Daeios- 140 Feet Down Read online

  DAEIOS

  140 FEET DOWN

  Colleen Eccles Penor

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Colleen Penor

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019913267

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in Casper, Wyoming in the United States of America. Cover design by 100Covers. Author photo by Clint Saunders.

  ISBN 978-1-7340037-1-0 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-7340037-0-3 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-7340037-3-4 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-7340037-2-7 (audiobook)

  For Rob, who loves and believes in me unconditionally.

  You are my safe place.

  “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” — Mary Oliver

  Contents

  Definition

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  A Request

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Definition

  DAEIOS (DAY-yos): God

  1

  Music blares in my head, and I startle awake, accidentally doing a straight-leg sit-up. It’s the ringtone I programmed for Mother. Pressing the bud embedded below my left ear, I growl at my phone, “Buzz, voicemail.” Then I feel bad. It isn’t Buzz’s fault he woke me up.

  I lie down to sleep off more alcohol.

  The music again.

  What reason can she have for waking me up at … this whatever time on a Saturday? I think it’s Saturday. “Buzz, voicemail.” I’m gentler this time. It seems like Buzz has feelings, and we’re very close. He’s inside my head, after all.

  Rolling over, I’m suddenly aware there’s no man in my bed. It’s a little hazy, but I specifically remember that a Jerry? Barry? Joe, or Bo—someone—climbed into bed with me after I met him at the club last night. And yes, I smell his woodsy aftershave and that musky man-smell they all seem to share. And sex. I definitely smell sex.

  Yes, she calls again.

  I emit something between a groan and a snarl. She’ll keep calling if I don’t talk to her. “Buzz, answer.” I let out a sigh the neighbors probably hear. When Buzz advises me in his courteous manner that we’re connected, I say, “Mother, it’s Saturday, I—”

  “We’re going to Daeios.”

  I kick off the covers and sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re going underground. Why?”

  Last night’s clothes lie in a heap next to the bed, reeking of stale cigarette smoke. My head feels like it wants to fall off. Hangover.

  “Don’t you watch the news? Killer thunderstorms? The collapse of society?” Her words are clipped.

  “That’s somewhere else, far away. Not in Arizona.”

  “If you were paying attention, you’d know that weather-related deaths are increasing here, too, not just ‘far away.’” She expels a puff of air from her throat. “You should come. Make a good decision for once.”

  If my face gets stuck like the face I make for her benefit, I will be one crazy-looking broad.

  “The people at church think the Second Coming is near,” she adds.

  Ugh. “I’m not going to Daeios with you, Mother.”

  “We spent two million dollars on your share, did you know that? You’re going to let that money go to waste?”

  My ears ache from this conversation, and heat is spreading across my face. “Mother, even if I wanted to go, I can’t. Finals are next week.”

  “Right. For your gym classes.” She sneers the last two words.

  “I take other classes. And I like to keep fit.” I glance at my naked reflection in my full-length mirror, and I don’t like what I see, so I turn away. “You don’t need to go underground yet. What does Dad say?”

  She clears her throat, a sure tell she’s embellishing the truth. “He says it’s time. Brother Christian called a few minutes ago to let us know they’ll be locking Daeios down soon. We leave at noon. Your dad’s getting the RV and the ATV ready now.”

  I stretch and vocalize a yawn. “I don’t think I could last a week down there without going batshit crazy. Besides, everything’s fine up here.” I get up and peek under the shade, blinding myself. It looks fine to me. “Let me talk to Dad.” After a few seconds, the phone transfers without her saying another word to me.

  “Princess! Are you on your way?” He sounds so stressed and hopeful that I don’t want to tell him.

  “No, Daddy. Finals, remember?” I bite off a hangnail. “Are you sure it’s time to go underground? We’ve had some stormy weather, but—”

  “There’s a lightning death in the paper almost every day. Lightning or softball-sized hail. The dam’s about to burst. They’re evacuating the Hills right now due to mudslides—”

  “Evacuating the Hills? That’s right behind the house.” I sit on the edge of the bed again and pull the covers around me.

  “Yes, and people are starting to panic. None of the grocery stores in town has any food left. We have our short-term food and water storage, but … Shea, you’ll have to hurry, or you’re going to be stuck in traffic.” His voice is tight. If anyone can make me cave, it’s him. Him, or my little sister, Maya.

  “I’m not burying myself alive in Daeios. I’ll be fine up here.” I sigh. It’s so much harder to say “no” to my good-natured dad than it is to my mother.

