The Spark That Stays
A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the
Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok
Week 5 – Chapter 5: The Drudge of Dawn
Jake Tanner woke to the 5 a.m. ration buzzer clawing through
the dark, a jagged wail that yanked him from a dream of open roads—roads he’d
never seen outside Grandpa’s stories. It was 2045, and New Boise was a gray
trap—towers looming like tombstones, drones humming like vultures, every day a
slog that ground you down to dust. He rolled off his cot, the concrete floor
chilling his patched socks, and shuffled into the kitchen. Mom was already
there, hunched over their 2015 coffee maker, a relic she’d kept alive with duct
tape and a coil scavenged from a junked toaster. “Power’s at 15%,” she
muttered, pouring a thin trickle of brew into a chipped mug. No new gear had
come since the “Green Lock” of 2030—UN rules killed imports, shuttered
factories, left folks patching relics like Cubans nursing ‘50s Fords with wire
and grit. Ingenuity was their lifeline, but it was a heavy chain.
He grabbed his jacket—elbow stitched with an old shirt—and
trudged out, the journal from Grandpa tucked tight against his ribs, its
leather a quiet heat after last night’s close call with the drone. The ration
line stretched two blocks by 6, 50 gray coats blending into the fog, boots
squishing mud—no new ones unless you were a city suit with credits to burn. A
drone hovered, its speaker crackling: “No meat until 2050—carbon compliance.”
Jake’s stomach growled as he took his soy paste brick and vitamin pill—breakfast,
lunch, dinner, a gray lump that stuck in your throat like regret. Back home,
Dad was under the 2020 pickup, its bald tires patched with glue and a prayer,
engine wheezing on biofuel brewed from scavenged weeds. “Used to haul scrap to
Boise proper,” Dad said, wiping grease on patched overalls. “Now? Quotas say
stay—or cough up credits we ain’t got.”
School was a patched cage—Jake dodged a drone by 7, its red
eye docking five credits for “excess walking” before he hit the door. The
classroom stank of damp concrete, his desk wobbling on a leg he’d wired up last
month when the bolts gave out. Lunch was more soy, leaking from a thermos Mom
had kept running since the grid started flaking—half the time, power cut out,
leaving them to huddle by a basement solar rig patched from junkyard panels. He
slumped into his seat, the journal itching under his jacket, its words—fight
for the spark—a pulse against the gray. Yesterday, he’d roped in Tomas Rivera
and Lila Nguyen with Mia Cruz—the crew was set, ready to dig into Grandpa’s map
tonight. But this grind? It was a boot on his neck, every patched step a fight
to breathe.
Tomas caught him at recess, his stocky frame hunched under a
patched hoodie, dirt on his hands from tending secret carrots under his porch.
“Line took an hour,” he grumbled. “Drone fined me for ‘loitering’—ten credits
gone. Dad’s patching the tractor again—tires flat, no spares since ‘35.” His
voice was rough, eyes hard—he’d lost his dad’s shop to gas quotas, and the gray
was personal now.
Lila slipped up next, quiet, her sketchbook hidden under a
coat patched with an old curtain—art was “non-essential,” banned since the
suits decided beauty was a luxury. “They caught me sketching yesterday,” she
whispered, holding up a pencil stub, whittled to a nub. “Took my last good
one—said it’s wasteful. I’ve got stubs left, patched with tape.” Her dark eyes
flickered—she’d been dodging drones to draw, keeping color alive in secret.
Jake nodded, the crew’s weight settling in. “This is it—the
cage Grandpa wrote about,” he said, voice low. “Soy, fines, patched
lives—they’re graying us out. But we’ve got something—they don’t control what
we know.”
Mia joined, her hacked goggles glinting under the fogged
skylight. “Basement tonight,” she said, sharp and quick. “Rig’s hot—off-grid,
no Monitors. We crack that journal—Sadducees, Reds, suits. Tomas, you got those
books?”
Tomas patted his bag, patched with an old tarp. “Dad’s
stash—hid ‘em when they banned paper in ‘40. Old history, banned stuff—might
fit.”
Lila slipped a sketch into Jake’s hand—a flower over
Grandpa’s scrawl. “I patched it in—colors they can’t ban.”
Jake grinned, the spark flaring. “School’s our ground—kids
hate this gray. We dig tonight, spread it tomorrow—quiet, smart.” He flipped
the journal open, reading soft: “Elites thrive on drudge—keeps us down. Fight
it with what you know.” The words hit like a hammer—this grind wasn’t random;
it was their cage, built to break ‘em. But patched or not, they were still
running—pickup, pencils, lives—and now they had a weapon.
The recess buzzer screeched—drones swept closer, red eyes
cutting the fog. “Scatter,” Mia hissed. Tomas bolted, Lila faded into the
crowd, Mia ducked low. Jake shoved the journal deep, sprinting for the alley. A
drone hummed behind, too close—had it tagged Lila’s sketch? Monitors were
fast—yesterday’s haul-off was still fresh, a kid grayed out for talking. The
journal was a bomb, and this crew was lighting the fuse.
He hit the shadows, fog swallowing him, the spark pounding
in his chest. Tonight, they’d dig—Mia’s rig, Tomas’s books, Lila’s colors. The
gray could grind, but it couldn’t snuff this. Not yet.
To Be Continued
Next Week: The crew cracks into history—blood’s on the page,
and the fight’s getting real. Don’t miss it.
Dig Deeper: Look up “Cuba vintage cars”—see how folks patch
through the gray.
