, twin barriers that declared our country a safe zone, free from the corruption of the outside. Growing up, we were shown videos of that corruptionother nations that had succumbed to violence and famine and political upheaval. I would sit on my fathers lap, his long, steady arms wrapped around me, as we watched news feeds featuring the children of those countries. Children who had been bombed by their own leaders. Children who wandered demolished cities, starving and covered in chemical sores. Their ribs stood out like xylophone keys. The sight of them made my stomach queasy. Then the videos would cut to the Walls, and I would feel relief that I was protected from such horrors. Relief, and pride.

The first day I stood in the shadow of the Southern Wall, I wished my father could have seen it with me. What would he think? Would he be as entranced as I was? But, unfortunately, he was, like most citizens, not permitted to go near the barriers. Security reasons, the Board told us. Details.

Now, four years later, visiting the Wall had become a semi-regular part of my routine. Working beneath its shadow. The sight of it still amazed me. This thing that held us all together, that kept us safe. The vastness of it must be like seeing the ocean for the first time. Blood rushing, skin tingling. Beholding something far more powerful than you will ever be. But instead of fear, there was a sense of calm. Clarity. The overwhelming sense of a connection to something beyond oneself.

The Southern Security Barrier had been built sixty-eight years prior, making it older than most manufactured products in circulation. I had a fondness for older things. Artifacts, fossils, physical antiquities that had stood the test of time. And this Wall had stood longer than anything or anyone Id known.

Some still wished to see for themselves what was on the other side. Radicals and malcontents. They refused to believe, or perhaps they hoped, that the videos the Board showed us werent true. Maybe it was too painful for them to accept that the only thing waiting outside was a violence-ridden wasteland, that we were the last vestiges of civility.

Whatever the reason, a handful of these radicals occasionally tried to challenge the Wall or the Board. But every time, quickly and justly, they were captured and charged with treason. Cameras had been mounted every few feet, and the surveillance drones circling overhead captured sufficient evidence. Civilian eyes almost never saw this evidence firsthand, not unless an example was to be made. We were told the radicalsand there were less of them every yearwere taken to military bases to repay their debt to the country. There, they would be rehabilitated into proper patriots. Redeemed.

I closed my eyes and rubbed the middle of my forehead. If you asked me, Id say they got off easy. Wed all seen the videos of life on the outside. Why anyone would choose that over the security the Board provided was beyond me.

I gathered my amber hair, peeling the resistant sweaty strands from my neck and securing them with a band Id grabbed from around my wrist. The freckles on my wheat-colored arms had darkened from the intensity of the spring sun. Beads of sweat on my forearms magnified certain freckles the way dewdrops magnify seeds inside a flower. I brought my arms down and wiped them off on my shirt.

The freckles were also on either side of my nose. They made me look younger than my twenty-two years, and I was self-conscious of that fact. You know you can get rid of those, people had told me when I complained about them. Despite finding them annoying, and a hurdle to being taken seriously, I continued to opt out of the medical enhancements much of my generation enjoyed.

I lowered myself onto one knee, driving a cylindrical soil probe into the earth. Pressing a button, I heard the bore whir downward until the required depth of twelve inches was attained. After removing the probe, I examined the rusty soil inside. It was dark only slightly near the base. Still too much benzene. My finger scraped the soil, transferring the sample into a vial. The briny scent of the freshly stirred dirt settled on my tongue, and I licked my dry, cracking lips.

After packing away my sampling kit and slipping the vial into one of my pockets, I eyed my hands. Dirt lined my nails and nestled into the creases on my knuckles. My gloves were folded neatly in the probe kit, but I rarely used them. Though the toxicity levels at the site were perilously high during the last round of testing, I relished the sensation of dirt on my fingers and took my chances. Instead I grabbed sanitizer and a cloth out of my backpack and scrubbed.

Turning my attention back to the Wall, I noticed a clump of mayweed growing near the base. I shook my head. Just like the radicals. Some things kept trying, no matter the conditions. I carefully plucked it from the ground, then went on to clear the rest of the weeds from nearby fissures, tossing the pieces to the side. As I did so, I unearthed a piece of hornblende biotite granite, which I wiped off and put in my backpack for my collection. My open palm stroked the freshly revealed surface of the Wall.

When I rose, I noticed a dark shape slowly inching its way up the concrete barrier. I stepped back to get a better look. It was a lizard, a gecko probably, about six inches in length, tail curled against its back. I had a fondness for lizards, and every once in a while I would find one scurrying outside my apartment or spot one on my walk to work.

Hey there, I said warmly. Nice place you have here. We locked eyes for the length of a heartbeat, blue and lizard green connecting, and then it turned and scrambled over the Wall, leaving me behind. I sunk back to my heels and let out a sigh. Another radical who didnt appreciate the bounty of our country.