The Undergrounders: Volume I

9

After waking and relieving himself, Kanden quietly slipped out of Ryker's quarters, not wanting to wake either of the inhabitants. He'd be back to drop off his laundry anyway, and he needed a decent wash.

At the entrance of his family unit, he pressed his ear to the door before turning the handle. Silence. At least his parents weren't arguing. With any luck, Father would be asleep, but Kanden never left things to assumption.

He carefully pushed the door open, wincing at the creaking hinges. When no one emerged from the dark living area or called his name, Kanden tiptoed to his room to retrieve a fresh change of clothes. A small wash basin stood in the far corner — normally reserved for small things like washing his face, but he didn't want to risk waking his parents with the larger washroom. 'Twas a luxury he enjoyed since most units didn't accommodate private hygiene areas as the caverns had been built to house survivors. A communal set of showers had been installed within the nonessential areas, but with water rations, most inhabitants bathed on designated days twice a week. Only the Founding Families and Council members enjoyed the grandeur.

Ryker had once told him about an old history book from the Overland, detailing the divides of the social classes on a ship doomed on its maiden voyage. If the story was to be believed, the powerful had a greater survival rate than the poor, and the living conditions were similar to those here.

Then there were other histories, describing a world of great beauty and nature, but once again, those in power lived in opulent castles while reducing everyone else to small patches of land with little to no rights. Homes could be burned, food snatched from already empty stomachs, and people executed for public entertainment while the tyrants laughed, taunting them with wasted resources and fine clothing.

Some things never seemed to change, no matter the era.

This was also why Kanden didn't like to read his boyfriend's historical and nonfiction novels. Too depressing.

Stripping off his soiled clothes and tossing them into a small heap, Kanden approached the basin and stared at his reflection in the tarnished, cracked mirror. A ghost stared back with pale, washed out skin, chapped lips, and dark circles beneath his blue-gray eyes. The skin around his throat glared in shades of deep purple, encircling most of his neck where Blaze had pressed on the former's windpipe. His black hair hung in matted clumps around his bony shoulders, giving him the appearance of a feral monster in old fairytales.

In short, he looked terrible.

A clipped aloe vera stalk rested on the counter beside a thin metal blade, and Kanden sliced off a small section at the end before cleaning his teeth. The slimy, bitter substance sent a shudder through his body. He brushed faster, and spit the gel into a waste receptacle.

The washing took longer, but once he was reasonably clean in fresh clothing, Kanden scooped up his laundry and grabbed his satchel. He'd be in the conservatory most of the day, helping with the harvest. The crops were often rotated, giving the old soil time to revitalize itself through natural compost and cultivation while the foragers worked elsewhere. This week was the cotton and flax harvest, and the weavers needed every fiber they could get their hands on for new fabric.

Once again, Kanden thought back to Ryker's history books, describing a world of bountiful harvests and stockpiled resources. With everything at the Overland's fingertips, people surely should have been able to halt the ruin that had forced humanity underground. How hard could it be to do the right thing and take care of what they had? Better yet, how did a society of sentient beings manage to kill an entire planet?

Peering into the still empty living room, Kanden rushed outside the family quarters and back to Ryker's home, where Rumi stood in the kitchenette, preparing breakfast. She glanced at him with a smile before resuming her task. "You're up early. I thought you'd still be asleep."