Burn Out Read online

  We bring stories to life

  First published by Egmont USA, 2014

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © Kristi Helvig, 2014

  All rights reserved

  www.egmontusa.com

  www.kristihelvig.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Helvig, Kristi.

  Burn out / Kristi Helvig.

  1 online resource.

  Summary: In the future, when the Earth is no longer easily habitable, seventeen-year-old Tora Reynolds, a girl in hiding, struggles to protect weapons developed by her father that could lead to disaster should they fall into the wrong hands.

  Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  ISBN 978-1-60684-480-9 (EBook) – ISBN 978-1-60684-479-3 (hardback)

  [1. Survival–Fiction. 2. Government, Resistance to–Fiction. 3.

  Weapons–Fiction. 4. Mercenary troops–Fiction. 5. Orphans–Fiction.

  6. Science fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H37623

  [Fic]–dc23 2013021348

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  v3.1

  For T, C & K

  My sun, moon, and stars

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  On neither the sun, nor death,

  can a man look fixedly.

  —FRANÇOIS DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD

  Chapter ONE

  300 years from now

  SIX MONTHS AND COUNTING, YET NOT A WHISPER OF A fellow human to be found. I stared down at the small device attached to my wrist. The locator light on my Infinity, which would blink if anyone on the planet logged on to GlobalNet, taunted me with its perpetual darkness. Though it felt like an exercise in futility, I checked it multiple times a day due to equal parts habit and desperation. Despite my perseverance, bad thoughts surfaced again. I had to continually distract myself from my worst fear—that I was the last girl on Earth.

  Weary of the blank screen, I pressed a small button on the Infinity but hit the wrong one. My little sister’s smiling face floated out in front of me. I fought back tears and quickly punched another button. She disappeared and the room filled with a moving, three-dimensional image. My happy place. Sunlight reflected off the water’s surface and a lime-green fish darted through the waves. Seaweed floated by me as the smell of salt water invaded my nostrils. The sea stretched out in all directions, surrounding me, endless in its reach. I pushed my hand into the bright blue water, desperate to immerse myself in it, yet grasped only air.

  The stupid oceans had tricked us all. They weren’t endless—they were gone. Most of the people too, after the sun started to burn out a kajillion years ahead of schedule.

  The saltwater scent from the program caught my attention again and I focused on the aquamarine water. It was superimposed on the stark walls of the bunker. I lay down and pretended to be submerged in the cool depths as the waves crashed above me. It was somehow harder to catch my breath down here on the imaginary ocean floor. After another minute, the need for oxygen overwhelmed me. I must have done a better job visualizing than I thought. You’re not really on the bottom of the ocean, Tora. Yeah, tell that to my lungs. I powered off the Infinity and sat upright. The ocean disappeared in an instant. My need to breathe did not.

  Breathing was supposed to be the one thing I could count on down here. Maybe there was a leak in the shelter’s oxygen line. My lungs burned in protest and my chest ached. I staggered to the front room in search of my helmet, using what little air I had left to curse a blue streak. Most people didn’t have to deal with this crap.

  Most people were dead.

  The steady hum of the generators surrounded me, and provided my only break from the silence. Solar-powered lights flooded the room, making it easy to see the oxygen saturation meter flashing red. The level had dropped twenty percent. Though the oxygen level in the shelter had been erratic for the last twenty-four hours, it hadn’t dipped below ninety percent before today.

  My father had placed all the important meters in this front room, which was convenient in a twisted way—I could get all the bad news at once. I peered over at the water machine, noting the low level, and more flashing red lights. God, I hated those lights.

  I followed the air line across the room to the hole in the ceiling where it exited the shelter. It was intact, which meant the problem lay somewhere aboveground. Perfect—a choice between braving the scorching sun or breathing. Breathing won. My lungs screamed for oxygen. I pulled on the protective sunsuit and twisted my dark hair into a knot before I yanked the helmet down over it. The repair job wouldn’t go so well if my hair burst into flames.

  Once the helmet snapped in place, the emergency oxygen activated from a small tank inside the suit. When full, the tank could last a few hours tops. I gulped huge mouthfuls of the stale air, then grabbed my father’s tool kit and climbed the ladder to the door in the ceiling.

  When I pushed open the door and stepped out of the underground shelter onto the surface, dust invaded my throat and my eyes burned from the airborne particles. While my tinted helmet protected me from the harsh light of the sun and provided oxygen, the air filtration system was crap. It was beyond hot out thanks to the sun’s ever-expanding size.

  Sweat drenched my body within seconds as the intense heat enveloped me. Some early survivors had said this was what hell was like. They were the same ones who claimed the asteroid incident was God’s will. Though they preached with righteous indignation about mankind being punished for their wicked ways, they ended up dying just like everyone else. Guess nothing brought out evangelism faster than disaster, but they didn’t get that the real hell was Earth.

