David moved step by step away from the industrial zone. Their station had been converted into a Manufacturing Station — a forge of the motherland. Ammunition, weapons, and consumer goods were produced here. Everything the heart could desire was created through one's own labor and from the scavenged scrap of the surface.
There was also a small mushroom and rat farm. However, the food produced here was nowhere near sufficient to feed the eight hundred inhabitants. Compared to the agricultural stations with their mushroom gardens, rat and mealworm farms as protein sources, and the impressive hydroponic systems where tomatoes, potatoes, and cucumbers grew under artificial light, their agricultural area was pitifully small. These agricultural stations had sprung up along the entire U1 line and were supplied with water and electricity by a now fully underground section of the Danube. As long as this flow of water did not dry up and not all lightbulbs were used up one day, this part of life would continue. Yet this apparent surplus of electrical energy became insignificant given the sheer size of the Union.
He was almost at his destination. Red emergency lighting was the only source of illumination — electricity was scarce and used sparingly where it was not strictly necessary. He reached the communal showers. A block boarded up with wooden planks and lined with plastic served as their modest hygiene facility. Standardized and reproduced in countless identical versions. Entry was free once a week for everyone, but David occasionally allowed himself this luxury in between. Before visiting the infirmary, he had to wash the coal dust off his body — the dust that clung to him so persistently it seemed to cast a second shadow.
"Five work-stamps, please," said the man at the counter."Here you go," David replied.
He went into the changing room and chose a hook number. Although "choose" wasn't quite the right word — out of habit, he always took number twelve. Carefully but quickly, he removed his clothes. Like everything in the Union, they were mass-produced in a standardized version and distributed countless times. Clothing made of hemp fabric. He pulled the scratchy linen shirt over his head, soot trickling to the floor. With every movement, small black piles formed on the ground. A dark dust that soon became so thick that his footsteps left visible traces. He had no time to think about it — or worry — he still had things to do. Gently, he removed the last piece of clothing, hung it on the rusty hook, and stepped over the threshold into the shower stall. With a sharp tug, he pulled the curtain closed behind him and took the sharp-smelling soap from the shelf. Then he grasped the tap and turned it fully open. Cold water shot out of the metallic showerhead, rusty-brown, splashing against the gray plastic tiles stained with brown spots.
He had to hurry — due to rationing, the water only ran for five minutes.
The water flowed from his head down over his shoulders and back. He had heard that, long ago, people used to take ice baths — willingly exposing themselves to cold temperatures to feel alive. But why endure the cold when warm water flowed directly from the tap? Of course, heating water was an elaborate and energy-intensive process, but why would the luxury people of the industrial world, living in abundance, have cared? Or was the true luxury the ability to choose?
The coal dust dyed the rivulets forming on his body pitch black. Carefully — and above all thoroughly — he scrubbed himself with the lye soap, made from ash-derived lye mixed with pig fat — a classic hard soap. Simple, but effective. It removed the dust effortlessly. After showering, he always felt reborn — human again. Or at least no longer like a caveman living in an old subway bunker, but more like one of the civilized surface dwellers who had known luxury before the war.
Suddenly the water stopped. His time was up. Now he had to go to the monthly medical checkup.
He dried himself hastily and slipped back into his clothes, his hair still wet, after roughly shaking out the remaining soot.
The infirmary was located centrally next to the platform. It was a large green army tent with smaller extensions made of wood and corrugated metal. Above the entrance hung a wooden sign painted with a pale red cross and the words "People's Infirmary Museum."
A line of people waited in front of the tent, processed by the receptionist. The woman in a white linen robe spoke in a monotone voice:"Name and age?""David Degen — twenty."
She flipped through her documents, checked off his entry, and said without changing her expression:"Please enter. The Ministry for Epidemic Prevention and Health thanks you for fulfilling your duty in preserving collective health — for the honor of the Consul."
"For the honor of the Consul," he replied automatically.
Inside, five doctors were at work. People undressed, were weighed, had their temperatures taken, and their chests listened to for signs of infection.
All medical equipment used by the staff had been produced entirely underground. The Union believed that humanity could — and must — produce all goods necessary for a collective civilization itself, so it would no longer be sustained by and dependent on the ruins of the past. Only then would humanity not merely survive, but prosper.
The doctor, wearing the same white coat as the receptionist, listened to David's chest with a cold metallic stethoscope. Then he addressed him: "Your lungs are full of mucus… What is your occupation again?""I work in a charcoal facility," David answered quickly, the cold metal still pressed against his chest."That explains a lot. Your body is trying to expel the soot — but it's nothing serious yet. I'll administer the cholera vaccine, and then you may go."
