Page 1 of Brood (After the End #5)

Chapter One

Four-hundred sixty-five people alive on Level One of the Refuge yesterday.

Four-hundred sixty-three today.

The kitchen crew gets a new report first thing in the morning because we’re responsible for preparing and packaging daily rations for everyone on this level, precisely measured to meet every individual’s caloric and nutritional needs.

A few months ago, I was promoted to head taster, so it’s my job to make meals as appetizing as manufactured protein blocks, tank-raised tilapia, and modified vegetables can taste.

This morning, adding raisins and a little sweetener to the breakfast oatmeal was an easy fix, but the protein sandwiches for lunch are a challenge.

I’m still working on them three hours into my morning shift.

Bella is getting impatient. She was trained as a nutritionist, and she’s waiting to calculate the portion size so the packagers can get to work.

I take a small bite of my latest effort, trying not to scowl as I chew.

Bella shakes her head. “Cadence, give it up. Protein block will never taste good.”

“I know. But this batch tastes worse than normal.”

“No, it doesn’t.” We’ve had this conversation countless times, and her voice reflects it. “The protein block is made in exactly the same way each time from our reserve of pre-War protein powder and soybeans. The variations in taste are your imagination.”

“I don’t think so.” I swallow back any more arguments since they go nowhere. Bella’s spouse, Trevor, is the head of Provisions. Naturally, he wouldn’t lie about how the protein block is made.

But I’m not wrong. Every batch tastes slightly different.

“We need to finalize the sandwich,” Bella says, bringing me back to the task at hand.

We have only one kind of bread—a dense, dry brown loaf that’s nutritious and easy to produce in large quantities—so there’s no way to improve that.

I slice the protein even thinner, separating the slivers with lettuce and tomato and adding an avocado spread of my own creation instead of our standard dressing.

I taste the sample mini-sandwich, and it’s a lot better.

Not great, but better.

Bella is in her early forties, but we’ve worked together closely since I started in the kitchen at thirteen. I like her better than anyone but Danny. She rolls her eyes as I chew. “Cadence.”

“Okay. Go with it.” I push the sample toward Bella. It takes effort not to snatch it back to improve it even more.

She groans in exaggerated relief as she works on her tablet. “There’s no space for perfectionists here. People need to eat, whether it tastes good or not.”

“But we’re all happier if it’s tasty. Surely you’ve noticed the difference since I took over from Barry.”

Our previous head taster was a bad-tempered man who knew how to schmooze the council chiefs but was too lazy to put any effort into his job. He always prepared the bare-bones recipes on file, and we ate nothing but nutritional slop until he died of a heart attack.

There have been a lot of heart attacks in the Refuge for a couple of decades now, and it’s not because of poor diet or lack of exercise. It has either infiltrated our genes or is a consequence of spending entire lives in an underground bunker with artificial light and recirculated air.

But better to die in our forties from a heart attack than to live the even shorter, animalistic lives of the ferals who survived on the surface.

Bella glances up and catches me staring at an empty spot in the air, lost in my own thoughts. “Daydreaming about your birthday?”

In three days, I’ll be twenty-one. I can finally have my spousal ceremony and marry Danny. We’ve both consistently passed our monthly physical examinations with high marks, so we’ve been approved as breeders.

“No, I’m not,” I reply to Bella. “But I’ve been waiting to get pregnant all my life. I can’t believe the time is finally here.”

“Don’t expect miracles,” she tells me. “Most breeders don’t manage even one pregnancy. And those who do usually only get lucky once.”

Bella and Trevor had one baby a year after their spousal ceremony and have spent more than twenty years trying and failing to get pregnant again.

Even managing once permanently improves a woman’s status. Babies are getting rarer and rarer, and none of our doctors or geneticists can figure out why.

“I know. But Danny and I are hopeful.”

She shakes her head again, although she’s secretly smiling. “It’s good to be optimistic.”

Her comment surprises me. She’s always faced life with a compassionate but matter-of-fact resignation.

She mutters, “It’s gonna get harder and harder.”

* * *

I always meet Danny in the Meadow for midmorning break.

The Meadow is a recreational space on the east side of our level, with a high ceiling and a special ventilation system that sustains airflow to mimic a fresh breeze.