  While trying not to breathe in more dust, I dashed the fifty yards to where the oxygen tubing emerged from the ceiling of the shelter and connected to a converter box in the midst of a monster cactus cluster. My dad took care to keep as much of the line as possible underground, but he couldn’t avoid the small part that connected to the plants themselves.

  I took care to avoid the massive, knifelike spines of the plants, and inspected the line. A small portion of the outer metal tubing was removed. The inner tube looked as though an animal had chewed through it, thus cutting off the life-saving air to the shelter. I couldn’t believe a creature existed that could withstand this environment. Most of the animals had died soon after the plants. Only the giant hyper-evolved cactus had survived—thrived even, and it was the sole oxygen-producing life left in this burned world.

  Feeling hotter by the second, I dug through my bag for what I needed. I laughed when I found it, which elicited a coughing fit as I inhaled more of the swirling dust. Of all the advanced tec
hnology that allowed my continued survival, what I needed in this case was duct tape. Metallic, heat-resistant duct tape.

  I attempted to tear off some tape, but my gloves were too bulky. I checked my wrist gauge—the oxygen tank was ninety-six percent full, and the heat indicator showed I had less than a minute of exposure before bare skin would fry. I stripped off the gloves, then wrapped and double-wrapped the tape around the tubing, before pressing it firmly in place. A searing pain in my right hand startled me, and a large blister popped out on the back of it. I grabbed a coated thermoplastic clamp from the bag, clasped it around the repaired tubing, and ran.

  As I sprinted back to the door, two more angry blisters popped up on the back of the same hand. I didn’t want to pull the glove back on over my large blister, and now I had three to deal with because of it. Crackling pain shot through my hand. Please don’t let me catch fire. I yanked at the door but quickly snatched my hand away from the burning hot handle. “Goddammit!”

  My father often reminded me to wear gloves when opening the door since the protective, heat-resistant coating on the handle had thinned. Fixing it had been his next project, but getting murdered had caused a major interruption of his to-do list. The door lay flat on the ground, as if only dirt, not a glorified bomb shelter, lay underneath. That was how my father designed it—part of his master survival plan.

  I shoved my unburned hand into a glove, jerked the door upward, and scrambled down into the dim light. The door slammed shut behind me and I tripped, tumbling the rest of the way down the ladder. I lay on my back where I fell and stared up at the ceiling. At least I was out of the harsh sunlight. My right hand blazed with pain. When I dared peek at it, a raw, burning mess greeted me. I hoped it would heal quickly. If infection set in, I’d have to dip into my limited supply of antibiotics, because there was no way I’d make it as a lefty.

  I filled the sink with only as much warm water as I needed to cover my hand. The meter on my water supply lowered until the red lights turned from flashing to a steady red. Dumb-ass lights. When my tender flesh met the liquid it felt like a thousand burning needles stabbing me at once. A loud sob tore from my throat. I pushed thoughts of Dad from my mind, yet couldn’t help thinking that he would have known exactly how to handle this.

  I glanced around and spotted the first-aid kit at the end of the counter. If I used the liquid burn treatment and some bandages, maybe I wouldn’t need to use the meds. I forced myself to soak my hand for several more minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that the water was cold, but it was hard to picture something you’d never experienced.

  With burn out happening so far ahead of predictions, the heat-resistant technology had barely been in place to create pipes that wouldn’t melt into the water. People were too busy dying at the time to care whether the water was cold or not. Sure, I could experience cold by going outside at night when the temperatures were frigid, as long as I didn’t mind being ripped apart by the night storms before I froze to death.

  The tepid water sloshed over my fingers. I laid my hand gently on a dish towel, careful not to rub off any damaged skin. I dabbed on the burn ointment and gritted my teeth through the pain. After I applied the bandages, I drew a deep breath and peered at the oxygen meter. It had risen to a ninety-four percent saturation level again. Not perfect, but way better than the seventy-four percent it had dropped to thanks to the hole in the line.

  It seemed strange that people ever went outside on purpose, even though they had oceans instead of the vast canyons of desert that lay in their place. I’d had enough sunshine today to last me the rest of my life, which likely wouldn’t be long anyway. With the dwindling supplies, the chances of making it another six months were slim. I’d be dead before my eighteenth birthday.

  As I placed the medical tape and bandages back into the first-aid kit, my eyes fell on the painkiller container. Dad had stocked up on them while he was still able to trade with his contacts in the pod cities. They were the good stuff; the stuff that made you forget about more than your pain. He’d gotten them for my mother, God bless her addicted soul. I remembered a time when my sister and I sat on the couch with her, waiting for the meds to kick in. I sat brushing my sister’s hair while she held Mother’s hand in her own small one, trying to console her, Don’t worry, Mama. You’ll feel good soon.

