Finding Eden Read online

  Finding Eden

  Megan Dinsdale

  Copyright © 2013 Megan Dinsdale

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1484803165

  ISBN-10: 1484803167

  To Danielle

  For everything.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  “Somewhere in between the crashing disasters and

  thrashing violence,

  I have found a peaceful silence in your love.

  Among the barren wastelands of rock and sand,

  the oasis in your eyes has somehow provided me with

  more than enough to sustain.

  The pain and agony that has surrounded me has somehow

  diminished,

  and even if the fires of hell rise around us, our love will

  walk through the flames untarnished.

  Lightening can strike the skies and earthquakes can rumble

  the ground,

  but the fearsome tremors or electric shocks will hardly

  sound through the stability of our alliance.

  No natural disaster or human defiance will ever conquer

  this dustless paradise that you and I breathe in.

  Even when the rest of the world comes tumbling to pieces,

  hellfire and brimstone, bloodshed and treason,

  you and I can rest peaceful, ever after in our Eden.”

  Cristi Taijeron

  Author of Endless Horizon Pirate Stories

  Prologue

  [ Elle ]

  I had thought my dad was going mad. It was clear his paranoia had finally gotten the best of him and when he had finally drained his entire savings account for his obsession, I knew he had finally lost it. He had gone off the deep end and there was absolutely, positively, no going back.

  Richard Stevens had always been harebrained, but this time he had taken it to a new level. He was a prepper. The kind of person who thought the world was going to end because of a biological terrorist attack, an economic collapse, or even, as laughable as it sounded, a mess of natural disasters happening all at once. My mother, Laurie, went along with it at first. She always gave in to his little obsessions and schemes that came and went. My mom and I used to laugh about it behind his back, saying how silly he was, how he was going to laugh about it in a month or so along with us.

  But then the bills came pouring in and the savings account was suddenly depleted. After that, my mom wasn’t too happy. Richard had pleaded with Laurie, showing her all of the signs of the imminent apocalypse—whether it was the lengthy summers, the short winters, or maybe the next week it would be the declining U.S. dollar. Filled with rage, she had ignored him for months. My mom, who was a loving wife and slightly gullible, eventually gave into it, and she actually started to almost believe the stupidity. And then, I had two prepper parents.

  Needless to say, my friends did not need to know about any of this, and they definitely didn’t need to know that I would help my parents can and dehydrate food, chop wood, or that I would go out to the desert with supplies every weekend where my dad had purchased land and dug an underground bunker to stow everything away. This was all on a need-to-know basis. Besides, I couldn’t tell them even if I wanted to. My dad made me pinky swear not to and I had always taken those seriously.

  Our bunker had been stockpiled with enough food to last us at least a few years. After some research, my mom had perfected the art of dehydrating and canning different types of food, and she was more than proud of herself. My dad had installed an overhead ventilation shaft that let air circulate in from outside. I guess he was aiming towards an economic collapse rather than biological warfare. He invested in a water filter, a generator, and other crazy crap he didn’t need to waste money on, but he did, with my mother’s consent no less.

  I was always a good daughter. I did my chores and graduated high school, and soon after, I took classes at the local college. I followed the rules of the house and rarely broke a single one. However, that didn’t mean I helped my parents without protest. Oh no. I kicked and screamed. A lot. It was so bad that, after a while, they just left me at home.

  It was summer in southern California and the world quickly grew hotter and hotter at an increased rate, a rate beyond abnormal, leaving scientists baffled. It was to the point where all my summer classes were canceled and people were told not to come into work—a “heat day.” The sun was a gigantic white orb in the cloudless sky. The temperature rose by the hour and people began to grow fearful. Soon the streets were vacant of all life. People escaped to their air-conditioned homes, sat on their couches, and glued their eyes to the televisions. Every channel showed the local news and before anyone could get an answer to the crisis at hand, the electricity went out. Everything just died—every appliance, including air conditioning, was rendered useless. All seemed hopeless until night came.

  With the temperature at only a little over 100 degrees and the flesh-melting sun hidden for the night, my dad said it was time to bug out. Months ago, my parents had told me to get a “bug-out bag” ready, so I did as I was told. It didn’t have things like clothing or my toothbrush; everyday items like that were already stowed away in our underground haven. My bag contained food (energy bars and MREs), water, a flashlight, batteries, a first aid kit, a fixed-blade knife, matches, sleeping pad, and other things, like an emergency blanket and poncho, I was now sure I wouldn’t have any use for.

  Grabbing what we needed, we quickly jumped into my dad’s SUV and sped toward our underground bunker, taking the quickest route possible. In reality though, that was any route. Other than stray vehicles parked haphazardly along the roadsides, the streets were desolate. Our headlights were the only artificial lights in sight. The moon was brighter than ever, reflecting the glow from the now impossible sun.

