The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) Read online

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “Joy? You hear me?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, louder. “Got it.”

  The Superiors know from last time how terrified I am of jumpers. I made the mistake of verbalizing it with panicked screams and pleas for help. I learned a lesson then: no matter how scared you are, don’t let your enemy know.

  Though maybe that was a good thing. Because now I know what they’ll do to get that reaction from me that seemed to please them so much. They’ll wait until I’m exhausted, delirious, and too weak to fight, then they’ll set a couple of jumpers loose. Or maybe they won’t wait that long. Maybe they’ll make sure the jumpers have been good and starved for a few days first, that way, they’ll go straight from the cage to my throat. They might do that just to insure what happened last time doesn’t happen again. I must’ve surprised them when they came back and found two jumper carcasses and a crazed girl with a blood-smeared face. Won’t be any different this time. Except now, I know what to expect, so I’ll be more prepared.

  I don’t know how much time has passed when the slamming echo of the stairwell door jerks me awake from a wretchedly uncomfortable sleeping position. A cell door rattles open, closer than last time.

  Miguel’s cell.

  I hold my breath and say a prayer in my mind—or maybe it’s more of a curse—that whoever’s about to do evil unto him, dies the most horrible death.

  Miguel yells, then his voice is silenced, leaving only the sound of jingling chains and an exaggerated moan, followed by Emmanuel Superior’s laughing.

  I close my eyes and cringe. If what my imagination tells me is actually happening, then he’s more of a psychotic sicko than I thought. Of course, I should’ve guessed all along he’d go as far as violating boys for his own gruesome satisfaction.

  God, I hope I’m wrong, though.

  Miguel’s door closes, and seconds later, the stairwell door slams shut again.

  “Jax, did what I think just happened . . . happen?”

  “Didn’t sound good—at all. I think I hear him crying—”

  Then, Miguel begins to scream, thrashing around in his chains as he howls and curses . . . it’s enough to rip my heart out. Aby’s crying, too, saying something to him, probably trying to console him. But after that, I wouldn’t be surprised if he could never be consoled again.

  “Oh my God, Jax, what if you’re next—?”

  “If he tries to stick that thing anywhere near me, I’ll rip it off.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  §

  Ravenous hunger and thirst tell me another day has passed. Reeking of urine and bloody from the strain of trying to slide my wrist from the shackles, I’m a fine feast for a family of jumpers now.

  “Jax?”

  “I’m here.”

  Every couple of hours, I call over to make sure he’s still alive.

  “You heard Aby or Miguel at all?” I ask.

  “No. You okay?”

  “Um . . . is that a trick question?”

  “Joy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I know I don’t have a ring or anything, but—”

  Laughter crackles out from a stale place inside me, and transforms into tears. “Let’s get out of here first, and talk about marriage later, okay?”

  “So, you don’t want to marry me?”

  “I didn’t say that, I—”

  The stairwell door slams and keys jingle down the corridor, closer, closer . . . and stop at Jax’s door. A lump rises in my throat and more tears make my vision swim as his door clicks and screeches open.

  “What do you want, you psycho?” says Jax. “What the—?”

  “Do you like it?” Emmanuel Superior’s voice reverberates through the air like a noxious gas. “I made it myself.”

  “You’re sick, man. You should get help, you’ve got serious issues. That whole women’s clothes fetish . . . ? Not attractive. People are saying things. . . .”

  Emmanuel Superior laughs. “You know, I’ve always liked your spirit. So feisty. . . .”

  Jax’s chains rattle. “Touch me again,” he growls, “and I promise you’ll regret it.”

  “Leave him alone!” I scream.

  “Ooh, we have an audience,” says Emmanuel. “How nice. Let’s put on a good show, shall we?”

  I think I hear Jax spit. Then, the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a thud against the wall makes me go rigid.

  “Jax!” I scream.

  Emmanuel laughs again. “Don’t worry, tramp, your excitement is coming soon.” But in a split second, his laughter turns to a howl. “You bit me! You filthy wretch!” Another punch or slap.

