The streets of the Dome were suffused with an eerie glow, the kind that plays tricks on the mind. Soft, bioluminescent orbs dotted the expansive steel corridors, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the hum of the artificial atmosphere. Beyond the thermal shields, the desiccated wasteland of Earth stretched endlessly, illuminated by a pale crimson tinge in the sky—a permanent reminder of the sun’s aggressive evolution. Suburbs and cities may have fallen, but humankind had not gone gently into the scorching dawn.
Diego Navarro adjusted his ventilator mask and counted each step, his boots clicking on the polished alloy floor. He stood apart from the others thronging the corridor—not only by the breadth of his shoulders or the military sharpness of his posture but by the cascade of silver coils embedded into the pads of his basalt-black jacket. It was a relic of the Coalition of Engineers’ Elite Forces, back before the Coalition splintered and rival factions turned survival into an arms race powered by dwindling resources. Tall and lean, with dark copper skin kissed by scars and capped by jet-black hair gathered into a messy bun, Diego carried himself with the poise of a warrior who knew he might keel over from heatstroke at any moment but still didn't flinch.
The Dome, located deep under what was once Northern Europe, was humanity’s final refuge—not its utopia. Diego’s mission wasn’t to protect it. No, his assignment was grimmer, murkier. It was the job no one wanted but the Dome required: scouting the "Surface Dwellers."
The Assignment
Diego's thoughts flickered back to the meeting room only hours earlier. Here beneath the Dome, the last dregs of humanity sat indoors, sipping purified water with the tense decorum of high-stakes gamblers. A massive projection of Earth’s heated crust filled the air before them, spinning with data points as the Secretary of External Operations paced in front of it.
“Navarro,” she had said, her steel-grey eyes boring into him, “Temperature records from the last patch update are the worst yet. The average surface temperature is now hitting forty-eight degrees Celsius. In short, it’s chaos out there. About a hundred kilometers south of the dome, the Surface Dwellers are gathering—and not just fighting each other. They're building something. Coordinates are here,” she pointed to the map as her voice softened, just barely. “Take Gale with you. Burn zero time.”
If Diego had any doubts about whether the Secretary grasped the stakes, her parting glance dispelled them. That look carried two unspoken truths: the first was you are not expected to return, and the second was you must.
The Journey South
The rover sliced through the desert with ruthless efficiency, its woven-atmosphere engines keeping them just barely cool. Diego adjusted the map files glowing on the console, glancing out into the irradiated wasteland. Each path south dredged up the ghosts of cities, their jagged ruins shifted by encroaching sand. Gale, his assigned partner, sat in the adjacent chair, tapping on a tablet that monitored air composition, unsure if they'd spot enemies—or just the planet fighting back.
“You ever wonder why these Surface Dwellers bother?” Gale muttered, running a hand through his shock of ash-blonde hair. A wiry man in his thirties, he wore the uniform of a research scout and handled his weapon clumsily. Diego’s dark eyes flickered toward him.
“Bother with what?” Diego asked, though he already knew.
“Living. Fighting. If everything’s dying, why don’t they just…” Gale shrugged. “I don’t know. Come to the Dome.”
Diego didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he absorbed the data on the Surface Dwellers from a previous encounter. Scattered factions, former city inhabitants, and deserters had become nomadic after the air outside deadened from industrial toxins. Most Surface Dwellers had mutated—or innovated—and survived, braving the new planet without resources. Bizarrely, they'd rejected the Dome’s offers of sanctuary.
“Because they’ve got something to prove,” Diego said finally as he eyed the horizon.
The High Desert Camp
The Construct rose like a skeleton grasping at the crimson sky. Diego and Gale hunkered low, watching through scope lenses from beneath the optical camouflage of the rover. The air was alive with stovetop heat, casting ripples around the figures gathering below. Hundreds of Surface Dwellers, in sun-bleached rags, were hauling jagged slabs of blackened alloy. A perimeter of salvaged weapons protected the worksite, and at its heart was an ominous obelisk-shaped structure. Smoke rose in thin wisps from pits surrounding the Construct, swirling into fractals before dissipating.
“What is that?” Gale whispered, his eyes wide.
“I don’t know,” Diego murmured, his features stoic but his grip tightening on the rifle slung across his back. He could feel the sun’s heat bleeding through his suit despite the layer of coolant. His mind flitted to theories. A weapon? A beacon? Something else entirely?
Suddenly, the air sang an electric hum. Diego barely had a moment to react before the ground shook beneath the rover. A pulse of heat radiated outward as lights flashed across the Construct's surface. The Surface Dwellers stood eerily still, their faces turned toward the sky as though waiting for something.
The Revelation
“They're signaling,” Gale stammered, fear pitching his voice high.
Diego lowered his binoculars. Fast as his mind tried making connections, something gnawed at him—a clarity amid the heat-blurred haze. He understood now. Those people weren’t desperate. No, they were ready. Build something to endure the Dome's mockery of safety? No. What if they were building something meant to outlast humanity itself—a device that might tip the scales of survival toward their kind?
“Gale. Back to the Dome,” Diego said, voice clipped and commanding.
“But what about—”
“Mission’s changed,” Diego barked, his spine stiffening as the obelisk throbs began resembling a heartbeat. “This isn’t scouting anymore. This is war.”
The rover peeled away moments later as the sands above Earth churned into strange red-tinted fog. The Dome’s miles-deep survival had done nothing to extinguish the fires of another civilization's rebellion, it seemed. The only question left lingering in the oven-like air was this:
Would Diego Navarro stop it?
Genre: Post-apocalyptic
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Last month was the second hottest November on RECORD: Global average temperatures hit 14.10°C - and scientists are 'effectively certain' that 2024 is going to be the warmest year in history.
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