This Broken Earth

Dystopian survival meets slow-burn romance in a fight for truth, and each other.

Chapter 1: A Way to Feel Alive Again.


Lex Blackwell sat cross-legged on the cold concrete floor of the makeshift school room, trying not to show how badly she wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—else. A cracked plastic puzzle piece lay balanced on her knee, forgotten. One of the kids, a wiry seven-year-old named TJ, was halfway under a a bean bag searching for a lost battery-powered car. Another little girl was pouting over a broken crayon.

It was always too quiet down here, even with children around. Like the silence was something you had to breathe in, swallow, learn to live with. It pressed against Lex’s ears more than any sound ever did.

Her job was to “create normalcy” for the under-twelves. She hated that word. It didn’t exist anymore, not really. Not since the world above had stopped making sense. Not since the viruses swept through the cities, taking millions before anyone understood what was happening. Not since the skies filled with surveillance drones and cities burned in silence.

“Miss Lex,” TJ said, holding up the car like it was treasure. “I found it!”

She smiled, even though it felt more like a reflex than anything genuine. “Nice work, buddy. Mission complete.”

His grin made her feel guilty for wishing she wasn’t here. These kids needed stability. Routine. Hope. But Lex… Lex needed sky.

She helped the little blond girl with the marker next, guiding her gently to the art wall and picking out a fresh color. When the clock over the door chimed the end of her shift, Lex stood up too quickly, almost knocking over a box of blocks. She muttered an apology, then slipped out, letting her fourteen-year-old helper, Kate, know she was leaving.

The communal area just outside the school room buzzed with quiet voices, a few murmured laughs, the clink of cutlery from the kitchen area. The space was a patchwork of scavenged furniture—metal chairs, dented tables, a mismatched couch sagging near the wall. A hydroponic worker passed her with a handful of damp lettuce. Everything here was damp or metallic or gray. The only light came from old fixtures humming overhead, always a second away from flickering out.

Lex turned her gaze to the railing along the upper floor—the level where most of the living quarters were tucked away behind thick metal doors. She didn’t mean to stare—but she couldn’t look away.

He was there again.

Nathan Karr stood with his back to the commons, arms folded, head tilted slightly—as if listening to something down the hall behind him. His clothing was far from flashy: dark, fitted, with a utility belt slung low on his hips. He wore a black earpiece and a matching watch, always alert, always listening. Nothing about him was warm or inviting—his face was sharp, serious, built for command. And yet, he still made you feel safe. Like if something came charging down the corridor, he’d already have it handled. Like you could let your guard down without even realizing it.

He couldn’t be much older than her. Early twenties, maybe. But he carried himself like someone who’d seen more than most, who had already decided what kind of person he had to be to survive. No one really knew much about anyone anymore. Not when so many faces from their old lives had vanished overnight. Everyone was still in survival mode.

Still… there was something about him she couldn’t shake. The way he moved, like every step had weight. The calm in him, even in a world that had none.

Lex moved to the stairs and took them two at a time, walking quietly in her scuffed boots. She didn’t expect him to notice her. He never did.

But tonight, just as she was walked past him, his voice stopped her.

“You’ve got paint on your cheek.”

Lex froze. Slowly, she turned her head toward him. His brown eyes weren’t unkind. He pointed lightly to his own cheek to mirror hers.

She wiped her face, her fingers coming away smudged with orange. “Marker,” she said, voice dry. “The war paint of babysitters.”

That got a twitch of a smile from him.

He nodded once, then turned back to his post.

Lex walked away before her legs could betray her and do something stupid, like linger. But her mind was racing. He spoke to her.

It was dumb. She knew it was dumb. They were living in a concrete box underground while machines hunted what was left of humanity. And here she was, giddy because a guy with combat boots and a crooked grin noticed she existed.

But as she crawled onto her cot that night, it was the sound of his voice that stayed with her—low, steady, unexpected. It echoed in her mind, louder than the buzz of the lights, more vivid than any dream that never came.

Tomorrow, she’d ask to be reassigned to above-ground duties. Again.

Maybe if she proved herself useful enough, they’d let her go on the next hunting mission.

Maybe then, she’d find the sky again.