  My dad told me to close my eyes while we were driving down what used to be a busy street, but I didn’t. I was curious and he didn’t give me a reason why. There were bodies...so many bodies. I saw men, women, and children on the sidewalks, covered with atrocious burns and bubbling red skin. I could see bodies trapped in the vehicles that lined the streets. They thought their cars' air conditioning could save them, but they had been wrong. I looked away and tasted acid as it rose from my stomach. My dad was right; I should have closed my eyes.

  He had been right about everything.

  And then the earthquakes started—one after the other. It felt as if the entire planet would shake off of its axis. Our car almost tipped completely over several times, but my dad seemed to know just how to maneuver it to keep it on all four tires. I saw buildings all a
round us crumble to the ground. The newly formed dust clouds chased us down, threatening to consume us. It came through the vents and I began to cough, knowing it would soon choke the life from my parents and me. My mom and dad quickly closed the vents. We were safe for the moment.

  Suddenly, I saw the ground open up and cars tumbled into the earth as if they were weightless toys being kicked around by a child. They fell into each other; the sounds of crunching metal and breaking glass assaulted my ears. The waterlines then began to break, followed quickly by the gas lines. Fires erupted in the distance—burning, choking flames that refused to be dampened by the exploding geysers. My dad raced through front yards and back yards, through fences and into mailboxes. He seemed compelled to do anything to help us safely reach our destination.

  Over and over in an unsteady rhythm, my dad punched the gas and then laid on the break, and we soon found ourselves speeding down the 8, an empty highway and open road that would lead us towards the desert. There were dips and fractures in the road that my dad had to find his way around. My mom kept her alert eyes on the highway, warning him of hazards she thought he hadn’t been aware of. Thanks to her, we barely missed a rock-slide as we drove through the narrow and perilous grade between the desert hills and mountains.

  I was paralyzed in the back seat. My right hand was tightly wrapped around the door handle; my left fingers were digging into the soft seat cushion. Suddenly, all I could think about were my friends and how I should have told them. Maybe I could have said something in a sarcastic, laughable manner, and they would have laughed too, but maybe they would have secretly prepped—just in case. But I knew it was too late for them, if not tonight, then tomorrow when the sun returned with all its vengeance. Yes—by then it would be too late. They would be dead—ashes that would soon fall into the cracked and pitted earth, and there would be no one to remember them but me.

  Without thinking, I screamed at my dad to turn back, to get them because they didn’t know any better. They could still be alive, I yelled. Tears streamed down my dust-caked face. Pleading and crying, I shoved at the back of his seat and shook my mom by her shoulder.

  I was filled with joy as my dad stopped and drove behind a large patch of ocotillo. I thought he was going to turn around and do as I pleaded, but he got out of the car instead. My mother followed behind him; he opened my door, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out. I was screaming for him to go back, but he just pulled me into one of his tight, all-consuming hugs that never ceased to comfort and calm me down. My mother joined in, and slowly but surely, my sobs disappeared. I then found myself being dragged by my arm for what seemed like miles until we reached our bunker. I vaguely recalled hearing my parents talk to me. I vaguely recalled feeling a warm washcloth wipe my face; I could almost remember my mother dressing me into clean pajamas and helping me onto my designated cot. I did, however, recall with complete certainty falling asleep to the gentle rumbling of earthquakes. They were my morbid lullaby, coaxing me into a deep slumber that I never wanted to wake up from.

  Chapter 1

  [ Elle ]

  Almost 5 Years Later

  I woke up that evening holding tightly to Teffy. His name was really Teddy, but I couldn’t pronounce that when I first got him. He was a chocolate brown stuffed bear; my mom had embroidered my name onto his belly. I found myself unconsciously tracing the letters with my finger tip: the E, the L, the second L, and then the last E. The pink thread felt soft against my dry, calloused skin. Teffy was my only living friend. He was like Wilson, the volleyball, to my Chuck Noland. Luckily, I hadn’t gone quite that crazy yet, but I was positive I wasn’t too far off.

  I remembered the day I got him, or maybe I just thought I did because of all the times I had asked my mom to tell me the story. It was my fourth Christmas and my dad was away on business. Though I rarely ever saw him since his career often called him away, I was very close to him. I guess my parents thought it would be funny to not tell me that he was coming home, so I would think I’d be spending another Christmas without my daddy. That morning, I ran down the stairs, excited as ever. All the presents under the big, green tree were for me; I couldn’t wait to rip them open and see what Santa brought me. There was one really big box, wrapped kind of haphazardly, like Santa was in a rush to get it to me and didn’t have time to perfect the folding. My mom had told me to open that one first, so I did as she said. I tore the paper off in one pull and out popped my dad with Teffy. My dad wrapped me in his arms, gave me a big kiss on my forehead, told me Merry Christmas, and handed me my plush bear. Looking back, I think it was my happiest memory with my dad.

  Sometimes I think about how I used to be—happy-go-lucky and fun-loving. There was never a dull moment with me and I always seemed to be the life of the party. I sometimes remember that little girl and her Christmas surprise, and I grow sad, realizing that would never be me again. That happiness evaporated along with every bit of moisture on this planet. I became infinitely numb and dry of joy—it was the only way to survive. If you felt, then you were weak, and weakness would only lead to demise.

