When the Day Comes By Julie Sheng

Prologue

It was empty once again. I stared across the vast expanse of plastic table at the empty seat. Empty
for a month. Empty for many more months. It will always remain empty. I knew my own seat will be
empty soon. And then there would only be two empty seats at an empty table.

It was foolish to hope that one day that seat would no longer be empty, that she would be back, her
smiling face teasing. Were you really worried about me? She would never tease again. Nor would she
ever smile again. But every time I stared at her empty seat, my heart broke just a little bit more.

The cafeteria was white, stark white. White is an empty colour. It is the colour of void, of nothing.
Technically, it isn’t even a colour, but a shade. Some believe that when you die, everything turns to
black, but I don’t think that’s true. You see white, because your life is no longer there, you no longer
have anything. You’re empty. And that was true for the cafeteria. Every day, more and more empty
seats sprung up around the tables.

They lied to her. They lied to me. They lied to all of us.

I thought back to the day when I opened my eyes to the world around me. I knew that it was better
to be unhappy with the truth than to be happy with the lie. But some small part of me regretted
what I had lost. I would never be innocent or happy again.

I was gone.

Before

Chapter one

It was the waking time. I swiftly slid down from my cot. Punctuality was key. Brushing a speck of dust
from my bright white jumpsuit (cleanliness was also key), I stood in a straight line outside the walls
of my cell along with my other cell mates.

Tak, tak. Tak.

“Day 8,032 of Camp 459 has begun. Proceed to the cafeteria in an orderly fashion.”

Camp 459. One of the many camps that have sprung up around the world after a deadly nuclear war,
referred to as Armageddon, rendered life above the surface impossible. This event happened long
ago, before our parents were born, but the effects of the gamma radiation still remain today. For our
protection, we live in camps, run by the great saviour known only as Sir. I have spent my entire life of
22 years inside Camp 459. Camp was rather bland; lessons on English, Basic Mathematics and
History on Mondays every week and so-called recreation time, followed by chapel service. A
regimental routine.

We filed into the cafeteria with even, measured steps. I took my nutrition pills from the counter.
Orange, yellow, blue, red. Since crops can no longer be grown, we rely on chemical supplements to
keep ourselves healthy. I found my usual seat by table 24. Eating time was the favourite part of my
day.

Because L55 was there. Her face was stretched into a teasing smile. “Enjoy your meal?”, she
quipped.

“Hardly.” I made a face. At best, the pills were bland. The orange pill was excruciatingly bitter. L55
did not have to go through the same agony as I did. Instead of an orange pill, she had a bright green
one. Apparently, it was strawberry-flavoured, which she would remind me every so often.

I liked to think of L55 as my best friend, ignoring the fact that she was my only friend. We talked
about our days, complained of the snobbish attitude of the squadron commanders, and teased each
other about the food, or rather lack of food.

Today, she was in a good mood.

“21, I was thinking. I was thinking about how lucky we are to be here.”

“Why do you say so, 55?” It wasn’t to say I was not grateful to the leaders for saving my life. But
somehow, I was bored with the monotony of life in the camp. All work and no play. I wonder if in the
past, before the war, people had anything recreational to do. I would never really know, would I?
Some things are unchangeable, including nuclear wars.

L55 was the eternal optimist. She loved camp life, despite its drawbacks. She valued the schedule,
the routine. She only ever complained of the early wake times. Now she was willing to educate me
again on how indebted I am to the people who saved me, how I should be more mindful.

“21, oh, 21. Think of the people who don’t have access to these camps, out there, dying of radiation.
They don’t even have a proper chance at life.”

A proper chance at life. That was food for thought. Did we even have a proper chance at life?
Cooped up here day after day?

Bored. Disillusioned. Waiting to die.

She could almost read my thoughts. As a reply to my morbid outlook, she made a funny face so that I
giggled. I forgot about disillusionment and death for a split second.
Then we moved on to more mundane topics, the things that happened in Group, imagining what life
would be like if there was never an Armageddon. So on and so on until time wasted away.

All too soon, the shrill wail of the loudspeakers told us that it was recreation time. “Recreation” in
Camp 459 consisted of manufacturing clothes. It was conducted in a space called the “recreation
lounge”. This was not recreational, nor was it a lounge.

We lined up in a long row in front of a bench. A needle and a spool of thread. These clothes were for
the newer generations in the camp. The clothes were all the same, uniform white; endless white, in
long stacks and rows. We could have almost looked identical in the same spotless white overalls.

The commanders told us that there were at least 100 newcomers a day, but it looked like much
more. Swarms of them, filling into the seats of the cafeteria and the halls, building new cafeterias
every week or so. A hall was added every month.