The colored lighting simulates blue sky, green grass, and bright sunshine.

It’s the only space in the entire bunker where the blank white walls and stale air aren’t always closing in.

Danny is a year older than me and exactly my height, with tan skin and dark hair and eyes.

We’ve known each other all our lives, and he’s always been my favorite person.

We’re comfortable together. We can talk about anything, and I like spending time with him.

When I was ten years old, the geneticists analyzed our genes and determined that we’d be a suitable match for breeding.

He’s waiting for me by our normal bench.

I rush through the final steps and wrap my arms around him in a hug. He’s grinning when I pull away. “You’re in a good mood,” he says.

“I guess so. I’m excited about Friday.”

“Me too.” When we sit side by side on the bench, he reaches over to hold my hand. “I’ve been so excited these last few weeks that my hand has been put to good use.”

“Don’t do that too much. Remember what Dr. Cameron said. You don’t want to deplete your sperm.”

“I’m doing just fine on sperm production. And I don’t do it too much.” He slides an arm around me, adjusting me so I’m leaning against him.

“Okay, good. Because my fertile period should be lining up exactly with my birthday. Maybe I can get pregnant right away.”

Danny has a lean, warm body. It’s comforting and familiar. He squeezes me. “I bet we will. We’re going to have more babies than anyone in fifty years.”

The air blows from the large vents in the ceiling, wafting against my face and blowing the hair that’s slipped out of my braid. I breathe deeply, trying to contain the rising hopes and daydreams swirling stronger as Friday approaches.

I’ve been a good citizen of the Refuge my entire life.

I was diligent during my school years, and when I showed no particular intellectual aptitude, I worked hard in my internships in mechanics, agriculture, and domestics until they decided the kitchen was the place for me.

I’ve followed all the rules. I’ve maintained good relationships.

I’ve respected authority in every instance.

I always get high marks on my biannual behavioral reviews.

But it feels like I’ve never done anything. Never really lived.

Maybe having a baby will change that.

* * *

When I return to work, the kitchen crew’s supervisor is there, inspecting the morning’s work.

Vanessa is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties—one of the only redheads of her generation. I’ve always liked working under her brisk, pleasant efficiency.

She tastes the breakfast oatmeal, even though it’s already been dispersed, and nods her approval. Then I offer her a sample of the lunch sandwich and wait as she takes a bite and chews.

Her eyes meet mine, and I hold my breath, worried she’s going to criticize. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with the meal, and that’s never a good sign.

Then, “Best sandwich we’ve ever served.”

A rush of pleasure rises from my chest to warm my cheeks. “Thank you.” I try to maintain an expression as no-nonsense and professional as hers, but I no doubt fail.

The only consistent criticism I’ve received in performance reviews is that I’m too emotional. Occasionally, they’ll also say I talk too much. The culture of the Refuge has always been defined by peace and order, so giggling when happy and crying from stress or conflict is frowned upon.

I’ve been doing better lately. I even manage to nod soberly in response to Vanessa’s compliment. I murmur, “Thank you,” instead of grinning and hugging myself.

Vanessa moves on, inspecting Bella’s nutritional calculations and the precision of the packagers’ work.

I try to sort through today’s available ingredients to figure out what to make for dinner, but I’m distracted by far too many good things in the works.

I’m almost twenty-one. My spousal ceremony is on Friday. Danny and I can start trying for a baby immediately. And I just now got the greatest compliment of my life.

It’s been a good day.

I’m mulling over a pile of russet potatoes when Vanessa comes up behind me. “Cadence.”

I turn at the sound of my name.

“Can you—”

I never actually hear what she was going to ask because the strangest expression twists her face.

“Are you okay?” I come closer, reaching out to help as she sways and raises her hands to her throat. “Vanessa?”

She makes a weird choking sound and falls. I grab her in time to prevent her from hitting the floor. The weight of her body brings mine down too, and I land on my knees beside her.

She’s making jerky twitches. Grappling at her throat and chest.

“Someone help!” I call out, my voice breaking embarrassingly because I’m starting to panic. “Call a medic!”

I check her pulse nervously. She’s not breathing, and I can’t feel a heartbeat.

I start chest compressions. The repetitive motion comes automatically. I was trained like everyone else when I was thirteen, in my last year of school.