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

  Last year, Molina let a wound get infected and couldn’t work for a week. When she was well, the Superiors punished her by taking away two meals a day “until further notice.” By the end of the first week, she was famished and wobbly, and couldn’t concentrate. She pushed the wrong button on the sun torch and it backfired, burning her up in seconds. Had I been working the chopper back then, I might’ve saved her. The Superiors, of course, claimed it was merely one of those “factory accidents”—a terrible stroke of luck. But we all know the truth.

  One by one, the girls finish up and, freshly washed, take their seats at my feet. I scoot my storytelling stool to the corner by the hole where I sit every night so the boys can hear me, too. As I scan slicked hair and clean faces, I notice a lot of them match mine. Sad. Confused. Angry. My palms begin to sweat. Jax is right there, closest to me on the other side of the hole, where he usually is. But right behind him is an empty space on the bed in the corner where Toby sat every night, eagerly awaiting my story.

  He’ll never hear another one again.

  There’s a lump in my throat. My strength threatens to cave as my vision wades through tears. Crying for someone you love is a natural, healthy thing, but I have to be strong for the little ones. If I start crying, then they may think, Who’ll take care of us, now that Momma Joy has lost her strength? No. Poor things have been through enough. I sit up straight and breathe in deep. Everyone’s seated, and Aby holds Baby Lou in her lap. At least she’s too young to understand the horror that occurred today.

  “What story you gonna tell tonight, Momma Joy?” Chloe asks. The hair-braiding chain begins at my feet and curves in a semi-circle around me; little girls learning the ways of girl things, like hair, and giggles, and secrets. On my other side, another group has curled up in blankets, chins rested in their hands, staring up at me.

  “Okay.” My voice is crackly and weak. I clear my throat, and start again. “Okay, first, I want to have a moment of silent reverence for our brother, Toby, who died outside today. He was loved and cherished by us all, and he’ll be greatly missed.” I lower my head to hide my tears, and wipe at them while I say a silent prayer that God, or Who or Whatever is out there, took our brother to someplace beautiful.

  “May Toby go to Paradise today,” I say, “where he’ll dance, play, and be loved forever.”

  “And so it is,” we say in unison.

  I lift my head, wiping wetness from my face again. “In honor of Toby, I’ll be retelling the first story I ever told, the one I made up the night he became our brother: the story of Billy’s Dragon.”

  A hush falls over the room, and I close my eyes to lose myself in it. Jax says I’ve got a gift; not everyone envisions things in full color, with intensity and complexity. I didn’t even know I could, until that first night.

  “Once,” I begin, “there was a little boy named Billy. He was sad, because a giant storm came and swept his town away, with his whole family, too. Everyone drowned, except for Billy. Soon, the water filled up his house, so he climbed inside a washtub, scared. He floated out the second floor window and away in the washtub with only a pocketful of magic stones his daddy had given him for his birthday. If only he could’ve floated by the kitchen on his way out, then maybe he could’ve gotten some food.

  “Hours went by as the roofs and treetops disappeared beneath the water, and still he floated farther and farther away. Billy cursed his daddy for lying to him about the stones’ power. He’d tried for months to get them to do something, give him wings to fly maybe? Or even X-ray vision to see through things. . . . But nothing he’d wished for had ever come true.

  “When he’d asked his daddy why the stones didn’t work, his daddy said, ‘They’ll work when you need ’em most. You have to believe.’ Billy thought it was stupid, that his momma and daddy were treating him like a baby. He’d thought every day about throwing the stones in the garden, not that anyone would notice. They were just stones. Plain ol’ ugly brown rocks. Nothing special about them.

  “Still, he kept them in his pocket every day, until the storm came. They were all he had left. That, and his washtub. On the third day, he was so parched from the sun, and surrounded by saltwater, leagues deep—”

  “Momma Joy?” Chloe tugs my pant leg. “Is that the ocean?” she asks.

  I wink down at her and nod.

  “And Billy knew his time had come to die,” I resume. “Angry, he took the stones from his pocket and hurled them into the sea—”

  “I thought it was the ocean,” Chloe says again.

  “Chloe, shh,” says Aby. “It’s the same thing.” She waves at me to go on.

  “He threw the magic stones into the sea,” I continue, “and a second later, a great green-and-blue dragon shot up from the water with a splash and flew over him. At first, Billy was scared; he’d never seen a dragon before, and it was enormous, it could very easily eat him up if it wanted to. But it didn’t. ‘Hop on my back,’ the dragon said, ‘and I’ll take you to Paradise. . . .’”

