Waking Romeo

by Kathryn Barker

Genres: Young Adult; YA Wizards & Witches

Synopsis

Year: 2083 Location: London Mission: Wake Romeo It's the end of the world. Literally. Time travel is possible, but only forwards. And only a handful of families choose to remain in the 'now', living off the scraps that were left behind. Among these are 18-year-old Juliet and the love of her life, Romeo. But things are far from rosy for Jules. Romeo is in a coma and she's estranged from her friends and family, dealing with the very real fallout of their wild romance. Then a handsome time traveller, Ellis, arrives with an important mission that makes Jules question everything she knows about life and love. Can Jules wake Romeo and rewrite her future?

Release date: January 4, 2022

Publisher: Flatiron Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

1

Jules

2083


I’m sitting in the chapel for school assembly when Headmistress Cisco says, “And now we’ll hear a special tribute from Rosaline.” Crap. There’s at least a few of these a year and I systematically avoid them all, but today’s is unexpected.

Rosaline takes the stage, all pretty, blond, and clean. She gives an exaggerated sniff, though not until everyone’s quiet, so as not to waste it. Even from here I can see that her big blue eyes have just the right amount of wet—enough to prove she’s still grieving after all this time, yet not so much that it smudges her coveted mascara.

“It’s been two years,” she says softly, then gives a dramatic pause. It hasn’t been two years, you self-aggrandizing cow. It’s been one year, eleven months, and thirty days. If it had been two years, I would have played hooky, because Rosaline always pulls this assembly love-fest rubbish on significant milestones. The girl really does live for such stuff. I don’t know how she managed to spin it the way she did, but serious props for a job well done. Nobody remembers the pesky little detail about how she dumped him and broke his heart. Hell no. In the retelling, she was his one great love and I was just the little skank who killed him. Well, mostly killed him, if you’re getting all technical.

Rosaline keeps talking—it’s a daisy chain of clichés, ready for the choking. I tune her out. I know what she’s saying because she’s said it all before, many times. Depending on how many tears she can muster, she might even get a standing ovation. Wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake for our dear little darling? One of her friends will have been briefed to help her off the stage, like she’s some delicate flower ready to crumple. Her mum—Headmistress Cisco—will nod ever so solemnly, but the stink of pride will still leak through. Afterward, a teacher will bookend it all with a call to arms about watching out for “signs of mental illness among your peers.” That last part’s for me.

Because it turns out my story wasn’t a love story after all. If I’d died, then it might have been, but I didn’t die. Not unless you count the nerve-dead arm.

Rosaline’s building up to her can’t-talk-through-the-tears bit now. She’s paced herself nicely. The trick is not getting too worked up until you’ve finished with all the sentimental nonsense. Over the years she’s become quite the expert, but what she’s gained in precision she’s lost in spontaneity. She’s formulaic. I know from experience that she’ll slot in the thinly veiled jibe at me right after she’s regained her composure. I guess she figures that’s the perfect spot for contrast and damage.

The audience will oblige her, and suddenly all eyes will be on the cause of the problem. Finding me in the mishmash of homemade uniforms isn’t exactly tricky. Most of the blazers might have worn out a generation back, but people still make an effort. They’ve found replacement clothes in the school colors, more or less. They don’t wear combat boots or black hoodies, for example. Nope, that special privilege is mine, all mine. It’s out of necessity, really. Hoodies are hard to come by regardless of color, and I need the pouch up front. Without something to tuck my arm into, it kind of hangs there, getting caught on stuff. Genuine health risk, I tell them. Honestly.

From behind a wall of dark fringe, I see that Romeo’s besties have spied me. Laurence is keeping it simple with a fairly standard glare. Paris has gone one better, mouthing “crazy” at me from across the chapel.

“In my heart of hearts, I know…,” Rosaline continues, bringing it home on the closing stretch. And I decide, stuff it—I don’t have to be here. With that, I get up and walk out the back door. It makes a loud clang, which isn’t ideal. I’ve probably just helped Rosaline give her best tribute ever. If she timed it right, she could have had me brazenly, heartlessly, callously leaving the chapel right when she was tearing up the most.

