The Daylight Militia: The Second Book of the Global Time Zone Series

By Widalys L DeSoto-Burt

Life has changed significantly in the past few months for Yvanya McKenzie. She has gone from living in suburbia to a compound in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by constant talks of rebellion and ammunition supplies. Now that she has learned her parents' true identities, Yvanya knows life will never again be the same.

The Militia is expanding and outgrowing the compound where they’ve been hiding and training while the Empire ramps up its anti-rebellion attacks. After the Militia’s leaders plan an expedition to an abandoned ghost city to survey its potential, Yvanya and her friends join the excursion, hoping for an adventure. But a trip that was supposed to be fun and exciting turns into a nightmare when she is captured by the Empire and taken to a maximum-security fortress where the most dangerous criminals are said to be held. Will Yvanya ever see the light of day again or will she rot in a dark dirty cell for the rest of her life?

In this action-packed sequel, a girl with a thirst for adventure learns that no one is truly who they claim to be as she is tested to her limits in her will to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781663253781

Widalys L DeSoto-Burt

Widalys DeSoto-Burt was born and raised in Puerto Rico as the eldest of four children. She is an engineer and manager at a Fortune 500 company in Ohio. Widalys enjoys playing sports, traveling, reading, painting, and spending time with her husband and three young sons. She is also the author of Memoirs of a Shy Girl.

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THE

DAYLIGHT

MILITIA

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE GLOBAL TIME ZONE SERIES

WIDALYS L. DESOTO-BURT

THE DAYLIGHT MILITIA

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE GLOBAL TIME ZONE SERIES

Copyright © 2024 Desoto-Burt LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5377-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5378-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921460

iUniverse rev. date: 01/10/2024

To my mom,

who cheers me on and is, and

always has been, my number-one fan.

I love you.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

1

I fix my eyes on my mother, who slowly moves around me. Her steps are slow and calculated, like those of a lioness stalking a gazelle in the savannah. In an instant, she wraps one of her ankles behind my knees and forcefully drops me to the ground. My knees hit the ground first, followed by the palms of my hands. I try to get back up, but she’s too quick for me. With a strong shove, she makes me lose my balance, and I end up on my back. Then, swinging her body over mine, she sits on top of my abdomen, pinning me down. I spread my arms out, trying to get some leverage, when I feel a sting on my left cheek. She’s slapped me.

Ouch! You hit me! I cry in disbelief.

My mother speaks in a loud voice so everyone can hear her. That’s exactly what’s gonna happen if you leave your head unprotected, except it won’t be a light slap. It’ll be a punch or something harder. She pulls my arms together and bends them so they create a shield in front of my face. Keep your palm heels pressed against your forehead. Wait for the right punch, and then grab your assailant by the arm to draw his face closer. Then hit his face hard with an upward movement. If you get a chance, go for the eyes—that will stop most people, she says, glancing at the grimacing faces of those who stand in a circle around us.

My mother turns her attention back to me and throws a quick punch toward the side of my head, but having learned my lesson, I instantly block it with my arms. She goes for my other side, but again, I block it with ease. I thrust my hips up and sideways with a strong push, making her lose her balance. She lands next to me, but by the time she’s recovered her balance, I’ve already moved away from her and am getting up. I keep my arms in front of my face, shielding myself, in case she tries to surprise me with another punch.

Nice job. She pats me on one of my upper arms. Now I want you all to practice with your partner what you learned, she tells the class.

The circle of people around us breaks into pairs who spread throughout the room.

I take a quick glance around the room as I walk to partner up with my sister, Heidi. We’re in the multipurpose facility, a large gray room in the middle of the Tango compound that we use for communal meetings and training sessions, among other things. The walls are made of concrete blocks, and the floor is poured concrete polished to a smooth finish. With no windows, it feels like an old gym. Rows of folded chairs lean against a wall. The roof is made of aluminum and zinc planks, which make a lot of noise whenever it rains.

We’ve spread soft black mats across the room. My best friend, Daphne, has paired up with Isla, a newer member of the compound. In the back, Clayton and Preston face each other, seeming to discuss who will be the first assailant.

Don’t go easy on me, Heidi tells me, assuming a forward aggressive pose. She looks so serious that I can’t help but smile.

I walk around her, as my mother did to me, and grab her tightly by the wrist. Heidi makes a fist with that hand and grabs it with her other hand. She pulls both her arms away from my hand, releasing herself from my hold.

Good! I say.

Heidi’s learning quickly, and I can’t help but feel proud of her. Although she’s the youngest in the class, she’s picking up the concepts faster than some of our peers, who are older teenagers and young adults. A former martial arts instructor, my mother teaches close-quarters self-defense. There are about twenty people in this class, and we meet twice a week to train.

