Prologue
The Mojave Wasteland - October 29th, 2287
The Old Mormon Fort in Freeside never slept. Day and night, the Followers of the Apocalypse stationed within tended to the community with whatever expertise their medical staff, scientists, and social workers could offer. The Fort was always alive and aglow with busy, weary helpers, a beacon of light for the residents outside of it to follow when they needed help.
December had just fallen asleep when she was startled awake by the cry of a mother running through the courtyard, shouting that her boy wasn't breathing. She snapped up and poked her head out of her tent. Her eyes caught sight of the mother carrying her son to the closest open medical station, and December, seeing that the other doctors and nurses on rotation were busy, sprung to the woman's aid as she lay her son on the empty gurney.
December flicked the overhead light on and pulled out a flashlight, bringing it close to the boy's face. His eyes were glazed over and rolling back into his head, his lips were blue, and his skin was quickly following suit, slick with sweat. She leaned in to put her ear to his mouth and nose, but his mother was beside herself, whimpering and keening.
"Ma'am, look at me," she instructed, "I'm going to need your help stabilizing him. Do you understand?"
The woman swallowed her sobs and nodded.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Right now, I have to check to see if he's breathing, so I'll need you to be quiet for a second."
The mother did as she was asked.
The boy's chest was barely moving, each inhale a tight wheeze like he was gasping for air through a broken straw.
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"Um. Victoria."
"And your son's name and age, Victoria?"
"Ted," she choked. "He's fourteen."
"Do you know if Ted took any chems before you found him like this?"
"I think so. There was an empty Med-X needle next to him."
December nodded and reached for her pack, grabbing for a pre-war medicine the Followers' scientists had actually recreated using historical documentation. They even mimicked its user-friendly method of administration.
"Here's what we're going to do, Victoria. I'm going to give him something called 'Narcan.' Do you know what that is?"
Victoria's breath quickened.
"No. Will it save him?"
"It can. It reverses the effects of opiates. It will help him to start breathing again so the doctors and nurses can do the rest."
December pulled a plastic spray nozzle out and showed it to the woman across from her.
"I'm going to put this in his nose, press the trigger to insert the medicine into his sinus cavity, and then we need to turn him on his side to prevent possible choking." She repeated the instructions one more time for good measure. "Are you ready?"
Victoria looked terrified but nodded.
"Okay, here we go."
Just as December had done many times before, she tilted the boy's head back and administered the spray. A hiss emitted from the device, signaling the dose was given. She tossed the empty container behind her and quickly worked with his mother to turn him onto his side. Seconds passed; both women holding their breaths. She could hear Victoria whispering a prayer over and over to herself as the time ticked by. December joined her, thinking to herself and to whatever gods or goddesses may be listening:
Please don't make us bury this one.
The boy tore them out of their thoughts when he gasped a big gulp of air, coughing sputum onto the table. He drifted in and out of consciousness, eyes fluttering.
"Oh, praise the Lord!" Victoria cried out in relief. She buried her face in his side, sobs shaking her body. The boy's chest began rising and falling normally.
Thank you, December said to her divine audience.
She approached Victoria and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze.
Victoria's eyes were red and puffy as she looked up at her.
"Why is he unconscious again?"
"That's normal, ma'am. Narcan isn't a steroid or an adrenaline shot. Its purpose is to get your son breathing."
A new wave of tears began to form in the mother's eyes.
"Will he survive? Will he ever wake up?"
"To answer both of your questions: he should. The moment I leave this tent, I am grabbing a medical team to help take care of the rest."
Victoria stood and embraced her. After a few moments, she pulled away, holding both of December's shoulders at arm's length. Victoria's eyes studied her face as she stood across from her.
"Can I get you anything?" December asked.
"I'm okay. I have everything I need right now." Victoria smiled. December returned the gesture.
December waited for her to turn back to her son before stepping out into the frigid desert evening. Dr. Usanagi was exiting the tent next door and approached. Dr. Arcade was right behind her.
"Is he alright?" She asked.
"I administered a dose of Narcan. He's stable for now."
The doctor sighed in relief. "Wonderful. We're on our way to grab one of the nurses. I'll be with them shortly. Go get some rest." She reached out to give December a pat on the back as she walked away. Arcade followed, squeezing December's hand as he passed.
December trudged back across the fort to her bed, flopping down onto the springing mattress to try and go back to sleep. She checked her watch: it was just after three in the morning. Her adrenal glands were still pumping what little they had left into her bloodstream. She wished she could tell them everything was okay now, and to let her rest.
While she waited for sleep to take over, December retreated into her mind, to a daydream inspired by a pre-war textbook she had flipped through about the Pacific Northwest, in a region now called Cascadia. She had been expanding upon it for some time now to help soothe her to sleep.
In this daydream, she lives in a log cabin she has built atop a small cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The cliffs line the shore, and downed trees swept away by the sea barricade against the cliff face. Rocks like giant's teeth poke out of the water. The trees in the forest behind the cabin are tall, pointy, and green. The shrubbery is made of curly ferns and other ancient flora. A path leads from the front porch of the cabin and down towards the sandy beach. The sand is the color of salt and pepper, unlike the tans, beiges, and oranges of the Mojave.
Most days, it rains and mists. Sometimes, the fog rolls in so thick it turns everything into a fuzzy black and white photo. It brings with it smells of salt water and sea foam. During the summer month of August, the sun bakes the scene and warms the land before retreating again in September.
She is not alone in her cabin on the cliff. She dreams she has a partner and a child. Sometimes she imagines herself a wife and other times, a husband. Sometimes a daughter and other times, a son. They each wear the clothes advertised so often in pre-war magazines and comic books like laundered house dresses and sweater vests with slacks–perfect for a rainy day lounging in front of the fire.
When her husband or wife carries their child, they sit them on their hip or wear them on their front until they get too big for their arms. When they're older, they run around giving piggyback rides or each parent will take a hand to swing them up in the air.
The cabin has a garden, chickens, and a cow. They harness solar and wind to keep the lights on at night. They make their own clothing and trade with nearby settlements and homesteads. When they aren't doing their chores, they're learning together, playing together, dancing together, gathering with the community together, and singing together.
And at night, when the full moon's reflection is shimmering off the water, bathing the landscape in silver, the sound of the ocean tide rocks them to sleep. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth…
December's tent soon filled with the sounds of her snores as she drifted off to her dreamland.