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Supernova

  Copyright 2012 Mia Rodriguez

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  Dedication

  For my radiant nieces, Jasmine Strasser and Eunice Rodriguez, and their beautiful children--Necalli Strasser, Alicia Chua, Celeste Chua, and Israel Ruben Rodriguez.

  For my handsome nephews, Joluis Rodriguez, Hector Rivas, Alan Rodriguez, and Juaben Rodriguez.

  For the truly awesome and immensely hardworking people I work with at the Dona Ana Community College--Selma Saenz, Teresa Palacios, Ms. Giron, Rocio, Miriam, and Andra.

  Yanette Jimenez--you are one of the best and most giving teachers ever! I could've never made it without you. My eternal gratitude is yours. I'm in awe of you.

  Joanna Alvarado--thank you for teaching me so much. Your readiness to unselfishly help and be inclusive helped me more than you'll ever know.

  Irene Aguirre--you are one of the best bosses I've ever had! Your ability to inspire those around you to do their best and then some is such a gift to whoever works for you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea what your willingness to take a chance on me has done in my life.

  Last but certainly not least--to the students at Dona Ana Community College--especially my ESL Students. You inspire me every day.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Fear

  Chapter 2: Rewind--The Start of The Day

  Chapter 3: Abducted

  Chapter 4: Stuck

  Chapter 5: The Angel]

  Chapter 6: Memories

  Chapter 7: Spinning

  Chapter 8: Waking Up

  Chapter 9: Awake

  Chapter 10: The Truth

  Chapter 11: Star

  Chapter 12: Parents

  Chapter 13: The Decision

  Chapter 14: The Eve Before The Journey

  Chapter 15: The Goodbye

  Chapter 16: Checkpoint

  Chapter 17: Captured

  Chapter 18: Hiding

  Chapter 19: The Bear

  Chapter 20: The Others

  Chapter 21: Discovery

  Chapter 22: The Argument

  Chapter 23: Pilar

  Chapter 24: The Woods

  Chapter 25: The Raging River

  Chapter 26: Caught

  Chapter 27: The Talk]

  Chapter 28: Continuing On

  Chapter 29: The Colonel

  Chapter 30: Falling

  Chapter 31: Rain

  Chapter 32: Vision

  Chapter 33: The Weather

  Chapter 34: Flying Whollopalooza

  Chapter 35: The Getaway

  Chapter 36: The Traitor

  Chapter 37: The Reward

  Chapter 38: Journey

  Chapter 39: The Command

  Chapter 40: Hiding

  Chapter 41: Water

  Chapter 42: Revenge

  Chapter 43: The End of The Journey

  Chapter 1: Fear

  Is this the way I’m going to die? I always thought my life would end because of my sickness. Never, even for a tiny second, did it cross my mind that that this could happen to me. In fact, our new United World order is rigged so that stuff like this doesn’t occur. Everything is so controlled that what is happening to me is almost impossible—except here I am. Near death for sure. I only pray that it’s quick and painless.

  That my abductors show a little mercy.

  Chapter 2: Rewind--The Start Of The Day

  Every morning I wake up to a spoon shoved in my face—a shiny silver one left from the old days when human beings still used those kinds of utensils. I’ve never been sure why we’re allowed to have it when the official eating tools for the world are plain wooden ones.

  Anyway, my fake mother’s grouchy eyes stare at me with the quiet disgust she hides so well as she makes me swallow the nasty, metal-tasting medicine that I have to take for life.

  “Now, now,” she murmurs when she sees my scrunched face. I’ve never been able to get used to the gross stuff. “This is saving your life, Madrigal.”

  I nod like I always do.

  “Thank goodness for this medicine,” she says with kind words that don’t reach her cold eyes. “Get ready for school,” she commands.

  I sluggishly climb out of my small bed where I barely fit, and it automatically springs up into the wall. The shiny silver—I’m surrounded by the color--of the bottom of my bed becomes part of the wall. I can now walk through my diminutive, nondescript room. The only colors in it are white and silver. In a very miniscule corner of my brain, I think I remember colorful walls and adornments, but that was a very long time ago.