*

Morning in the bunker began with the low hum of the vents, like the place was groaning awake. It was always the first sound Lex heard—metal breathing, steel bones creaking to life.

She rolled out of her bunk with stiff limbs and crossed to the cracked mirror in the corner, tying her hair into a low knot. Her freckles looked darker under the cold fluorescent light, and sleep hadn’t done much to soften the shadows beneath her eyes.

The room was small and spare, just a cot, a shelf with a few worn books, and a crate she used as a stool. One wall was decorated with kids’ artwork, along with one drawing of her own. The air always carried a faint tang of rust. Still, it was hers—and in a place like this, that counted for something.

Before her shift, she stopped by the long table, where someone had left a steaming mug of the bunker’s version of coffee—brown, bitter, slightly gritty. She took it anyway.

“Hey, sunshine.”

Lex looked up to see a familiar smirk and a familiar pair of long legs flopping down into the chair across from her. Tall, all elbows and sarcasm, her best friend Wren Moore was already dressed in her navy coveralls ready to assist in mechanical. Her dark curls were pulled into a tight ponytail, and a smudge of grease marked her cheek like a badge of honor.

“Morning,” Lex muttered.

“Wow. That enthusiastic greeting really makes me feel appreciated.” Wren took a bite of a protein bar and talked around it. “You’re up early. Didn’t think you’d survive another day with the kindergarten crowd.”

Lex raised an eyebrow. “I’m tougher than I look.”

Wren snorted. “You’re about as threatening as a breadstick.”

“Yeah? And yet I somehow managed to intimidate you into being my friend.”

“Pity friendship. Total charity case.”

They grinned at each other.

Wren had been one of the few people Lex had known before the collapse—an acquaintance at best back then, someone she’d seen in passing at school or at local activities. But after being pulled into the same group of survivors during the evacuation, they’d stuck together fast. Sometimes Lex thought they only kept each other sane by trading sarcasm back and forth like a lifeline.

Wren leaned forward. “So. Are we going to talk about tall, dark and tactical noticing you yesterday, or are we pretending that never happened?”

Lex narrowed her eyes. “We are definitely pretending.”

“Oh, come on! He’s basically a walking action movie. He never talks to anyone, and then suddenly—‘Hey, you’ve got paint on your face.’ That’s flirting, bunker-style.”

Lex scoffed. “It’s not flirting. He was pointing out I looked ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m sure he just happens to be standing near the railing whenever your shift ends.”

Lex paused. Had he been standing there more often lately?

Before she could respond, a door hissed open at the far end of the hall, and the crowd instinctively straightened up, even if just a little.

In stepped him—the man in charge.

Ellery Dane.

He was built like a wall, with thick arms crossed over his chest and a solid belly that pushed against the zipper of his  pants. His head was completely bald, and his square jaw was always clenched like it had forgotten how to relax.
He wasn’t cruel. But he wasn’t soft, either.

“Team 2 intercepted and neutralized two ground drones late last night. Unfortunately, they’re not just in the sky anymore,” he said, his voice cutting through the room. “All scouts and guards, report to post-briefing in ten. Everyone else, stay on task.”

His gaze swept the room like a searchlight—then landed, briefly, on Lex, as if weighing something.

Her pulse jumped.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Calculating.

She blinked. What…?

And then he was gone, striding toward the upper level, boots echoing against the steel stairs.

Wren whistled low. “What was that about?”

“I have no idea,” Lex said slowly.

“Think you’re in trouble?”

“Not sure. I might’ve asked to be reassigned yesterday… again.”

Wren shook her head. “Lex, if you get put on latrine duty, don’t expect sympathy.”

But Lex couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the drones. About Dane’s look. About Nathan.

And about how much she still wanted out. Just one breath of real air. Just one glimpse of sun. She wasn’t asking for a miracle.

Just a way to feel alive again.

That night, a message came.

A folded note, slipped under her door.

Report to Upper Sector Room 3 at 0600. Do not share this. — E. Dane.

Lex stared at the note until the lights dimmed for the night cycle.

Then she tucked it into her pillowcase and lay down in the dark, heart pounding.

Maybe she was getting out after all.

Unless… this was something else entirely.