  “You’re an adult so I won’t argue with you, but … Shea? We can’t find Jace. Help us find him so he can go with us. Please. Do whatever you want after we leave.”

  “Did you try tracking him on his phone?”

  “We found his bud sitting on a swing at a neighbor’s house. It’s a mess. He might’ve dug it out with his fingernails.”

  Gross. “Dad—”

  “He can’t survive on his own, Shea. He’s still using that gloss drug. We have to take him away from it. We can’t leave him.”

  “I’m not feeling well. I need to stay in bed.” I lie back, pulling the covers over my head.

  “Please, Princess. It’ll just take an hour out of your day, and I don’t like it, but we’ll sa
y our goodbyes and we’ll be on our way.” His voice quavers.

  It’s an hour I could be resting my hangover, though. What if I’m still drunk? Why, I shouldn’t be driving. “Dad, I—”

  “Please. For Jace.”

  My brother. He still lives at home because he’s a GLSS addict. Gloss. He’s twenty-four, two years older than I am, so if he was clean, he could leave and live off his trust fund, as I do. Mine’s my Mother-escape fund.

  Jace rarely leaves his room in my parents’ basement now. Y Chromo could still find him there, of course. It’s a chromosomal disorder that afflicts males of all ages, but it rarely affects older men like my dad. Lately, the mortality rate for men in their twenties has skyrocketed. Y Chromo has baffled scientists and put a sense of dread in everyone since the first diagnosis almost a decade ago.

  Earth’s male population is dying off. Even if Jace lucks out on Y Chromo, he’ll kill himself with gloss. Dad’s right: Jace can’t survive by himself.

  “Shea? Are you there?”

  I throw the covers off. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

  “Thanks.” It’s a sob, and he’s gone.

  I brush away my dragon breath and furry teeth and take a quick shower, washing the beer from my pores and the cigarette smoke from my hair and fingertips. The scent of Jerry/Barry/Joe/Bo slides down the drain in a thick pink foam with the bouquet of a cheap berry sangria. My head pounds from too many tap beers and Marlboros last night.

  I step out of the shower and gaze in the mirror at the dark circles under my eyes. What am I doing? I was born December 12, 2012. Mother used to say I was destined for great things because—12/12/12. But look at me. Other than having great skin, I’m a mess.

  My red hair is long and thick and takes forever to blow dry, so I skip it. Swallowing two painkillers with half a glass of water, I pull on a mint green tank top and navy shorts with my favorite running shoes, and grab my keys to run out the door. I glance at the clock. It’s 10:41.

  I hesitate in the doorway, then go back and fetch my survival pack.

  I run out to my car, which I unimaginatively call Smart. He’s modeled after an old Smart car from the early 2000s. My dad had him custom-built for me for high school graduation, adding a little extra space to the hatch. Smart has a Kawasaki Ninja engine, so he’s loud and fast. He’s also a shade of purple that’s so dark it’s almost black, with a license plate saying SMART1.

  My survival pack barely fits in the hatch, landing with a thud and a clank amidst books and empty food and drink containers, and yes, I mean beer cans. Smart smells of fast food and stale beer. I manipulate the heavy backpack until I can close the hatch, and jump into the driver’s seat. It’s 10:44.

  My mini-computer bleeps from the passenger seat, telling me I have a message. Number unknown. I press my bud and say, “Buzz, play message.”

  Nothing for a moment. Someone must’ve bud-dialed me. Then “Babe,” in a voice that makes my stomach feel like I’m doing backward somersaults in the air. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and with the storms … I … we … Call me, Babe.”

  Scott.

  I can’t believe I slept through his call. Activating my bud, I say, “Buzz, return call.”

  The phone doesn’t ring. A robotic, semi-feminine voice says, “All circuits are down. Please try your call later.”

  Dammit. I have to know what Scott wants.

  I turn the key and rev the engine. It responds with a satisfying, high horsepower whine. I screech away from my campus apartment building. The campus seems deserted. Everyone must be tucked away, studying for finals, or else left school already.

  The bold black letters on the marquee in front of the library jump out at me: CAMPUS CLOSED DUE TO STORMS. Shit, are you kidding me? I guess I’d know that if I’d been attending class the past couple of weeks. I’ve been nocturnal and drunk since Scott broke up with me. Now I know why it’s only been the hardcore partiers at the bars.

  It’s sunny, and the air is always fresh heading toward Sedona. I have the windows down, my hair drying in the breeze, my oversized sunglasses hiding my dark-circled, bloodshot, baby blues. I drive up the ramp to I-17 and realize traffic is backed up on the interstate. Dad was right: everyone’s panicking.