  Twenty minutes later, as I finish the story, half of the girls and boys are asleep on the thin floor pallets. I told it a little longer than usual tonight because I was lost in it. In my mind, Toby was Billy, living happily ever after on his dragon’s back, flying through the heavenly blue skies, dipping down into the crisp blue ocean and back up again. I desperately want to believe my brother is there now.

  Sometimes I wonder, though, if it’s foolish to think that there’s some kind of paradise after death. Mother never believed it, but Daddy did. And I’m torn. I don’t know what to believe. I know what I want to believe, yet I hear my mother’s voice as she argued with my daddy from her deathbed behind closed doors: “There is nothing left. No happy ending,” she said.

  No happy ending on this Earth, I believe. Except in my stories. But what comes next, after the dead Earth, and the tragedy of death before life has even been lived? What then?

  Aby and some of the older girls help me get the little ones tucked away safe in their beds, and I meet Jax at the hole. Sliding the metal cover up and affixing it to the latch, I peek in to scope out the boys’ side. Jax sits on the edge of the twins’ bunk, talking softly to them. Their sad eyes hit me like fists to the stomach. Toby was a big brother to them more than most.

  If I could shut off my brain and never think again, I might.

  “Hey.” Jax’s voice startles me from my daze.

  “Hey.”

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  I flip the cover back over the hole, and find Aby braiding her hair in the greenish-yellow glow from a liqui-light lantern on our shared bedside table. “Hey,” she says. “You leavin’?”

  I nod.

  “Humphrey’s gonna let you go, after what happened last time?”

  I shrug. “I guess he’s over it.”

  “Where’re you going?” She ties off the braid’s end, then gives the lantern a shake. The light intensifies to illuminate her face in a sickly green color that clashes with her red hair, making it dark-brown. “You gonna need one?” She taps the safety glass.

  “I don’t know. I think Jax still has a few light sticks. They’re easier to manage down there.”

  Aby stretches and tilts her head until her neck pops in three spots. She repeats it on the other side. “Yeah, true.”

  A sniffling in the corner of the room grabs my attention. Someone’s crying. Maybe one of the little ones. I start to go to her.

  “No,” Aby says. “You go. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You sure?”

  She nods. “Please be careful.”

  “I will.” I peek at Baby Lou sleeping soundly in her crib.

  “We’ll be fine,” Aby assures me. “Tell Jax I said hi.”

  “Okay. And maybe next time you and Miguel can go with us.”

  “Really? That would be great! It’s been like a month—”

  “I know, it’s time.” I hug her, breathing in the nasty scent of Tree Factory soap on her skin. Someo
ne taps on the door.

  “Be safe.” Aby blows me a kiss. “And have fun.”

  FOUR

  I tiptoe to the iron door, yank down on the partially corroded handle, and it opens to Jax leaning against the wall, arms crossed and tattered backpack slung over one shoulder. Humphrey lies in his too-small cot, his round, hairy gut protruding from under his too-small dingy shirt.

  “Better not get caught.” He flops a fat arm across his forehead, stares up at the ceiling. “Or it’ll be all our asses. Fried in the sun, like your friend.”

  “Brother,” I correct. “He was our brother.”

  “Whatever. Don’t get caught.” With a sick slurping sound, he sucks grime from his teeth, then scratches a disgusting armpit. “And I better get something good this time. I don’t know what that hogwash was last time, but it nearly killed me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Quit your whining,” says Jax. “You said it was good when you were dozed.”

  “Just hurry up, and don’t get caught.” He dangles a ring of keys from one finger, and glances up at us for the first time. “And watch out for monsters,” he says, winking and pursing his pudgy lips.

  “Right. The monsters,” I say. “Thanks for the reminder.” I snatch away the keys and affix them to the belt loop of my jeans. But their weight makes the fragile strings rip apart, and they clunk to the floor.

  “Stupid ancient clothes,” I mumble.

  “I got ’em.” Jax scoops them up and drops them into his huge back pocket.

  I laugh. “God, you could fit another body in there.”

  “I know, aren’t they ridiculous?” He eyes me and grins. “Good to see you smile.”

  As soon as he says it, though, my smile fades. “Let’s go.”

  We leave Humphrey behind to fight his cot for a more comfortable position and head to our exit. How the Superiors would entrust such a worthless oaf to be our night watch, I’ll never understand. Either they trust him more than they should, or they’re complete idiots. Or maybe they know we have nowhere to “escape” to anyway.