Stepping outside, I’m smothered by the quiet. There was this famous quote: “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.” Now the poor old place is as dead as my arm, all sleeping and still. There are no planes in the sky or sounds of trains in the background. There’s no hubbub or buzz or din of commuter traffic, like I’ve read about in books.

And it’s not just the silence, either—the vista’s equally wasted. Everywhere I look, there’s nothing but yesteryear gloom. Crumbling mansions covered in bird poo, invaded by overgrown grass. Rust and cracks and fallen-down heaps; things that will never work again. Not that we let that stop us. Hell no. We fill dark fridges with canned food, hang corpse TVs on walls, and wipe down can’t-be-used microwaves. We cover our coffee tables in glossy magazines that advertise a world long gone and talk about things like “tech” in the present tense. It’s a performance, except without an audience … or a point.

In the distance, I can see the skyline of the city, and even that’s muted—like a theater set covered in dust. I’ve lived here my whole life, but I’ll never get used to the ghost-town feeling. It’s like being a tourist—squatting in a world that was built in the past, and peaked there. Died there, even. And yet here we are playing house, pretending there’s a pulse.

I walk down Johnson Street, following the faded white line that I’m told was for cars, back when cars were still a thing. I always take Johnson because Johnson’s always empty, probably on account of the rooster.

It’s not really a rooster—it’s a time-travel pod melded to an elm tree. But when pods appear from the past in places that aren’t empty? It can make for some serious weirdness. The one on Johnson is this mess of metal and tree trunk that kind of resembles a giant head. That’s not the rooster part. I guess the Traveler who was inside at the time got rearranged so bad that their bones jutted out the top. It looks like that thing on the top of a rooster’s head.

Well, I assume it does, from what I’ve read. I’ve never actually seen a rooster.

Johnson Street isn’t unique or anything. There are melded pods throughout the Settlement, same as everywhere. Dead time travelers are kind of a fixture these days the whole world over. But living Travelers? Nobody’s seen one in years. They used to arrive from the past all the time, steal our food, then leave again. Not anymore, though. I guess most of them have already jumped past this swan song moment. Gone for a better future that clearly isn’t there.

Here at the Settlement, we don’t believe in leaving. That’s kind of the whole point. We’re the descendants of the ones who said, Enough is enough. The rampant time travel has got to stop. We have to stay put, to live off what’s left.

Not traveling in time is everything we stand for. But if there was a pod that could send me back in time instead of just forward? I’d take it. I’d rewind the clock. Back, back, back—all the way to the moment that Romeo and I tried to kill ourselves. Because all that “O happy dagger” palaver?

Turns out: a mistake.

Three blocks from the school, I pass Laertes, the legendary health club. Our ancestors were smart—while others jumped, they stockpiled. Good old Laertes was secretly stuffed to the brim. Women’s loos with boxes of batteries, men’s with cans of gasoline. The massive pool got drained, then piled high with clothes and shoes—every size, every season, tags still on. Gym, yoga studio, reception, juice bar, locker room, sauna … linens, toiletries, dried food, bottled water, intimates, medicine. And the ten double-height squash courts? Stacked—floor to ceiling—with canned food.

Of course, the loot was all divided up well before my time. Now we keep supplies in our homes, for safety. The Capulets are pretty well-off, by general standards. We still have four whole rooms stacked high with all the good stuff. Back when I was a kid, it was five rooms, but hey—in life, things dwindle.

Skipping assembly means I’m too early for hospital visiting hours, so I decide to walk to the Wall. Not exactly “appropriate behavior,” but Mum’s given up on all that fanfare with me. And Dad? He’s hardly even worth a mention. If I’d died according to plan, I’d be accorded perfect daughter status, I’m sure of it. I’d be the pretty, romantic little thing who was deeply about the long hair and the floaty dresses and the love, love, LOVE. Now? I guess I’m just not much of a poster child for all things sunshine anymore.