Life has changed so much in the past few months. I’ve gone from living in a simple but quiet house in the suburbs—where passing school exams was my main worry—to a compound in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nature and constant talks of rebellion and whether or not we have enough ammunition. My biggest surprise was in learning that my father was no ordinary government official but one of the top leaders of the Daylight Militia, an organized group of dissidents, and that my mother was no simple housewife but a deadly Krav Maga instructor. It took weeks for me to fully embrace the duality of my parents’ lives and the reality that life would never again be what it used to be.

At night, while I lie on my top bunk bed in our dark room, listening to Heidi’s rhythmic breathing, I often relive the nightmare of the evening when the government soldiers took my family. I remember the broad soldier chasing after my barefoot sister, tackling her, and gagging her until she passed out. They took my parents’ unconscious bodies next and dumped them all into a white van as if they were nothing but bags of food or garbage. Not knowing whether I would ever see them again was an unimaginable torture. The days that followed rushed by between being sleep deprived and being constantly on the move. Finding them was the miracle I hoped for but almost did not expect was possible. We finally ended up at this compound. After a few months, it feels as if we’ve now reached a new normalcy, and part of me is starting to feel bored, to crave some excitement. But what am I thinking? This is likely just the interlude, as I know that everything will change again when we least expect it. We just need to enjoy the downtime while it lasts and take advantage of it, learning everything we can and preparing ourselves for what’s to come.

I refocus my attention on Heidi and the drills we’re supposed to be practicing. With minor effort, I knock her to the ground and pin her down, as my mother demonstrated. My mother approaches us and starts to give feedback, when we suddenly hear a commotion in the back. I turn my head, following the noise. Preston and Clayton are wrestling violently. They roll outside their mat and into another pair of participants, who quickly get up and clear the space. Clayton sits on top of Preston, who’s covering his face with his hands. Clayton’s fist is raised in the air, ready to strike his opponent’s face. His face is contorted in an angry frown.

Stop! The two of you—right now! The room goes quiet as my mother’s yell grabs everyone’s attention.

Clayton’s fist remains frozen in the air, and he seems to slowly regain control of himself, gradually bringing down his arm. He gets off Preston, who carefully lowers his arms from his face. A red bruise appears on Preston’s right cheekbone. A trail of blood runs from Clayton’s nose, and he wipes it with the top of his hand. A new trail quickly emerges.

Do not forget for one second who it is we’re fighting. The real enemy is out there, not here. Now, both of you get out of here, and don’t come back until you’re ready to put your differences aside and start acting like civilized human beings. And you, she says, pointing at Clayton and his bleeding nose, have Josephine take a look at that.

Clayton wipes his nose one more time, and as he walks out, his angry eyes lock on mine for a few seconds. Preston leaves soon after him, turning in a direction different from Clayton’s once past the door.

2

I meet Daphne outside the room when class is done. We stroll down a gravel path toward the center plaza, where we like to hang out. Although it’s mid-December, the weather has been much warmer than usual. The day is bright, with no clouds in sight. Other than moving and finding out about my parents’ true identities, the other largest change for me has been in switching from a nocturnal to a diurnal lifestyle. The nation remains under the Oriental Empire’s control, but those of us in the compound now enjoy freedoms we never had. My eyes no longer have trouble adjusting to the bright light of the day, but I’ve lost some of the extrasensory abilities I relied on to navigate in darkness, such as a keen sense of orientation and hearing. On the positive side, we no longer need vitamin D supplements or phototherapy lights to feel good.

Daphne and I approach a bench at the plaza. There’s no one within hearing distance of us. She sits down and opens a brown bag, from which she pulls out a sandwich.

You know you’re gonna have to make a decision soon, right? she says, referring to Clayton and Preston, a topic we’ve discussed a few times in the past.

Why the rush?

Daphne sighs. Yvanya, look at what you’re doing to them. They used to be friends. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but each day that passes seems to increase the rift between them.

That’s on them. It’s not my fault. I didn’t ask for this.

Whether you asked for it or not, the fact is that you are the cause.

I hate breaking up their friendship, I say, staring down at my hands.

What did you think was gonna happen? She carefully unwraps her sandwich and places the wrapper back in the bag.

I don’t know. That we would all be friends and get along? Was that too much to ask?

Seriously? They’re hormone-raging guys—so yes. That’s too much to ask. She smiles and takes a bite of her sandwich.

I open my own lunch bag and pull out my sandwich. I’m just not ready. I don’t even know who I would choose. Plus, why do I even need to decide? Why can’t I just stay single forever?

I’m sure you’ll change your mind at some point. I know you. It’s funny how you used to whine so much a year ago that you didn’t have a boyfriend, and now that you have two handsome guys fighting over you, you’re pretending to not even care. She chuckles as she shakes her head.

I didn’t whine. It was just an observation back then that there were no suitable guys available to date. I defend myself.

Sure. Whatever. She laughs and takes another bite of her sandwich.

Have you chosen a date yet? I change the topic, referring to Daphne’s wedding date.