  A time when my real parents were alive.

  Stop it! I tell myself. They’re gone. They’ve been gone forever. I’m grateful for the strong medication coursing through me; it keeps my brain in a constant fog. I pull the silver jumpsuit, our school uniform, up over my medium sized body—I’m neither skinny nor fat, and I push a pick through my raven, wildly curly, long hair. I pull it in a severe knot on top of my head as the regulations of our school stipulate. I rarely wear my hair differently even when I’m not in class. It keeps my fake parents off my back—at least about that. I swiftly grab a banana for breakfast. My fake father’s right eyebrow twitches when he sees me seize the yellow fruit.

  “Madrigal!” my fake father chastises, his voice curt and as cold as his wife’s.

  “You’ve got such a pretty face,” my fake mother chimes in, “You just need to lose some weight to be beautiful.”

  “I don’t care what other people think I should look like,” spills out of my mouth as I push the button that raises the front, silver-metal door up. I run out before they can say anything else.

  Rushing past my perfectly manicured neighborhood of annoyingly same silver homes, perfect squares with a few windows—one after another, I practically swallow the banana just before reaching the metro. It is the only form of transportation since no vehicles are allowed except for those of the government. "Too many vehicles are bad for the environment," they tell us—the United World order—but of course, at the beginning they had said there was no such thing as climate change, insisting we didn’t have to worry. Then the effects were too obvious to ignore. As I step onto the metro, I push my right hand out, palm up, and am scanned. A beeping sound of approval sounds off, and the Guardians of Order in their dark suits nod their heads at me. I’m allowed on.

  I take the only empty seat. Many faces—some lit up with anticipation but most of them tired and haggard—stare out the windows, even when there’s not much to look at but the metro platform. Thoughts of my morning pierce through me, bypassing my sluggish, medicine-infused brain.

  Stop getting upset, a masculine voice speaks low and gruff in my head like a loud whisper.

  Why do they have to always give me a hard time about what I eat? I ask him in my mind.

  They’re morons, he answers.

  I giggle in the silent metro, and one of the Guardians of Order snaps his perplexed eyes to me. The silver pin on his lapel of the word guardian with a balancing scale next to it shines with an ominous gleam. All government employees are called guardians in one form or another. Good propaganda. Nice name for unrelenting dictators and power hungry abusers. I pretend I’ve got something stuck in my throat and clear it. I’m already on his radar, so I take a textbook from my mesh, silver backpack and pretend I’m reading.

  Good save, Arthur tells me.

  I don’t even flinch anymore when Arthur knows
exactly what’s happening to me. Of course he knows what is going on. He can read all of my thoughts and even see them—so he says. Arthur—that is to say his voice—came to me a year after my parents died. I was seven years old, and he told me not to tell anybody, that he’d be with me from that day on. Being only a child and very lonely, I was thrilled to have an imaginary friend. Even then I knew that he couldn’t possibly be real. And having the kind of relationship I had with my fake parents, of course I didn’t tell them a word about Arthurian—that’s the name I gave him. Later I shortened his name to Arthur, my Arthur. As the years went by I realized a very important thing. Even if he might be imaginary, probably due to the weird medicine I have to take, I can’t live without him.

  Why are you with me? I asked him once.

  We need each other.

  You’re just imaginary, right?

  Do you really think that? he asked, amused.

  Either that or I’m crazy—completely bonkers.

  You’re not crazy, his voice was serious again.

  The medicine—

  Forget the medicine.

  Are you an angel? That could be an explanation, I thought.

  Madrigal, stop asking so many questions.

  I had stopped because I was terrified he’d leave, and I’d be all alone. Thank goodness that after all these years, he’s still with me. Turning the page of my History textbook, what I called the accepted fiction stories, I smile.

  Very good save, he repeats in my head.

  Thanks for the compliment.

  You’re welcome.

  So how are you this morning? I ask him.

  As well as I can be in this United World order, he states with sarcasm.