  I stood up and examined the food shelves. The supplies were dwindling. In a few weeks, I’d be without food. I’d be without water sooner than that. My father never took in to account that when the end came there would be no rain water to filter and no animals to hunt. Obviously, there was no reason to keep the water filter; I had abandoned it long ago. With my parents dead, I had their portions to keep me alive, but not for much longer.

  My breakfast today would be my last can of pears. I twisted the lid off and stuck my fork into the glass jar. They tasted old and I was sick of them. I was tired of all the bland, dehydrated food. I used to welcome the smell, the taste of vinegar from the food my mom had canned, but now it frightened me. It was a constant reminder that it was one less meal and one step closer to my imminent death.

  Today was the day of my bi-monthly wash. I could only afford to clean myself twice a month now. The water was reserved for more important things. I soaked a washcloth in the liquid gold from that five gallon jug, being as careful as possible not to spill any of the precious liquid, and then rubbed the soap bar against the cloth. I cleaned my entire body, face to feet, leaving my hair untouched. I only washed that once a month. It was oily, matted, and encrusted with dirt. I wouldn’t dare look at myself. The only mirror I possessed was underneath my cot, broken in pieces, hidden from my prying eyes. It was a victim of my anger. I hadn’t gazed at my reflection in over two years. I wondered briefly what I looked like now. Would I find someone twenty years older than I actually was staring back at me? That’s at least how I felt. To be honest, there really was no reason to go on, but I did; if for nothing else, I did it to honor my parents’ memory. It’s what they would have wanted: their sweet little Elle to soldier on, to do all she could to survive this wasteland that had once been a flourishing planet.

  I took in my surroundings: the small underground bunker had two beds, but only one was ever slept in. The other hadn’t been touched in almost five years; it just sat there, collecting dust. All four walls were made of metal. They were aluminum-colored and metallic smelling. Their texture reminded me of those potato chips with ridges. I lived in two shipping containers that had been combined and dropped into the ground. Other than the one small ladder that led to the surface, the walls were lined with shelves and cabinets. I couldn’t stand to look at the shelves and how bare they had become, to see the single five gallon container of water that sat alone on the bottom shelf. The sight made me realize that today was probably the last time I would ever be able to clean my body.

  The generator sat in the corner, unused, coated with a thick layer of dust and dead skin. I checked the battery drawer. There were only a few usable ones left. I knew how many were there before I looked; I didn’t know why I felt the need to check. Isn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again yet expecting a different result? I looked again anyway, just in case. Still only three left and they r
olled from side to side as I closed the drawer. I was also on my last candle. I knew soon I’d be living in darkness both indoors and out.

  I moved towards the activity cabinet. I let my fingers play absent-mindedly against the brass knob before opening the cabinet door. My eyes scanned across the board games I’d played with myself a thousand times before. I had beaten myself in Sorry over a hundred times. I won against myself while playing Monopoly even more than that. Opening the box, I felt the paper bills. Money seemed so funny now. If the world had known that everything would end, would everyone have continued to fight over money and other trivial things? Of course they would have. How silly of me to think otherwise. Humanity had been greedy since the very beginning; after all, wasn't it Eve who selfishly desired God’s knowledge. I found the playing cards sitting between Candyland and Pictionary; I grabbed them and closed the cabinet quickly. The gingerbread house printed on the Candyland box was taunting my empty stomach.

  “Solitaire it is,” I muttered to myself. It felt weird to hear my voice since I hadn’t spoken in weeks. It was quiet and gravely. I cleared my throat.

  I sat on my bed, bundling my dirty, pink comforter behind me so that I could comfortably lean against the wall. It was always too warm to ever use it properly. I shuffled the cards, noticing how used they looked: bent, folded, and creased. I shrugged and put the cards in their correct fashion. I finished in under a minute. Playing this game so much, I wondered in silence if I could be considered a record holder for fastest game ever won. It was stupid to think such thoughts, so I lay out the cards for a second game. I took it slower this time, trying my best to enjoy it. It found it hard to take pleasure in anything anymore, especially something like this, something that I had done over and over again.

  I let out a deep, restless breath, put the cards back into their tattered box, and pushed the box aside. As I played with a piece of string that had come loose from my bed sheet, my cuticles caught my eye. They were thick and jagged, so I started to pick and bite at them until I started to bleed. It was a dull sting. I watched blood well up into a bead just before it spilled over and lined the bottom of my nail. I picked at my thumb’s cuticle and the same thing happened. Thinking that I’d probably have to stop the bleeding, I found my first aid kit and brought it back to the bed. It was unusually exciting to have something new to do with my time. It had been almost a year since I'd needed any first aid treatment. I took an alcohol wipe, wiped the blood from both fingers, and stuck a small bandage over the offending cuticles.