I pricked my finger on the needle. I watched a tiny flake of skin peel off, drifting listlessly to the
ground. I yawned.

And then it happened. Once again, the loudspeaker rattled to life. Another announcement.

“H21, H21. Please follow Group 64 commander to your medical examination.”

Medical examinations were conducted on a random basis. They were to make sure that we were in
prime physical condition. A few decades back, one of the inmates contracted a rare case of
infectious pneumonia, and it spread like wildfire. One third of his camp was wiped out. To make sure
disasters like that never happened again, about every few months there would be a medical check-
up.

I followed the commander into a small, sterile room. It was too soft to be comforting. The walls were
padded, and so was the floor. Every step I took was plush. In the middle of this plush was a small
chair, which was jarringly hard.

“Wait here.”

It was much more comfortable to sit on the floor, so I did. I didn’t have to wait long. The doctor soon
entered. He was wearing a white lab coat, and there was a pair of glasses perched on his hawk-like
nose. He took one look at me on the floor and scowled. Disdain. Like I was some sort of animal.
Scrounging around on the ground.

He led me into another room, this one much bigger and colder. White walls and white floors. It had a
row of menacing medical instruments on one side, and a reclining chair on the other. I lied down and
took a moment to compose myself. I had an innate fear of needles, but when you live in Camp 459,
you had to face your greatest fears.

Deep breath. In. Out.

The pain was sharp. Once I would have cried out, but this time it was merely irritating. I looked at
the drop of blood that was oozing up from my skin. It spilled over. Some of it fell on the floor.

Drip.

Then the only colour I could see was black.

I woke with a sense of satisfaction. A side effect of the drug; a feeling of happiness. I winced as the
world sadly faded from darkness into white. A few seconds later, I was no longer feeling happy.

My heart ached.

I traced my fingers along the newly stitched scar over my chest. A few days ago, it had healed
completely, nothing but a slightly pinkish white puckering of skin. Now it was dark red and angry.
And it throbbed to the sound of my heartbeat.

The doctor always paid special attention to my heart. Some inherent risk to heart disease, he said
once, when he was in one of his rare talkative moods. Heart genetics, apparently. I was thankful of
the pitch black that saved me from seeing him cut open my chest with those shiny metal scissors,
snipping away my flesh, poking around inside. I was not entirely comfortable with being treated like
a piece of meat.

I scrambled up from the white coverlets of the infirmary bed just in time to see the nurse enter. This
was not a welcome sight. This meant that my time in the warm cubicle of the infirmary bay was up,
and that I would have to return to Group.

She looked at me with the same distaste that the doctor did. Medical professionals and their
attitudes. She was stern, speaking in even tones. Cold and clipped.

“Follow me, H21. There is someone to see you.”

I nearly fell out of my bed. S-someone here to see me? Visitors were unheard of. Each Group kept to
itself. So visitors… My imagination went on a field trip. Was there a new apocalypse out there? Were
there survivors? Or maybe the effects of nuclear radiation had finally worn off. Maybe it was safe to
go outside again. But most importantly, why me? What was so special about me? All I knew was that
something was changing.

Questions bubbled up to the edge of my lips. Who was it? Why do they need me? But speaking back
to any camp official was strictly against the rules. Punishment for disobeying was harsh; cleaning out
entire yards and cafeterias.

So I kept silent.

The nurse handed me a cup of lukewarm water, and a small white pill. Ingestible morphine tablet. I
felt my throat constricting; I’ve had too many pills today. But I still took a deep gulp and swallowed
anyway.

The scar on my heart (or chest) screamed in protest when I swung my legs over the bed. I shouldn’t
be doing this. I should rest. I should take the time to heal. But that was not for me to decide. Either
way, nobody else seemed to care.
The nurse started walking, too fast for my wooden legs. I wanted her to slow down, but she never
even glanced my way. I followed mutely. She walked along door after door after door, down the
achingly bright white hallway.

Finally we stopped at a full-length sliding door. The nurse held up her key-card to unlock the
terminal. It gave off a sickeningly green light. I waited for her to lead, but instead she hovered in the
doorway. One arm gripped the small of my back. She placed me in front of her, and then nudged me
through. I felt her pale fingers tighten on my shoulder, to the point where they hurt. I would have
bruise marks the next day.

The room we entered was beautiful. The light was no longer a scorching white, but a warm shade of
amber, soothing and ambient. The walls were clean as always, but no longer had a slight hint of
bleach. Even more impressive was the furniture. I was always accustomed to the steel bunk beds
and the dull plastic tables. But a row of shiny black sofas were casually placed in the centre, in front
of a low table adorned with pretty pink plumes in cups. Maybe they were fancy drinks? I would later
learn that the shiny material was called leather, and the pink decorations were called flowers.

