𝗧𝗼𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄'𝘀 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 | an apocalyptic novel ©

Chapter 33

-- --- .-. ... . / -.-. --- -.. .

2031

Aidan

Days start blurring together. I officially gave up developing a sense of time or asking people about dates anymore, it could have been a week or a month of me being here.

"The goal of Morse code is to transfer signals you otherwise wouldn't receive," a woman in her sixties mutters from the front. We are sitting in a secluded room, its interior like a classroom, me and fifteen recruits – not even half of everyone that I saw the first day of being here. Perhaps the hundreds of teens weren't all newcomers.

I can't spot Sina or Suraya, supposedly because they have been here longer than I have and heard all the boring talk the elderly leads in the front.

Maybe they don't have to participate in the Basics after all.

My eyes dare to fall shut. Sleeping tonight was especially tough when I felt every individual spring through the mattress, which also means I got about three hours less sleep, and when you get a total of seven, that is gruesome.

Pull yourself together, Aidan.

The desk the woman is sitting at displays a big machine, like a stereo system, with a bunch of wires and cables leading to and from it, connecting to an even bigger mysterious dark box behind it. The whole assembly almost takes up the entire front of the classroom.

The teacher – the woman - suddenly gets up from her desk and folds her hands in front of her chest. "Morse code signal transfer is for all the Commanders that didn't make it far in life or for all the Wanna-be-Sergeants."

Her eyes lock with mine and I see something flashing up in them, perhaps she spotted the resemblance to my father. Everyone here who has ever mentioned or heard the name Jon Rayman instantly sees me in him, a point that disgusts me. But she continues. "Don't get your hopes up to work with it because you'll most definitely die on the field."

Great start. What else did I expect?

Her heels click on the ground when she marches through the rows of tables, similar to a strict teacher. At every table she passes by, she drops a sheet of paper. "This," she places one down in front of me, too, "is the Morse code alphabet. See it as dots and lines."

Dots and Lines.

"When you receive a message or send one, each dot and line represents a specific tone and therefore letter."

After the woman made her way to the front, her gaze drifts over us again. "I'm Miss Kath. Not Kathryn, not Katie, not Kate. Kath. Morse code transfer is usually for the ladies, war is for the men."

Misogyny. Hardcore blunt misogyny. She is not sympathetic to me.

Her chair screeches on the ground when she pulls it back to sit down again. "Here is a message we got from the Border patrol yesterday, try and find out what it resembles."

An ear-deafening silence spreads over the recruits, drowning out all the chatter.

After a moment, Miss Kath presses a button on the machine and a tone sounds.

Beep.

Not more or less, I don't know if I should be disappointed or laughing about it.

The beep! sounds in different rhythms and lengths. At some points quite fast, then slower. Soon enough, I can decipher a pattern throughout. The message is long, after three minutes the machine quiets down.

Miss Kath looks up into the class. "Did anyone get anything?"

A collective shake of heads is what she gets as a response.

What did she expect? She didn't even teach us the basics yet.

"I didn't think so," she grunts and begins drawing lines and dots on the blackboard behind her until I assume the message has been written down.

-- . ... ... .- --. . / ..-. .-. --- -- / -. . .-- / -.-- --- .-. -.- / -... --- .-. -.. . .-. / .--. .- - .-. --- .-.. --..-- / . .- ... - .-.-.- / --- -... .--- . -.-. - .. ...- . ... / -.-. .-.. . .- .-. --..-- / -. --- / .... --- ... - .. .-.. . ... / ... .--. --- - - . -.. --..-- / .-- . .- - .... . .-. / .- -. --- -- .- .-.. .. . ... / .- - / -... .- -.-- .-.-.- / --- ...- . .-. / .- -. -.. / --- ..- - .-.-.-

"Behold, that'll take long."

Oh, how right she is about that.

When my head is as heavy as a bowling ball, every minute that passes already feels like a century, that is true. At this point, I am ready to take a nap on my table.

She is right, this will take a long time.

Lunch break.

Amid all the beep! and blip!s and boop!s, I can barely gather a clear thought.

Right now, I don't want to eat whatever food will be served in the lunch hall, so I go look for Suraya or Sina - or both.

A few recruits have begun clearing the place between the barracks from the campfire yesterday. Indeed, I spot Suraya sweeping away ashes from the stones. When she sees me, she drops the broom.

"Hey..." she grins slyly and slaps her green Slinky Hand against my shoulder again. She was right before, she will annoy the shit out of me with that thing.

"Hey, how's..."

"Food? Awful." Suraya shrugs. "But I don't have such a big hangover as you promised me I'd have."

I pick up a rock from the stone circle of the campfire spot and toss it aside, expecting her to pick up work again. "That's good."

But Suraya doesn't pick up the broom again. "You're looking for Sina, aren't you? Come on, after she fucked that guy, you don't have a chance anymore."

She knows?

A choked laugh escapes my lips. "How would you know, I thought you were drunk?"

"Statistically, sex after marriage induces more happiness than before."

I groan. "Oh my god, I know what I missed this class."

"You had Morse code class, huh?" Suraya shoots me a glance when she picks up an empty soda can and crushes it in her hands. "I can't blame you, that old misogynistic hag is everything but nice."

I want to laugh about her comment, but I notice her eyes shift from mine to over my shoulder.

"Do you... have a twin? A way... older brother?", Suraya suddenly asks, confused.

I frown, slowly catching on to what she's implying. "No? Not that I'm fond of." Dread grows in my stomach.

Suraya's expression grows suspicious, so I turn around to look at whatever – whoever – she just spotted. And my blood freezes in my veins, as I suspected.

No, what, how?

Now?

Someone grins at me, cold, not showing an ounce of compassion or reunion. He never did.

My father.