Progtopia: Book 1 of The Progtopia Trilogy
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Authors: Eula McGrevey
Copyright © 2014 by Eula McGrevey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1502413246
ISBN-10: 1502413248
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9909409-0-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916746
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC
Front cover image: isoga/Shutterstock.com
Book cover and interior design by
Mayfly Design
Visit
www.progtopiabooks.com
to read more about the author and to hear about any new releases.
To the men and women who dreamed of freedom and dared to make it happen-
Contents
Acknowledgements
As a scientist, writing a novel can be a farfetched dream, but I was blessed to have the best crew of people around me to make it happen. To my parents, my dad looking down from above and my mom, my unofficial copy editor, whose feedback and critiques made this book the exciting novel you are about to read, thanks. To Lori, my sage and pillar, for never wavering in your support, you’re the best. Nicole, Kara and Nick, for sticking by me no matter how nerdy and lame I was growing up. Ann for always being there when I needed someone. To Sara Rose, Marg, Kim, Annemarie, Adam, and Mike for reading and re-reading my drafts and always putting a positive spin on your critiques. Regan, your disinterest in my early versions propelled me to make it better. Tiff and Craig for listening to me talk about this project and encouraging me every step of the way. Mrs. D for the great chats and support throughout my life. To my many teachers, but especially Suzanne and Mary Lou, who pushed me to be better in everything I ever did. Thanks to Mayfly Design for the awesome cover. Who needs a publishing company when I have all of you?
One
The Year: 2032
Panic about to consume her, sirens in the distance, she quickly glanced behind to see if they were gaining. No one.
Okay
, Camille thought,
just keep running
. She pressed on, breathing heavily, sweating. Fatigue had set in a long time ago, but she ignored it. She dismissed the burning in her muscles and the hunger for air in her lungs. Winded and desperate to find a place to hide, she turned from the sidewalk to a poorly lit alley. Gripping her backpack straps for dear life, she stopped to collect herself. She was a step or two ahead of the authorities, but they would overtake her soon if she did not find safety.
Vanishing among the people of New York City should have been easy. She should have melted in among the millions—swallowed up and forgotten. No such luck. The Feds tapped into the city cameras, satellites, drones, and facial recognition technology to track her every move. An hour ago, a camera at a convenience store picked her up and sent an alert to a cop who happened to be in the same store. She could tell by his face he had spotted her. He was too cool, nonchalant. Slipping out the back of the twenty-four-hour market, she knew it was only a matter of time before they found her.
Eyes adjusting to the dark alley, she scanned the corridor looking for a place to drop out of sight. Distant sirens continued to break through the eerily quiet night. She was scared, alone, and thirteen years old. She wouldn’t let herself think back to how she got into this mess. That would only waste energy. She needed to remain focused. She couldn’t get caught.
Creaking metal drew her eyes midway down the alley. There was a young, carefree couple—boyfriend leaning against a door for his drunk girlfriend who was laughing, faltering, and unaware. Camille rushed toward it, grabbing the knob before it closed. The inebriated couple stumbled away not noticing her. Entering the back entrance of the old brick apartment building, she was overcome by the stench in the air. Holding back the urge to vomit, she took a deep breath to calm down. Startled by the door closing behind her, she told herself to get a grip.
Just focus
.
The air was heavy with the smell of alcohol and vomit. Revulsion and disgust turned to hope. This could be a place to fade away, be lost from detection. Cautiously making her way down the dimly lit hallway, she was met with stupefied, comatose addicts shooting up. No one reacted. She was invisible to them.
Perfect
, she thought,
no one here will know who I am or even remember seeing me
.
She continued down the graffiti-lined hallway until she reached the stairs leading to the second floor. Searching for an empty apartment to crash, she finally found one on the third floor. Peering inside the room, she surveyed her new home. The holes in the walls, torn carpeting, and a tattered gold couch had replaced what someone had once happily called home. Since she didn’t trust the lock on the door, she decided to push the couch in front of it. Its legs screeched across the floor as she used all her effort to block the entrance. She stood back to admire her makeshift security system. Satisfied, she took a deep breath before she made her way to the small bedroom. Its centerpiece: a wet, smelly, stained mattress. Wanting to lay down, she bypassed the bedding and settled for the floor. Feeling safe for the first time in a week, sleep almost consumed her. Fighting the urge to give way to slumber, she sat up. She needed to change her appearance.
Finding out the hard way she could easily be tracked with technology, she knew what had to be done. She hated to admit it, but her parents were right. She shuddered at the thought. It was because of them she was in this mess in the first place. She wanted to hate them, but she couldn’t. She missed them terribly. As her thoughts drifted toward loneliness, she felt herself falling asleep again. Catching herself, she stood up.
Pulling her backpack to her, she opened it and rummaged through its contents, finding what she was looking for—scissors, a razor, hair coloring, and a dry cloth. With no electricity in the apartment, she was thankful the outside streetlights cast some light into the bathroom. It gave her just enough visibility to do what was needed. Most of the mirror was smashed, but enough of it remained to see her reflection. Staring into it, she let out a sigh. She should be doing her hair or getting ready to go out with her friends. That was the relationship a thirteen-year-old girl should have with a mirror—not for disguising herself from the police.
She stared longingly at her blond hair, trying to muster up the courage to go through with it. With scissors in hand, she looked at the girl in the broken glass with beautiful hair flowing beyond her shoulders. How did she get herself into this situation? She grabbed a large chunk of hair. Her hand wavered as she considered the consequences. She knew it had to be done. She swallowed hard and cut, letting the hair fall. Within minutes, it was done. Looking down at the pile of her hair—her life—on the floor, she worried she would never know her old life again. She didn’t realize it, but she was right.
Following the instructions on the hair coloring box, she turned from blonde to brunette, becoming almost unrecognizable. Not yet finished with her disguise, she picked up the razor. Learning the hard way that cameras were everywhere and being used by everyone looking for her, Camille had to fool the system. She had never before given drones or cameras a second thought. She had never before listened to her parents when they told her stories of
how things used to be before all the surveillance.
Now,
Camille wished she had paid attention. She thought her parents were old, outdated, and embarrassing. They didn’t understand her, and the less time spent with them, the better. She missed them now. She needed them, and her heart ached. The technology she heavily relied upon and defended to her parents was now her enemy. She had to ditch her phone, abandon her social networks, and out-smart the cameras that seemed to be everywhere. Her goal was not to simply remain hidden, but to disappear.
Recalling a TV special reporting how new scars on a face could evade facial recognition technology, she forged ahead with her plan. Staring into the mirror, she held the razor and took a long look at her beautiful young face. Her hand trembled. Taking a deep breath, she hoped the show was right as she slashed a horizontal line over her right cheek and a vertical line over her left. Searing pain shot through her as blood spurted from her face. Instinctively, she took the white cloth and pushed it hard against the wounds. It turned crimson as it soaked in the blood. “God this hurts,” she muttered to herself. Breaking out in a sweat, she became lightheaded, unsteady. Feeling sick, she sat down to avoid collapsing onto the floor. Continuing to press the blood-stained cloth against her face with no energy left to restrain the feelings bottled up in her, she broke down. Once the tears started to flow, she couldn’t stop sobbing. She was so alone, scared, with no one to rely on but herself. She had to get a hold of her emotions, but she couldn’t. She cried until she had no tears left. Exhausted, emotionally and physically, Camille wondered what the future held as she drifted asleep.