I don’t pass a single person the whole way to the Wall. That’s not surprising—we’re warned against coming out here. The Travelers are dangerous, they tell us. They’re desperate and ruthless and cowardly and whatever else bad you can think of. Kinder words than I’ve heard used on me, quite frankly.

I don’t come this far out for cheap thrills in hopes of glimpsing one of the mythical Travelers, like my cousin Tybalt and I used to as kids. No, I come here for the letters. There are hundreds of them, wrapped in plastic, tucked into the Wall. Although it’s more of a fence, really—“wall” implies something beyond barbed wire stuffed with old correspondence. “Wall” makes you think “solid”—the type of thing that could protect you from guns and such, if the Travelers actually had them. Which I’m told they generally don’t. I guess when the Travelers imagined their glorious future, they didn’t have “pressing need for firearms” in mind. Or maybe it was more pragmatic than that. With just one small pod to jump through time in, perhaps they had to pare back to the important stuff. Things like money and jewelry and lipstick and trinkets and shoes.

Walking slowly, I lightly run my good hand along the envelopes—pale skin against all those dark fates. I tell myself that I like the quiet out here, though in truth it’s the letters. I guess I enjoy the company of so much star-crossed, horribly-gone-wrong love. Does that make me a bad person? Is it strange that the place where I feel most like myself is so full of gloom?

I’m ashamed to admit it, but there was a time when I read the letters. Hell, I devoured them—as many as I could. Letters from parents and children and lovers and friends, separated by decades or longer. Instructions and rendezvous points and apologies from all the ones who just couldn’t wait. It didn’t make me feel any better, and I’d never read them now, but at the time? Well, grief can do strange things to your way of being.

The one that stuck with me the most was written by a man. I can’t remember his name. He jumped here from 2023, the very first year that the pods went to market—over four decades before I was born. People tended to be cautious back then—five years, ten years, something modest. Not him. He went a full forty years, nice and even. It wasn’t for any of the shallow reasons either. Not for idle curiosity or to “look decades younger than the people you hate.” He went forward to go back. He was just so damn sure that, given enough time, they’d make a machine that could do it. I mean, it was obvious, right? If you could go forward in time, why not backward? Why the hell not?

He’d had a daughter, you see, and there was this one particular Sunday swim that needed to not happen. That’s all he wanted. That’s all it was for. The bit that really got me about the letter was how it wasn’t addressed to anyone. I guess when he arrived here and realized he could never go back, that it would never be possible … well, there wasn’t anyone it could be for. Everyone he’d ever known was literally just a thing of the past.

It’s like this the whole world over. Once the pods went to market, almost everyone upped stumps. Only, with no one staying put, the future was a mess. So people jumped again, with faith that things would right themselves in time. But because no one stayed, the future was worse. So they jumped again … and again … and again, getting more and more desperate. By the time they slowed down, it was all too late—the Fall had happened. The eight billion people who had once lived together on Earth were spread out over the rest of time. Or, as the theory goes, collecting at the end of it. The population left behind in any particular year was minuscule. Cities went to ancient ruin in the minutes that it took to jump once, then twice, three times for good measure.

London’s no exception. As far as we know, ours is the last remaining Settlement … and it’s far from impressive. We’re keeping up appearances, more or less, but only one in twenty houses is lived in. We’ll run out of people eventually. Or supplies. Or both.

O Romeo, Romeo—why did you leave me to deal with this shit on my own?


2

Ellis

WASTELAND


“This is how it ended,” I deadpan.

“Cut,” says Iggy, lowering the camera. “It’s about the emotion, Ellis. The drama. We’re looking for gravitas.” He gestures loosely at the apocalyptic wasteland around us.

Iggy scavenged a VHS video recorder from the 1980s last week, and it is his new favorite toy. Yesterday he filmed a one-man reenactment of something called Monty Python. Today, it is to be a documentary. He would like me to set the scene with “a powerful and dramatic lead-in about how the world ended.” I am … disinclined.