Not yet, but we’re thinking early spring, when the cherry blossoms are blooming, she replies.

After months of sneaking out to see Matt, her secret boyfriend, Daphne was relieved when she told her parents about him and found they were accepting of him. He proposed to her a few weeks ago in the middle of a group meeting at the town center. She was excited and accepted right away. I would be mortified if someone did that to me, and I hope Clayton or Preston never gets such an idea. I find proposals to be a private thing. Plus, what if I were to say no? I would be known as the horrible girl who humiliated a nice guy in front of the entire camp. It’s not quite the reputation I’m going for.

We finish our lunch with small talk and then split up and head to our respective worksites. Everyone is expected to work to enable a successful and thriving community. Jobs are assigned according to each person’s skills and capabilities. In addition to self-defense, my mother teaches physical education and literature for those of school age. A few of the other women, including Matt’s mother, Rebecca, teach the other school subjects. I’ve never been fond of school, but I must admit I’m truly enjoying history. We use some of the pre-Empire forbidden books that were preserved in the underground tunnels for years. Assuming these are accurate, history is quite different from what I was taught in school before.

In addition to traditional school subjects, we also take extracurricular courses, such as cooking, sewing, carpentry, and mechanics. A select group are also taking more advanced trainings, such as shooting, which is taught by Ashton, Clayton’s father; first-aid rescue, taught by Josephine, the community’s head nurse; and driving, which Clayton teaches. Once we’ve mastered the basics, we will go into evasive driving, which sounds like fun and could come in handy someday.

I join Preston at the construction site once school and training are done for the day. The number of people at the compound has grown significantly, which requires new cabins to be built. With Preston’s degree in structural and mechanical engineering, he’s in charge of designing and overseeing the new constructions. I chose to join his group, not just because I had a true interest in learning the trade but because I wanted to get to know him better. It obviously did not please Clayton, who was hoping I would join his farming group. That was probably what initiated the rift between the two of them. I still spend a considerable amount of time with Clayton between the driving lessons and other social activities, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for him. The way I see it, if I’m expected to choose between them at some point, I’d better get to know each of them as much as possible. It’s not a decision to take lightly, considering the long-term implications.

This will be our cabin, Preston says, pointing to one of the buildings on a blueprint he’s spread in front of me. He’s taken my decision to work in his construction group as a sign that he’s ahead of Clayton.

Ha, let’s not get carried away, I say, and I pick a hammer and a few nails from one of the toolboxes.

We’re completing the finishing touches in one of the cabins, and he’s been sharing what we’ll be working on next. I smile, thinking of my first day on the job, when he taught me how to properly hold a hammer for maximum control and accuracy. His hand over mine sent a current of electricity through my body.

Most of the construction workers are male. There were a few females initially, but half of them switched to different jobs after a few days, once they realized the strenuous work involved. Preston keeps assigning easier tasks to me—probably so I don’t change my mind and leave like the others did. Not surprisingly, he also assigns me jobs that are close to him with few others around. Over the past weeks, I’ve discovered his dry sense of humor, which I find intriguing; his hilarious fear of spiders; and his passion for numbers. I’ve also learned that he’s good at drawing—and not just construction blueprints but sketches of people.

What are you doing? I asked him after I caught him staring at me while I was working the day before.

Nothing, he replied, pulling the notebook he was holding tightly against his chest.

At first, I thought he had been working on the truss structure for a new cabin, but after chasing him around the room and wrestling the notebook from him, I realized he had been sketching me. I was impressed by the quality of the drawing. He’d even captured the small dimple that forms on one of my cheeks when I smile. I blushed upon realizing he had been watching me close enough to notice the smallest details of my face.

Don’t you dare show that to anyone, I said. My ears felt hot. You have no talent, I joked, and I gave him back the notebook. And stop wasting your time. There’s a lot of work to do if we want to have these cabins ready for the next wave of incoming refugees.

I turned my back on him and started to walk away, when he grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him. I held my breath, and we stood still; his face was inches from mine, and his eyes locked on my lips, when suddenly, my sister’s distant voice appeared, calling me. He sighed loudly and released me.

Perfect timing, I thought, exhaling with disappointment. I exited the building to meet her outside.

What’s up, Heidi? I asked, hoping my face wouldn’t reveal what had transpired a few seconds ago.

There’s an assembly meeting tomorrow night at seven, she said, seemingly unaware of how flushed I felt.

I thanked her for the news, and she invited herself into the cabin to see how it was coming along. She stuck around for about an hour, helping me install some shelves, before we headed back to our family’s cabin for dinner with our parents.

I walk into the assembly hall, the same multipurpose room where we take self-defense training, looking around for Daphne and Isla. The chairs that were previously leaning against the walls are now spread in rows across the width of the room. There must be a few hundred of them. Paul and Elizabeth Anderson, Preston’s parents, are sitting in the front row.