  “There’s more where that came—mmph—!”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Emmanuel says. “Now, it’s my turn.”

  “Stop hurting him, you monster!” I shriek. Sounds of pain through waded cloth will forever be burned into my dark reservoir of hatred for the Superiors. Finally, I surrender my futile fight and let my body fall against the wall. I’m powerless to save him.

  For now.

  A plan for revenge sets ablaze inside me. I squeeze my fists, pressing my fingernails into my palms, crying silent tears for my best friend. They’re going to get what they deserve. I’ll make sure of it.

  Part of me believes Jax knowing I hear his abuse makes it all the more humiliating for him, so I hum loudly to myself; it helps muffle the noises. Soon, my humming becomes a song my mother used to sing to me. She’d hum the parts she didn’t know. Unfortunately, I only remember one line now . . . something about sunshine and love.

  Jax’s screeching door snaps me back into reality.

  “Did you enjoy the show, little tramp?” Emmanuel Superior calls from the corridor. “It was nearly as enjoyable as your mother. Sweet dreams now. . . .”

  I try to let his words pass through me like vapor, but my mother’s ghost and her haunted past still linger in the room, along with some stench of truth. My mother never would’ve—would she?

  I press my ear to the wall and hear sniffling. I’ve never witnessed Jax cry before.

  “Jax?” My voice shakes. “Are you . . . okay?”

  More sniffling and chain rattling answer at first, then a long, heavy silence follows before he speaks again.

  “So . . . you’ll marry me, then?” He’s broken and weak, not even faking strength.

  “Of course, Jax,” I cry. “Of course I will.”

  TWELVE

  The most intense and miraculous act I ever witnessed was done by my daddy in Bunker C’s saloon and performance hall. He told me I couldn’t go; it was past my bedtime, and my mother needed me there. Each breath for her rattled death and she’d be gone any day now. He didn’t want to go either, but with my outgrown shoes and nothing to trade for Blue Notes to buy more, his eyes shimmered with the regret of no choice. He kissed my forehead as I lay beside my mother and tucked the blanket under my chin.

  “I don’t really need any shoes, Daddy—”

  “Nonsense. You haven’t had a new pair in years.” He gave my head a soft pat. “Hush now, and get some sleep. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “What if Momma doesn’t make it through the night?” I whispered.

  “She will. And I’ll be back soon, anyway.” He smoothed my hair back, and gave her a kiss.

  “Okay. Night, Daddy.”

  “Night, sweetheart.”

  I closed my eyes, pretending to surrender to sleep, but after the door to our room shut, I rose and tiptoed down the corridor behind him. He moved sleekly, silently in his long black cape and tall black hat. But being barefoot, I had no trouble moving silently as well. I followed him all the way to the performance hall, snagging a big brown coat from the full coat rack on the wall. I waited until the doorman, who was nearing end-of-days, moved down the hall to hack his lungs where he wouldn’t disrupt the
show, and then I slipped through the door, past the fancy, hand-painted sign that read: Zephyr the Magnificent – Performance tonight! Ten Blue Notes.

  With the heavy hood covering my head, I sat near the back, shivering with nervous excitement as scantily dressed young women bound him with seven heavy chains and seven thick locks. His expression was of calm strength and confidence as a clear cube rose up from the stage and enclosed him. In seconds, channeled water from underground began to fill it quickly as he struggled against the chains. It rose past his knees, past his stomach and chest—and when the water had reached his chin, he still hadn’t broken free of one chain or lock. Once it had risen over his head, I counted the seconds and played with the fear of his death for but a moment. I knew my daddy better than that. It was just another illusion.

  He’d put on a good show, holding it until the very last second, and then, when the audience thought all was lost, he’d shockingly free himself to an explosion of amazement. I’d never watched him perform for an audience before, but I could accurately guess how it would happen.

  Sure enough, at a minute twenty-seven, he shed the chains and shot up from the water, to the roar of an awe-intoxicated crowd. He’d miraculously freed himself, again.