  I know what you mean, I say, looking up from my textbook and examining the sad, robotic faces all around me.

  I don’t see how our lives are better now, he continues.

  I don’t remember much about the old life, I declare, but it had to be better than this.

  It was, he affirms. Earth used to be a much better place.

  I just wish my real parents were still alive, I say wistfully. And that my fake parents were far away from me.

  After all these years, they had never adopted me. I’m still a ward of the government. All they had been good for was to constantly criticize me while pretending to be concerned.

  I want to make something very, very clear, Madrigal.

  Yes?

  Don’t let anything they say creep into your heart, he states.

  It’s hard to ignore them.

  If anyone can bypass their cruelty it’s you. You’re the toughest person I know.

  I’m not tough, I quickly tell him.

  You haven’t got a clue about who you really are—about what you are.

  What am I? I ask.

  Special.

  I quickly pull down my head towards the textbook to make sure no one, especially any of the guardians, sees the warm scarlet bursting out of my face. His compliments always do this to me.

  Thank you, Arthur, is all I can say. It seems so small, but I can’t put into words how grateful I am for him. I never get tired of telling him how thankful I am to him for always being there for me.

  Know this Madrigal—really know your own power.

  Who cares if he’s imaginary—he is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

  The United World Knowledge Center, as every school is called, is a huge chrome building with equal sized rooms. All the centers of this stature are the same all over the planet except for the schools of the others—that’s what we’re supposed to call them, and what they’re supposed to call us. The others are those who live in the other circumstances. They are the majority on earth and live in small wood shacks, work manually, and only associate with each other as we are supposed to only associate with those of our segment.

  “This is necessary,” the leaders of our one-world government tell us. They call themselves Guardians of Peace. “We have to make sure that we keep order in our lives or wars are started over petty things.”

  It seems to me that food and basic necessities aren’t petty things but what do I know? I’m just a drugged-out seventeen-year-old in a world I’m uncomfortable and unhappy in. Still, it seems that the others have so much less than we do. We, the ones born with stupid luck, are on this side of the segment line. My fake parents work for the government and because of it, they and I live entitled lives.

  The drugs in my brain start taking over and my mind gets foggy—it happens in waves—as I sit in my chair at school. As almost everything else in my part of the world, it’s chrome. The United World leaders say that silver is the color of progress, so most of our surroundings are that hue.

  “Hi,” Andrew says shyly as he sits behind me.

  “Hello,” I greet back.

  He is one of the few students who’ll talk to me since the majority of them can’t stand me. For one, I usually have a spaced out look on my face—partially because of the drugs but also because I’m counting the minutes until this charade called learning is over. And for two, I don’t really like being on this side of the segment line. In fact—I hate it! I hate that we have privileges the others don’t, that we are told we are the chosen ones to lead the world or it becomes chaos like it supposedly was before the United World order. Because of these ideas woven into our heads, arrogance stinks up the school. Most students walk around with superiority complexes and ignore the janitors and cafeteria workers as if they don’t exist even when they’re right in front of them. Students don’t cross any words with them—not even thank you or please. Of course, if a teacher catches us saying anything to them, we’ll be in detention for a week.

  I’ve been in detention many times.

  Actually, it’s not so bad being pulled out of the idiotic classes, and Arthur usually keeps me company during those times.

  Believe it or not, there was a time I actually loved school. As with most of my foggy memories, I see tiny glimpses of myself happily going to kindergarten with my real mother—the one who actually loved me—before the one-world government took over. It was fun to learn—to learn new ideas and different angles to thoughts. Now, school is only about how everything goes to the perfection of the new order. Take for instance the class I’m in at the moment as I wait for it to start—History. Sure, the teacher gave us the timeline of how the United World came about, how our magnificent leaders (his word for them and not mine) created a utopia out of the mess the past humans had made. But hardly anything is said BUO—before the United World order—only about the horrible things like the many earthquakes, tsunamis, atrocities and wars that led to the frustration in human beings so acute that it paved the way for a one-world government. In fact, the new leaders insisted it was the only way to save ourselves from evil, that the new one-world system brought order.