Sitting in one of the sofas was a lady. She was dressed in an exquisite black skirt, and a heavy cloak.
They were not the white articles of camp clothing, which was queer. Was she the mysterious leader,
entitled to special privileges? Or was she someone else, someone behind the scenes. Someone who
suddenly wanted something to do with me. Her lips were especially red. W-was that blood? She
looked at me; well, she rather stared at me. Her eyes widened in shock, and they glassed over.

We stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Time seemed to stop. The silence was unbearably
heavy.

I felt like I knew her, but I had never seen her before. But the way her eyes were positioned on her
face, the way her nostrils inflated with every breath…. Something about her…

She opened her mouth, but the nurse shook her head. Then the nurse tacitly gestured with her
hand. The lady reproachfully stood up and walked through another door, and out of my sight. It was
all very strange.

The nurse scowled at me. Then she pushed me in the other direction. Or tried to. Something inside
me told me that I had to stay. I started to protest, but her hands were so hard and so cold. She
practically yanked me through the doorway, and down the achingly white hallway, with its rows of
neat white doors, through the infirmary and door after door, until finally there was the industrial
whitewashed walls of the “recreation lounge”, and row after row of heads and faces.

It happened so fast.

I returned to my spot in the row alongside my group members. I stared at the needle and the spool
of thread. My mind was a blur. Who was the woman in the room with yellow light? Why did she
send for me? Why did I feel such a connection to her, even when I could swear I had never seen her
in my life?

Fear is a terrible emotion to feel. I didn’t know why then, but I knew that something was off.
Something was coming for me. Someone was coming for all of us.

I bit my lip until it bled. My hands shaking, I picked up the needle and thread. Then I started sewing
like all the other 347 heads in the lounge.
Chapter three

L55 was not there.

I was actually especially yearning to see her. I wanted to tell her of my encounter with the strange
woman, and how it felt so inexplicable. I wanted to brainstorm all the things that the visit could
herald. Perhaps a promotion for me. Perhaps I had unwittingly committed a crime. Perhaps I was to
take part in some camp procedure scheme.

So I sat down at my usual table and swallowed my pills. And I waited. This was a miracle in and as of
itself; L55 was always punctual, and eager to devour her delicious strawberry-flavoured pill. But
today, something might have held her up, so I waited with hope. Then I waited with patience. Then I
waited for the sake of waiting.

The bell rang, and I went back to sewing clothes.

I was troubled. What had happened to L55? Maybe she was called to meet the strange lady too. If
so, then she would come back, like I did. Or she had to run an errand (again) for the camp leaders? I
was worried for her, but mostly, I was sad. L55 was my companion. The day was so monotonous
without her.

Then the fear came back, gnawing at the insides of my stomach. What if something evil and bad and
dark happened to L55? But then I convinced myself that it was impossible, that there was nothing
dark in camp, because everything was a bright, bright white.

Today was chapel day. Every week, we studied readings from the White Book. The White Book was
the sacred book of camp. It had its own religion, called the Religion of Sine Mente, and everyone
followed it. Mostly everyone. I found the whole metaphorical allegories a bit impractical and the
exaggerations a bit flashy.

The White Book was basically the chronological account of Sir, and how he founded the camps
around the world in which we humans could live safely and in harmony. He enforced a regimental
routine to ensure law and order, and also cared for the people. Sir was an omnipotent figure, who
had a longer lifespan than normal plebeians and was wise, all-knowing. Some say he was king of the
humans before Armageddon. Sir gave up his long lifespan in order to harness the energy to keep all
the camps running. Due to his great sacrifice, we should all worship him and his benevolent
embrace.

Since Sir never came to see us, I was a bit sceptical as to how he could demonstrate his benevolent
embrace, or care for the people. But I kept this to myself, because there were rumours that the
camp leaders took unkindly to the “undevout” ones.
I buried my head inside the White Book. Sir looked upon the race of man and felt pity. Thus, on that
day, he created the haven of Eden, where all of man could reside in peace and harmony. He felt a
sense of joy, of purpose, of…

Bmen. So be it.

Chapter four

I was back in the yellow room. I was sitting on a sofa, alone. Or was I? I turned around, and the lady
in the black skirt was there. The lady was there all along. She reached out her long pale fingers,
which I could see were now claws. Sharp claws. She reached towards my face, and I was frozen. Her
nails felt cool and soft on my face before they started tearing, ripping my face and my life away…

I woke with a shudder. I hated nightmares.