  But that, like all of his tricks—like freedom in life itself—was an illusion.

  “Joy?” Jax calls out, startling me from my reminiscence.

  “I’m here.”

  “You alive?”

  “Yes. Are you all right, Jax?”

  “Dandy.”

  I shift into another uncomfortable position. How would my daddy have gotten out of this one? There’s no illusion in these very real shackles and chains, no audience watching in the dark, cheering me on, other than the memories of those who loved me, and the fear that those I love now may be dead as well—or soon.

  Now is my time to shine, alone.

  But not entirely alone.

  “Help me, Daddy,” I whisper.

  And he’s next to me, whispering back: Fear is the greatest illusion of all. Face it, fight it, and be free.

  When the stairwell door opens again, I know my time has come, and I’m ready for it, welcoming it, even. I get into position, sitting with my back against the wall, lifting my shackled feet high off the floor and, steadying my breathing, try to remain perfectly still. Though my legs begin to shake, I hold them in place, gritting my teeth against the exhaustion that wants me to give up. My door slides open, quieter than the rest. The dim light from the hallway illuminates a figure from behind, though I can’t tell who it is, and I remain silent as two large rectangles—cages—are placed right inside the doorway. With the flick of a wrist, they rattle, and my cell door quickly closes again.

  It only takes a few seconds for scurrying sounds to reach my ears. I hold my breath, steady my trembling legs, and hope against hope that at this moment, twelve hours on my feet, building leg muscle every day, will pay off, like last time.

  Two enormous white jumpers come into view, and I cringe. They could eat me in three bites. The Superiors must’ve been overfeeding them . . . until now. With a shrill hiss, they lunge. The first one gets right under my feet, and I bring my boots down with every ounce of my strength and all of the hatred I have in my body—and crush its skull.

  The second backs up, hissing and bearing its fangs.

  “Joy?” Jax calls out. “You okay?”

  I prepare for strike number two. The jumper circles me, and I lift my skull-stompers back into the air. “Come here, sweetie,” I sing to it. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Joy!” Jax is frantic now, thrashing in his shackles.

  “I’m fine,” I say calmly. “Handling it.”

  Jumper Two decides he’s too hungry to wait and rushes toward me, right over the body of his friend, and I bring my boots down in one swift, crunching blow.

  I have to stop myself from shouting my triumph for the whole Tree Factory to hear.

  Now is where real victory will be born, where I’ll finally become something. In the dark and silent promise of death, I’ll make a way for us—a life. I’ll keep my promise to Miguel and put an end to this—for good.

  With my heels, I drag the fat body of one jumper into my lap. My fingers shake, and I fight nausea. I’ve done this before, though for different reasons. Last time, I hadn’t eaten for days; this time, I need a way out to save my friends—my family.

  Trying not to breathe in the filth-smell of the rodent’s fur, I raise it to my mouth and, pausing for one last nerve-gathering, I bite into it. Warm wetness drips down my chin. I gag, sputter, and spit the nastiness from my mouth, then dip my fingers into the tear and spread the warm skin apart until I rip the hole wide enough. I dig through the creature’s slimy entrails until I’ve curled my fingers around a rib bone. With a jerk and twist, it snaps, and I extract it from the animal’s body, then toss the carcass aside. I trace the bone with my fingers, its pointy tip, and say a prayer.

  Then, I jostle it in the keyhole of my shackles . . . and they click open.

  My blood is fire in my veins as they drop and dangle from the chain attached to my neck shackle. I feel for the keyhole there and carefully insert the bone. This time it takes some wiggling, and after a half-minute of panic, it too, clicks open. I carefully remove it from my neck and set both shackles onto the ground to start on my ankles. With a quick jiggle of the bone in the keyhole, they clank open to the ground.

  My daddy would be proud.

  But I’m not free yet.

  The shackles were easy, but the door . . . I’m not feeling good about.

  Sure enough, there isn’t even a keyhole. I steady my breathing to calm my panic. This room is ancient, probably about to collapse. There has to be a way out. I tiptoe back to the wall where Jax is on the other side.