  “Back in the old days, life was about putting out one fire after another,” they tell us often. “It was just a nightmare unlike the paradise we’re in now.”

  The teacher, Mr. ZP2000, sternly starts role call when the bell rings. This is just a formality since as soon as we walked into the school—through the metal detectors—our identity was automatically ascertained. The teachers call out our names to demonstrate the power of our government over us. They know who we are and where we’re supposed to be. He gets to my name—Madrigal X1147 and grimaces—most of the teachers don’t like me any more than the students do. That’s okay—the feeling is mutual.

  A sliver of a rebel memory bursts in my head as it always does when I hear my name. There was a time I used to be Madrigal Zapata—before the leaders told us that we had to leave our monikers behind and take on letters and numbers. The populace just couldn’t wrap themselves around this since names are very personal and rather than risk a revolution over what we wanted to call ourselves, the leaders conceded—one of the very few times they’ve ever done this. They allowed us to keep our first names while rece
ntly born babies were given the new identities along with government workers like my fake parents and teachers who were only too glad to prove their loyalty and be role models for the rest of us.

  Zapata! Zapata! That’s my real last name, I pound into my head.

  Don’t forget it, Arthur implores. Never forget who you are.

  The day drags as it usually does and when I finally go to lunch, I am alone at the small round table I usually sit at. Most of us get the same food, a tasteless tray of glob-like substance full of vitamins and nutrients.

  “You’re the leaders of tomorrow. You’ve got to be healthy,” the government leaders tell us often. But I know this is another way to exert their control over us.

  Man, I miss my real mother’s food, I say to myself as I capture a sliver of a memory. I slowly start eating the stuff. My medicine makes me very hungry and even this fake substance is better than a growling stomach.

  Andrew, who is also alone at the table next to mine, smiles meekly at me as if he can read my thoughts. He also looks unhappy when he takes the first bite. It’s really nasty stuff! Our eyes lock, his blue irises with my dark brown ones, and we smile while grimacing at our food. His expressive face and shiny blonde hair are like sunshine to me—I guess because he’s the only student who shows any type of kindness towards me.

  A loud ruckus is heard at the front of the cafeteria. Rolling my eyes, I know who it is without looking. Of course she can make as much noise as she wants. She’s the principal’s daughter, QT100. So much for the equality the leaders always talk about! QT100 and her gang jovially kid and flirt with each other, every eye in the huge room on them as if a spotlight is fixed on their smirking faces. Her boyfriend, Royce, makes a snippy remark about the stink in the cafeteria, over the food substance, as he gets his own tray. When he and QT100 and the rest of their cronies open the wrapping of their trays, they’ve got real food. I try to avert my eyes as they push pieces of succulent steak into their greedy mouths. When the leaders were asked about stuff like this, they said that some of us needed different kinds of nourishment.

  Yeah right! Some are more privileged than others, I had thought to myself.

  They think we’re morons who can’t think for ourselves, Arthur had snapped, disgusted.

  They’re the evil morons.

  After lunch, I go to my favorite spot in the library. The old world internet is now prohibited to anyone not part of the government. No cell phones, no ipads, no kindles and etc. I know about these things through Arthur since I only have a vague memory of them. So our only avenue for information is the library—not that it’s that much help because the majority of the books of the old world were burned, and all we have now are propaganda pieces of the new world.

  Still, I love the library because it’s quiet and private. I can sit in my anti-social corner and ignore everyone else. Starting my bogus history essay on the development of our system, I try not to gag at the lies I’m reading. I wish I didn’t have to put so much junk on paper. A tree had to die so that power hungry individuals could overstuff their egos.

  Before long, it’s time to get to class. Ugh! The time passed much too quickly, and I wish I had a way of making it stand still. I sigh miserably. I’m so much happier when I’m alone.

  As I stand up to leave, a shifting noise resonates from underneath my feet. I swiftly look down, too puzzled and surprised to move in that moment. The wooden floor boards unbelievably open, suddenly shifting apart, and I fall through the floor.