Chapter 3Scorch Protocol: Wife Relocation

Before the Scorch, I was a lead researcher at Caltech. A rising star.

For Lucas, I gave up a guaranteed spot on Level One, choosing instead to bring him with me to the relative comfort of Level Two. Not only had my family’s money funded a significant portion of the Citadel’s construction, but without my credentials, he wouldn’t have even qualified for a slot in the Warrens.

Of course, in this new world, talent was the most valuable currency of all.

On my second-to-last night, I was organizing my research files deep into the night when a sound pulled me from my work. A soft, rhythmic creaking from the bedroom, followed by her breathless sighs and his low murmurs. The sounds of intimacy, a sound I hadn't shared with him in years.

My fingers trembled. Fighting back a wave of nausea, I walked out of the study. The sounds grew clearer, painting a vivid, sickening picture in my mind.

Then, I heard Lucas’s voice, thick and husky. “Anya… give me a child…”

My hand froze on the doorknob.

After our daughter died, the Citadel Directorate had granted us a special procreation permit to help repopulate. But what had Lucas said back then? He’d said our daughter was his only child, that he would never have another.

So, it wasn’t that he didn’t want another child. It was that he wanted to give that chance—my chance to be a mother again—to Anya.

The realization hit me, and all the remaining warmth in my heart turned to ash. I walked back to the study like a zombie, the last vestiges of my love for him finally, irrevocably gone.

At dawn, Anya came to my study, her face a mask of doe-eyed apology. “Rory… I hope we didn’t disturb you last night?”

“Get out,” I said, my voice flat and cold.

Her eyes instantly welled with tears. “I-I didn’t mean to be so loud… I could sing for you, to make up for it? My specialty is—”

I didn’t want to hear another word. I stood up and physically pushed her toward the door. As we struggled, a small, laminated photo slipped from her pocket and fluttered to the floor.

I picked it up. It was a signed promotional photo. I vaguely recognized her now; before the Scorch, Anya had been a minor pop star.

She smiled, a picture of innocence. “Do you want me to sign something for you, too? Lucas used to love coming to my shows!”

A frown creased my brow. I flipped the photo over.

On the back was a candid snapshot of Anya and Lucas, laughing together. And at the bottom, a date was neatly inscribed: March 21, 2060.