“Once more from the top, with feeling,” says Iggy, hitting the RECORD button again.

“This is how it ended,” I say again in an even more perfunctory tone.

Iggy sighs. Then, changing tack: “How about we start with introductions then, shall we? First up we have Beth, seventeen years old and straight out of the 1950s.” He zooms in on Beth as she hits another golf ball into the wasteland. Half Japanese, half Chinese, flawless complexion—the camera loves her.

“Make sure you get my good side, darling,” she says without breaking her swing.

“Please note how Beth’s ensemble really complements the backdrop. Nothing says end-of-days quite like a full skirt, twinset, and saddle shoes, am I right?”

Beth gives the camera a cheeky wink, then tees up another ball.

“Next we have Henry, also seventeen, born in … 1789?”

“1798,” corrects Henry through a clothespin in his mouth as he hangs out the washing.

“As you can see,” Iggy continues, “Henry still dresses in the Georgian fashion of his day, despite the post-apocalyptic climate. So tell us, Henry, what’s it like lounging around here at the close of time, perpetually drenched in sweat?”

“Necessitates rather a lot of laundry,” says Henry with a good-natured smile. Henry is well over six feet tall and solidly built. Moreover, his red hair is teamed with freckled skin, meaning he burns easily. The climate here in the wasteland suits him poorly.

“Now me,” says Iggy, reaching up and carefully patting his hair—bright purple—to check that his mohawk is in order.

Then, turning the video camera on himself: “Ignatius Jones. Born in 1966. Currently sixteen years old and quite possibly the best-dressed trans punk on the entire planet.”

Given that Beth, Henry, and I have no interest in competing for that mantle, Iggy is probably right. As far as we know, the four of us are the only humans left living in this wretched, far-flung era. That is precisely why Frogs chose it. Statistically, there is, apparently, “A considerably lower probability of Deadenders inadvertently impacting the timeline if they remain appreciably separate.”

Translation—less chance of us botching the world if we are never truly a part of it.

“And last but not least, Ellis,” says Iggy, zooming in on me as I practice letting out the clutch in time with shifting gears. “Born in the 1800s, currently nineteen years old, with very little to be said in terms of fashion.”

Then he adds, “Sweet ride, by the way.”

Iggy is being sarcastic. When Frogs announced that I would have to learn to drive for a future mission, we had a problem. There are no cars out here in the wasteland, and Frogs cannot move objects in time and space—only people and what they are carrying. Steering wheel, rearview mirror, pedals, and a gear box—we had to break them down and transport them here from the past, one painstaking piece at a time.

My so-called “car” is a few spare parts rigged up to a small plastic chair.

“If only someone had let me sit behind the wheel of the bus,” I gripe, not for the first time.

IF THIS BUS ENDS UP IN THE WRONG SPOT, EVEN BY A FRACTION …

“… then we are all at risk of being obliterated by arriving pods,” I say, finishing Frogs’s sentence for him. It is a well-worn spiel. “I was not going to drive it. I just object to this ridiculous plastic chair arrangement.”

“The young man attempting to drive a piece of furniture is the original Deadender,” says Iggy in a stage whisper.

He means that I was the first. I recruited the others at Frogs’s behest, pulling them out of the timeline the moment they were slated to die, and—with step-by-step instructions from our resident AI—managed to revive them. I have been living on this bus—in this wasteland—with Frogs since I was thirteen years old.

“Now, Ellis,” continues Iggy, “as the founding member of our illustrious collective, are you sure you don’t want to do the powerful and dramatic lead-in about how the world ended?”

“Quite sure.”

Iggy shrugs. “Well, can’t say I didn’t offer.” Then, in a very dramatic voice, he booms, “This … is how it ended.”

With that, Iggy takes a sweeping shot of the wasteland. There is the occasional scrap of rubble to suggest that this place used to be a suburb of London, but the old city is mostly eroded. Now all you see are monstrous clumps of melded-together pods—millions of them, as far as the doomsday horizon.


Copyright © 2021 by Kathryn Barker