  For a second, I was tempted. Just one or two tablets under the tongue would ease the scorching pain running through my hand. I slammed the lid shut with my left hand and pushed the kit across the counter. Out of sight, out of mind. I wasn’t worried I’d end up an addict like my mother or anything. It’s just that the container was full. If I couldn’t get off the planet—my Plan A—these meds were my Plan B, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to jeopardize Plan B by depleting my overdose supply.

  I’d cram the tablets under my tongue as fast as they’d melt, then drink the last bit of water to wash it all down. An easy death. As Plan A seemed less likely with each passing day, I knew I had to prepare myself for Plan B.

  I smoothed the bandage across my hand and decided to do the daily bunker check. The routine calmed me, so I walked down the narrow hallway to scan the bedrooms and office before reaching my father’s gun room. It’s not like things were ever different than the day before, yet seeing the guns secured brought me comfort. After leaving the weapons room, I pressed my hand to the lock and watched with satisfaction as the lock glowed red again.

  I returned to the front room and steamed a cup of my mother’s favorite herbal tea. Though water had been scarce, she’d insisted that a cup a day held restorative powers for her fragile psyche. As far as I could tell, it was the only thing apart from the meds that brought her any peace. Her smile and joy had dissipated before our eyes soon after we moved to the bunker. The memory of her laughter from when we lived in the pod city faded over time until I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard it at all.

  The painting on the wall caught my eye, and I straightened it the way I did every day—made it perfect, just like my little sister used to do every time she walked by it. The slight movement caused more pain to shoot through my injured hand. She was so proud of that picture. She’d wanted to make our home prettier and thought it was the best thing she ever painted. It was.

  My younger sister would have known squat about burn treatment, but she would have tried to hug my pain away. My chest tightened at memories of her enthusiastic embraces. I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to blot out their charred bodies. My insides clenched and I gritted my teeth against the feelings welling inside me. I couldn’t be weak. You can’t have a pity party; there’s no one left to invite.

  I sank down into a chair and glanced down at my Infinity. It was powered by my body’s energy, making it a true energetic device, or e-device as the Consulate termed it. I’d laughed at the ad they’d run on the GlobalNet: Infinity—it doesn’t die until you do. At the time I’d worried they needed better marketing people, but in hindsight, it was the most honest thing that ever came out of their mouths.

  Maybe I’d torture myself by checking again for other survivors. My father had rewired my personal locator button so that while I could view the location of others on the Net, no one could see mine. It would only show that someone was online, not where or who I was. This was so the Consulate couldn’t find me, or the weapons, but it meant no one else could either. I had this fantasy that there was someone out there who happened to be online every time I wasn’t and vice versa. If I stayed on long enough, we’d eventually make contact. Though I still checked often, I hadn’t been quite as motivated in the last few weeks. The silence had grown too depressing.

  I pushed the button and swore I saw a locator light flash as the device turned on. I blinked and stared hard at the screen. Nothing. My eyes must have been playing tricks on me. I ignored the pain in my hand as I scanned the screen.

  A sudden sharp banging on the door overhead made me jump, and my injured hand hit the counter. Blinding pain shot through my arm along with fresh fear. “D
ammit!” I grabbed the hand with my good one to still the throbbing.

  The pounding on the door sounded rhythmic and human. My mind raced. It wasn’t like I could fight someone off with an injured hand, but I had my gun, Trigger, and my father’s weapons were secure.

  The banging grew insistent. Whoever it was knew someone was home. I squared my shoulders and looked up. At least being killed by a person would be preferable to burning to death on the surface. Maybe that’s why they were knocking so loudly—because they were burning alive. With all of my father’s brilliance, you’d think he would have thought of putting in a peephole.

  Though the external lock was keyed only to my family’s vibrations and couldn’t be opened by anyone else, there was an extra lock inside—an old-fashioned slide lock. The “just in case” lock, my father had called it. It creaked loudly when opened, but that was part of its purpose.

  I crept up a rung on the ladder and yelled at my ceiling. “Who the hell is banging on my door?”

  The voice called down to me in a strong but calm tone. It was the voice of someone who was definitely not burning. “Guess who’s banging on your door?”

  I couldn’t help smiling as I whispered my response. “Plan A.”

  Chapter TWO

  “LONG TIME NO SEE, TORA.” MARKUS PROPPED UP HIS brown boots on the thermoplastic-fiber table. He slurped the meager cup of water I’d given him, and his dark hair fell over his eyes.

  In spite of my happiness at the sight of another human being, I couldn’t help but remind myself that this particular human was Markus. I eyed him with suspicion. “Yeah, I’m surprised you came back.”

  He was one of a handful of people I’d had contact with since we came to the shelter. Though he was only twenty-one, he had his own ship—almost unheard of outside of the pod cities—and had conducted business with my father on occasion. He’d helped my father transport the weapons to our shelter from the pod city. And despite Markus’ illegal business ventures, my father trusted him enough from their dealings that if a new planet was ever found, he wanted Markus to fly us there.