  “Jax?”

  “Joy, are you okay?”

  “Jax, I’m out of my chains and—”

  “Shit, really? How?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Right now, I need to get out of this room. Any ideas?”

  “I have no clue.”

  “I’ll have to wait until they come back and open my door.”

  “Then what?”

  “Uh . . . kill them? Is there any other choice?” I squint into the window’s scant light and run my hands along the stone wall’s crumbling grout.

  “Did they put jumpers in there?”

  “Yes. But I took care of it.”

  “I love you so much.”

  Somewhere in a dark corner of the Earth, a flower blooms, opening itself to the toxic world around it. I stamp it with my feet. It has no business here now, clogging my mind when I need to focus on escape. Besides, those return words don’t flow freely in a mouth still quivering from rancid jumper blood.

  “I’m going to search for a way out,” I say instead. “Maybe the bars are loose on the door.” I take off before hearing his response and inspect all four bars, pushing, pulling, and yanking on them. Not so much as a jiggle in any direction. I shove my shoulder against the door—Maybe I can force it open?—but it’s secured deep in the wall.

  I give up and decide waiting is the only choice left. I step back over the bloody mess of the two jumpers, lift the heavy bodies off the floor by their tails, and discard them in the far back corner. Then, I position myself inside my shackles without re-locking them, gripping the bone tight in my hand. I’ll need to make it appear like I’m still chained when the Superiors come in, which should be any time now. Or perhaps, a long time from now.

  I try to imagine piercing the bone through the body of a Superior, and where the best place would be. Slipping my left hand from its shackle, I press different areas of my chest and neck, finally deciding the soft indention at the base of the throat would be the best—and easiest spot to aim for.

  I spend the next hour or so filing the bone on the rough concrete, rotating it to get it from all angles. The tip was pointy to begin with, but not sharp. It’ll need to be as sharp as possible, I’ve only got one sho
t to make things right. Zero room for error.

  “Jax?”

  A few seconds of silence passes before he answers. “Yes?”

  “I’m going to get us out of here, okay?”

  “Okay, Joy,” he says, voice drained of all hope and faith in me. I envision his eyes, lacking the light they’d have if he actually believed in me. But I’ll show him. I’ll show them all.

  For a while, I drift in and out of sleep, fighting the urge to pull out of the shackles and curl up into a more comfortable ball. Giving the impression of helplessness at a second’s notice will be my saving grace. I can’t give in to exhaustion now. Soon. . . .

  On cue, the stairwell door slams shut again. My eyes snap open wide, I grip the bone tight. A cell door squeals—either Aby’s or Miguel’s.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Thanks for dinner!” I yell. “It was delicious! Best meal I’ve had since the last time I was here—Oh!—and if that’s you, Emmanuel, I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely ghastly that scar looks. I mean, you’d think after seven years it’d fade some—but, no!” I laugh. “The more bad makeup jobs you try to cover it with, the more noticeable it gets!” Then, I explode with my best possible fake laughter, until I hear the just-opened door close again and my own door rattle open. Sure enough, the flowing silhouette of Emmanuel Superior’s satin house robe twirls behind him as he moves through my doorway.

  I stand, faux shackled arms up over my head, as if protecting myself from a coming blow, but when he gets close enough, my breath catches. Framing the scarred and hideous face of Emmanuel Superior . . . are the long red curls of my sister.

  “We’ll see how much you have to say in a few minutes,” he snarls, and grabs my left arm. I whip my right wrist from its opened shackle and pierce his throat with the sharpened rib bone. Zero error. He grapples at it, falling to the ground, blood oozing from his neck.

  I slip out of my other shackles and scramble for the key ring in his bulging robe pocket. Instead, I find a handkerchief and a wad of cloth. He swats at me, but his widened eyes and his gasps for gurgling breath tell me he’s near-gone. I push him onto his other side and fish the key ring from his other pocket, then yank Aby’s hair from his head. First time I’ve ever seen his real hair—white around the edges of a giant bald center. No wonder he always wears wigs.