The doctor took a homemade-brand vaccine ampoule from a bamboo crate, pierced the plastic cap with the iron needle of a brown-green glass syringe, and filled it to the marking. He routinely disinfected David's shoulder with sharply smelling alcohol. With a quick motion, the needle disappeared into David's upper arm — followed shortly by the cloudy amber liquid. Finally, this external control over his body for the good of all was over.
Everything was meticulously documented. The nurse finally addressed him:"You're done. I wish you a pleasant day.""Thank you — you too," he replied.
After the examination, he had to pick up his younger sister, Tanja. The Union relieved workers through a system called Communal Parenthood. Families entrusted their children to caretakers during the workday, who raised them and taught them according to the Party's educational plan.
He turned toward the old blue railcar. One half had been converted into simple apartments, the other housed the Communal Parenthood facility. In front of the steel behemoth stood small barracks made of wooden pallets and tarps. Candlelight flickered across the station and the marketplace.
He pushed the tarp aside and stepped inside. Children sat at small wooden tables, learning to write. A caretaker wrote with chalk on a slate board.
"Excuse me, I'm here to pick up Tanja," David said calmly.
A small child jumped up and cried out joyfully:"Big brother! I'm so happy you're here!"
His sister was five years old, with curly blond hair and deep blue eyes. Her red dress fluttered as she ran toward him. She wrapped her arms around his legs and pressed herself tightly against him.
When she finished hugging him, she opened her school notebook and proudly showed him the exercises she had completed in shaky block letters.
David bent over the work written on hemp paper. From the pages, he saw they were learning uppercase and lowercase letters."Wow, you're almost writing as well as I do already. Soon you'll catch up to me," he said affectionately.
The caretaker stepped closer — a small woman with wire-frame glasses."It's nice to see how happy she is. Tanja, please don't forget to finish the exercises by tomorrow."
They said their goodbyes and left the small school.
At the market, people collected their free rations and purchased luxury goods. David still had four work tokens; combined with yesterday's, that made twelve. Enough to buy one hundred and fifty grams of tea in addition to the daily ration — or a book from the old world. Basic necessities were covered for everyone. People were thus given the option to spend their collective surplus labor — the amount after taxes — on personal pleasure.
David exhaled deeply, bent down to his sister, and whispered into her ear:"Since you're getting so good at reading and writing…"He paused briefly to build anticipation."…you're allowed to choose a book again today."
Tanja's eyes lit up. Her expression was surprised, full of joy. She looked at her brother in disbelief, waiting for confirmation.
David nodded slowly and hummed a cheerful tune.
At one of the many stalls of the Ministry of Economic Planning and Rationing, the scavenged treasures of worker expeditions were displayed. Books, magazines, and office supplies lay neatly arranged on a table.
Tanja chose a children's book titled "The Little Prince," and David paid the ten tokens it was supposedly worth. One corner was slightly burned.
Loudspeaker announcements cut through the bustle of the crowd:
"Brothers and sisters, it is 20:30.The Spark presents the latest news.
Rations remain at 2.000 calories per day.Productive forces have increased by 0.5 percent in the last quarter, and the birth rate has risen by 1.2 percent compared to last year…"
Static crackled, then the voice returned:
"Now to the front report:Our heroic army has once again successfully repelled the barbaric hordes of the Southern League…"
David and Tanja continued to the distribution station — officially called the Collective Solidarity Food and Goods Allocation Center, though no one used that name. Here, after a brief identity check, residents received their free basic supplies. The smell of tea and the smoke of hand-rolled cigarettes filled the air.
"Hey Gabriel! You old master chef — what's for dinner today?" David called out.
"Well, look who finally shows up, you sooty lump of coal! Today, like every second Friday, it's potato soup with mushrooms, hemp tea, a ration bar, and twenty-five grams of cucumber," Gabriel grinned, swinging the ladle.
He handed David the soup, the cucumber, and the ration bar.
The ration bar — the new bread of the new world. A brown block made from mushroom flour, mealworm powder, and additives like sawdust, pressed into rectangular molds and baked. Tasteless, but filling.
They sat down on makeshift furniture made of wooden boards, creaking under the weight.
"I'll sit with you… Are you going to the sentencing at the marketplace tonight?" Gabriel asked, placing his dishes on the table next to his friend.
"Probably…" David replied with his mouth full.
"Aren't you supposed to be working?" he asked Gabriel.
"Ha, as if," Gabriel joked. "I'm on break."
"Oh…," David took a large bite of the bar.
"Good. Then we'll go together."Then he lowered his voice."Did you hear what happened at Messe-Prater? Those Eastern bastards attacked again — despite the ceasefire…"
"Don't talk about that when Tanja is nearby!" David snapped.
Gabriel looked down in shame.