In the After

“Do you think anyone can survive that long out there?” After all, I barely survived. How well would I have done in a couple years when all the canned food was gone and the buildings were crumbling?

“I would have never thought that people could survive this long,” he admitted, “but at least once a week the Guardians bring back a few post-aps.” He explained to me that although New Hope had been a university, it was affiliated with Hutsen-Prime, a government-funded research facility. Researchers lived on the complex with their families, and along with the university campus, it was its own little town.

“Are there other Class Five post-aps?” I asked.

“Yes, but most don’t integrate very well,” he admitted, gathering up my papers and organizing them. “We’ve learned that the recovered post-aps who were teenagers in pre-ap times have a hard time fitting in. The small children don’t remember how it was and most of the adults are just happy to be alive. People your age . . . they want things to be the way they were.”

“I can relate,” I told him. “What happens if a kid doesn’t play well with others?” There had to be a couple of troublemakers.

“Well, it depends. Children aren’t really punished, except with extra chores. The kids like to call it Dusty Duty.” He chuckled at the silly term. “But honestly, if you need extra help coping, you’re admitted to the Ward.”

I thought of Rice’s strange warning. “What is the Ward, exactly?”

“It’s where citizens can go to get the help they need,” he explained automatically. “Some people just can’t learn to live in a Florae-filled world, even though they’re perfectly safe here. They need intensive psychological treatment. The Ward is where they live until they can get better. In extreme cases, troublemakers are expelled, but that doesn’t happen very often.”

“What does someone do after they’re expelled?” I asked.

Dr. Samuels looked confused. “They do whatever they want, I suppose.” He stood. “Let me grade this and get back to you. . . . Can you hold tight here?”

“Sure . . .” I grabbed a copy of Alice in Wonderland from the bookshelf, but was too nervous to focus. I kept reading the same paragraph over and over. Finally I shut the book and tapped my fingers on the desk, waiting.

* * *

An older man with a silly, yellow bowtie sits across from me. I’ve been given papers, a pencil, and a clipboard on which to write. I’ve never been able to write in my room before and I’m pleased. I begin to doodle on the paper, drawing cubes and circles.

“Now, we’re going to test your basic abilities. Verbal, written, math and science, and potentiality.”

“Potentiality?” I ask. This term seems familiar. “Have I done this before? Do I know you?”

The older man nods his head. “Yes, Amy, we’ve met previously. I’m Dr. Samuels. Now, try to concentrate.”

I stare at the papers. “I’ve done this. . . . I remember you.” I look up at him. “Why am I taking these tests again?”

“We need to see how your scores have changed since your treatment has begun,” he explains slowly. “Do you understand?”

“Yes. You’re seeing if I’m getting better?”

He smiles kindly. “We’re making sure you’re living up to your abilities.”

I lick my lips. “Who decides . . . if I’ve met my potential?”

Dr. Samuels looks at me curiously. “I’ll evaluate your tests and share the results with my colleagues.”

“Does that include my mother?” I ask hopefully.

“No, Amy, but I can make sure she knows how you’re doing,” he offers. “If you like.”

I nod. “Yes. Please.” I take the pencil and hold it over the papers. “I’m ready now, Dr. Samuels.”

He punches a button on a stopwatch. “You may begin.”

* * *

It wasn’t long before Dr. Samuels returned and beckoned for me to follow him. “We’ve found an advanced placement class for you. Come along.” I trailed him down the hall, where he stopped at a different red door. “This is where you’ll come tomorrow,” he explained. “Advanced Theory is an unstructured program and you’ll remain here until you class out.”

“Advanced Theory of what exactly?”

“Anything and everything.” He opened the door. The room was big, with a few scattered desks and tables, and only a handful of students. One was scribbling in a notebook. He looked up briefly, squinted at me, and returned to his work. The others were talking, chairs arranged in a circle. They didn’t even glance over.

“Yes, but what if cold fusion were possible?” a petite girl with long, dark brown hair was saying. “If we figure out the results of an impossibility, maybe we can find a possible replication of those results.” I was fixated on the white scar that ran across her left cheek and down her neck.

“That’s bullshit,” a blond girl told her. “You cannot theorize based on nothing; we would just be creating a fiction. This isn’t creative writing.” A few of the students laughed, as did the girl with the scar.

She noticed me standing by the door. “Hello there.”

“Hi.” I turned back to Dr. Samuels, but he was already gone. I didn’t even hear him leave. He would have done well in the After.

“You must be Amy.” The scarred girl stood and came forward to shake my hand. “We’re just in the middle of what we like to call a ‘think tank.’ I’m Vivian; that’s Tracey.” She pointed to the blond girl, then went around the room. “Jacob, Haley, and Andrew, and Hector is the one with his face in his notebook.”

Hector looked up once again and gave me a half wave. I smiled at each person in turn. I might like being in such a small class.

“I know you’re probably baffled. I was when I first came here,” Vivian told me.

“You were out there, with Them?” I asked, examining her face. The scar was not fresh; its raised, white surface had healed as much as it ever would. I’d never seen anyone escape from a Florae once it got its claws in.

“For a little while.” Vivian looked away, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

“I’m sorry.” I tried to change the subject. Thinking of the conversation I’d just had with Dr. Samuels, I asked tentatively, “Um . . . what exactly do you do here?”

“We formulate the ideas that the scientists put into effect.” She motioned me to a table. The rest of the group had already reconvened and were continuing their conversation.

“So . . . we try to invent useful objects?”

“Objects, ideas, concepts. It doesn’t even have to necessarily be based on science. We develop the ideas that New Hope scientists implement for the good of the community.”

“Just the ideas, not the concrete things? That doesn’t seem very hard.”

“You’d be surprised. First you have to come up with a truly indispensable idea. That in itself gets most people. Then you have to take it further. How will it work, theoretically, of course. But yeah, we don’t have to make a working model. That’s someone else’s job.”

I was flooded with relief. It wasn’t literature but it was the next best thing: something based solely on creativity and imagination.

“Where do I start?”

“Anywhere you want. You can read about technological advances, or you can speak with the others about what they’re working on. Generally we like to share our preliminary ideas. It helps us figure out how to develop a concept to its fullest potential.”

“That sounds awesome. What have you come up with?” I asked.

“Tons of things, most of which are filtered out by the higher-ups. Others are in production and one of my ideas has been realized.”