The day started once again, and I found myself walking slower, slouching and bitter. I didn’t even
bother to make myself happy for eating time. My subconscious, the same familiar hunch, told me
that not only should I not have left that yellow room, but that L55 was still not going to be at table
24.

Nevertheless, my conscious self was still disappointed when the seat was empty again. I gulped
down the orange pill, which for once, was not as bitter as my mood.

This time it was in the cafeteria. The loudspeaker crackled to life. Another announcement. Another
announcement involving me.

“H21, please proceed to the great hall. Follow your group leader, and proceed to the great hall.”

I dragged my wooden form up. The leader’s face was also wooden. Evidently, he did not enjoy
guiding me around.

What was it this time? Was the lady back? What does she want now? So many questions, no
answers. Yet.

The great hall was not very great. It was actually a similar white room to the waiting room in front of
the infirmary. However, it was not so padded. There was a plastic chair, though. So I sat on it and
waited. I apparently did a lot of waiting in my lifetime.

The group leader left and a young woman entered. She looked to be more professional than the
leader. Perhaps she was a secondary commander.

She didn’t even bother to glance in my direction. Only a slight nod of her head told me that I was to
follow her. I apparently did a lot of following in my lifetime, too.
She led me through door after door down an achingly white hallway (everything seemed so
repetitive). I was imagining where hallway led. If the infirmary was a long distance right from the
cafeteria, and the great hallway was a short distance to the right of the cafeteria, and this hallway
veered towards the right and then a bit more, then-

We turned a corner. The hallway in front of me seemed familiar because it was. I knew that at the
end of the corridor there would be a sliding door with a sickly green terminal that could only be
opened with a key card. And on the other side of the door…

There was a luxurious room, yellow not white. And there was someone in the room. A strange lady
in black, with long pale fingers and blood-red lips.

I was going back to the yellow room.

I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But the young commander glared at me, and I froze, paralysed
with the strength of her disdain. She shoved me through the door. I apparently was shoved a lot
during my lifetime, also.

I was too frozen to fight back. I just let her handle me like an object, thrown through the door
brusquely. I did not register any pain from my stubbed toe. I did not register anything. I was stiff. I
felt numb. There was a ringing in my ears. I felt that there was a stifling white blanket pressing down
on me, suffocating me, wringing me and oppressing me.

The room was the same as before. Or nearly. Shiny black sofas, but this time there were purple
plumes in the cups. I liked the pink ones better though.

I clenched my fists. I would have calluses on the palm of my hand. My fists were almost shaking.
Why was I worrying about the purple plumes whilst I could think of a way out? If the commander
was looking the other way…

It was too late. The door on the other side of the room opened, and she came in.

I took a sharp intake of my breath. Pupils dilated. Skin paled. Feet buckled, ready to fight or flee. I
heard my pulse, too loud and annoying.

Boom, boom.

She was dressed head to toe in black again. This time, she was wearing a pair of trousers. She was
obviously not following whatever dress code camp elites like her had to follow. She approached me.
I backed away. My back touched a solid wall. That young commander had silently crept out of the
room. And locked the door. I did the next logical thing and crouched low. I threw my arms out in
front of me, ready in case those claws came out.

She smiled at me.

That threw me off. She was trying to get closer to me, manipulating me so she could get what she
wanted. Every second that passed seemed like a thousand ways that she could torture me. My long-
standing suspicion that the lady in black wanted me for a sinister reason was confirmed. I was too
different from the others in camp. Whilst everyone else was grateful and worshipping of our saviour
Sir, I was bored and discontent with camp life. I had attracted attention to myself. I had posed a
threat, no matter how minimal, to the peaceful, regulated nature of camp.
The woman was still smiling. Her teeth were very white. I wondered absently if they were painted
white just like the walls. She held up a shiny square in her hand. Her fingers were not claws after all,
but delicate and slender.

But I was more interested in the shiny square. It was a shimmering shade of silver, and contained a
face in it. It was exactly her face. But there was something else in there too. The body belonging to
the face was dressed in white. It was hunched over, arms thrown out. The face was scared. She
didn’t look scared. So who did the face belong to?

What was this? It seemed like magic, or at least what I knew of magic from the White Book. The
person in the silver square had my body and white overalls, but her face belonged to the lady in
black. I had heard of photos before when I was in eavesdropping distance of two group leaders.
Apparently they carried an image of an object or person. This was, of course, before Armageddon.
Was this square a photo? But how come she had replaced my face with hers?

Then it hit me. I had never actually seen my face.