  I ease up the ramp and try to slip into traffic. Horns honk all around me, so I honk too. The blue-haired old lady I’m hoping will allow me to merge in front of her extends her arthritic middle finger. Somebody’s sweet grandma. I flip her off in return.

  Feeling trapped on the ramp, I take advantage of having a tiny car and pull onto the shoulder, barely missing the fender of the old biddy’s pearlescent white convertible Mercedes. She glares at Smart as I maneuver past her, and flips me off again, this time with both hands. I can’t believe she has the top up on this beautiful day.

  Unless my parents are right.

  The shoulder ahead is mostly clear, so I drive faster, honking like a crazy woman when I need someone to pull left so I can get by. Some people honk back, some yell at me that I’m breaking the law or call me a bitch, and some flip me off, but they let me by. The shoulder is my little piece of paradise.

  11:01. I leave the bumper-to-bumper traffic when I enter Highway 89A. It’s a two-lane road, and there’s no traffic as far as I can see. Eerie.

  I roll my window down and press Smart’s gas pedal to the floor. He does zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds, and we’re flying down the road. I turn the satellite radio on. My “all music, all the time” station is playing the news. The female newscaster is speaking rapidly and is short-winded.

  “—canceled due to severe weather conditions all across the country. Automobile traffic is backed up on the interstates and in cities. Trains are stopping where they can safely offload passengers and crew, and they will remain there. Remember listeners, stay calm, and—”

  The emergency weather alert sounds, and a mechanical male voice breaks in. “The National Weather Service has just issued a severe thunderstorm warning for Yavapai and Coconino Counties in Arizona. This is an active severe weather pattern that indicates long-term and increasing threats. Damaging winds gusting to 110 miles per hour and baseball-sized hail are anticipated. Excessive rainfall may cause flooding. The National Weather Service advises that these storms are extremely dangerous. If you’re in Yavapai or Coconino Counties in Arizona, consider severe thunderstorms to be imminent, and take appropriate shelter.”

  Turning the radio down, I glance in my rearview mirror. The sky behind me is roiling in blacks and grays. I have traffic behind me now, others trying to keep ahead of the impending storms. Lightning spikes in fingers across the swelling clouds, lighting them up magnificently for a moment. After, they seem even darker than before, as if they’re bearing down on me.

  Peeling my eyes from my mirror, I floor the throttle for the last few miles to Sedona.

  I guess Dad was right. I guess Mother was right, too, dammit.

  I hope I find Jace in time for their noon departure. It’s 11:26.

  2

  I try to call Dad as I near Sedona, but I get the same tinny response as before: no service. What good are phones if you can’t use them in an emergency? It’s 2034. You’d think we’d have better technology.

  The clouds behind me are more ominous than they were only minutes ago, a parasomniac’s night terrors in the making. I cringe, and my scalp crawls. I try to concentrate on the road, but the glistening gold and diamond sun pendant hanging from my rearview mirror catches my eye. Scott gave it to me days before he broke my heart. When my family leaves, I’ll go to his house and see what he wants. Me, I hope.

  The sight of red rocks intermixed with greenery always takes my breath away, but today I dismiss Sedona’s beauty without a second glance. Other than a couple of vehicles heading north, ahead of the storm, the desert town is so quiet it’s creepy. Residents are probably huddled together with their families in their homes. I hope I have time to find Jace. 11:29.

  As I pull into my parents’ circular drivewa
y, my sister, Maya, hurdles a landscaped area and slips on the wet, perfectly manicured turf as she runs toward me. Panic shows in the round innocence of her face. I pull in behind the red and black Zipper ATV hitched behind the two-tone gray RV. The RV, which will give my family privacy in Daeios, still has dealer tags. Dad steps down from the RV, and they approach me as I get out of my car, Maya panting from running.

  “You haven’t found him?” I ask, even though the answer is plain on their faces. Maya’s big blue eyes seem too large for her face, and Dad looks older than his sixty-five years. Maya shakes her head and bites her trembling lip.

  “Mother won’t consider leaving any later?” I ask Dad.

  He shakes his head. “We can’t. They’ve expanded the evacuation zone to include our home. They think the houses behind ours might slide into it. We have to get out of here.” He stares over my shoulder, his eyes wide with strain, and I feel it before I turn to see it: the storm. The air feels heavy and charged and smells of rain. We have to find Jace by noon.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  Maya glances at her watch. “11:31.”

  “Where have you looked?” I have to remind myself to focus on them so I hear what they’re saying. In my mind, I’m already racing around, searching for Jace.