  Past Greenleigh, which is now a ghost city with the exception of us orphans-turned-treemakers, it’s miles to the next town. Trolley tunnels are somewhere, though we still haven’t found them. Once we get into the bunkers, our amateur lock-picking skills govern how far we get. The keys will get us through the main thoroughfare connecting the corridors from Bunkers A through E, but we’ve only broken into A and B so far, and only made it down six levels. The bunkers go much deeper than that. How much deeper, we don’t know. Not even our parents knew that, although everyone had speculations.

  The only sure way out of Greenleigh is the aboveground tunnels, where temperature-controlled Haulers come twice a week to pick up our trees for distribution throughout Bygonne. But the last kid who tried to escape through one of those, ended up a very effective threatening device for the Superiors—when a bag of bones and ashes is dumped in front of you, you do what you’re told. And you definitely don’t plan to follow in his footsteps.

  The cuffs of Jax’s baggy jeans drag the floor as we shuffle softly through the building, stirring dust cyclones beneath our feet. His shaggy black hair shines blue beneath the few flickering bulbs left on to illuminate the place. I smooth down my own hair and tuck it behind my ears. Jax swings his bag around to his front and peeks back at me.

  “Ah,” he whispers, “you’re beautiful as always, Momma Joy.” He digs into the bag, takes out two breathers, and hands me one.

  My cheeks warm. “Thanks, Papa Jax.” I affix the breather to the top of my head in preparation for when we go deeper underground.

  “Ugh, don’t call me that,” he says, strapping his own to the top of his head and slipping his arms through the backpack’s straps. “I hate it.”

  When we finally get to the main factory section, the floor changes from dirt to rough concrete. To our right, a small square of purplish-black glistens in the moonlight behind it, casting a soft glow across the chopper’s surface. We slow at the staircase leading up to the catwalk. “Stay here.” Jax releases my hand and ascends, the stairs squeaking softly with each step.

  Each time we sneak out at night, we have to first make sure the Superiors aren’t in their office. Most of the time they aren’t, but we once found Diaz Superior up there, slurring to himself like a drunken lunatic. Luckily, at halfway up the stairs, if you don’t see a light on, then no one’s there. I’ve always wondered what would happen if one of them came while we were gone and found the door unlocked. . . . Or worse, if they locked it while we were still down there. But even though the thought scares the pigment from my skin, it isn’t enough to keep me from going. Nor are the meager hours of sleep.

  Seconds later, the steps squeak again, and the dusty air shifts as Jax slides in beside me. “All clear.” He takes my hand again. I’ve grown to love Jax’s hand in mine—the roughness of his skin, the calluses I’ve memorized, the warmth I don’t want to let go of.

  When we get to the back corner doors near the washing station, the pungent odor of industrial soap makes me plug my nose. I’d rather smell the dungeon’s mold-stink. Nothing says “Welcome to the Tree Factory! Your Hell-on-Earth until the day you die” more than the chemical scent of that soap. Rumors once circulated through the adults that it was made from the fat of the dead. Horrible, nasty stuff.

  Maybe we’ll find some good soap again. We once found some inside a little jar in one of Bunker A’s deteriorated washrooms, one I remember using a few times as a young girl. We made that soap last for a month, rationing only a drop for bathing in the evenings. The girls’ broad smiles as they smelled each others’ hair afterwards was worth the risk to hunt for more. But that was months ago, and we haven’t found any since.

  For a year, we’ve been sneaking around underground, and not once have we been caught. At first, we were terrified we would be. We’d let a month or two go by before we went out again. But as time passed, we got braver and braver, and now we go once or twice a week. Humphrey covers for us as long as we find good stuff to bribe him with, though not once in the past year has he had to.

  It’d be easy to let our guard down, so we’re careful not to get too over-confident. One thing you learn after working your whole life in the Tree Factory: over-confidence will get you killed. My daddy’s voice echoes in my mind: Stay on guard. Be aware of your surroundings. Notice the nuances. Cover your tracks. Always be prepared. Question everything. This is how you stay alive, Joy. And this is how you keep the ones you love alive.

  Jax moves the heavy shelf away from the wall—first one side, then the other—leaving a space wide enough to squeeze through to the hidden door. After everyone was dead and the Superiors closed off the bunkers, they moved this shelf in front of the door, thinking we’d forget. But everyone we loved once lived beyond that door, once walked those corridors, hands clasped, laughing, singing. . . .

  How could we ever forget?

  And not get back there as soon as possible?

  Jax jiggles the key in the lock, and it clicks. As always, I hold my breath, remembering the first time we went down. Most terrifying, yet exciting, night of my life; the night I realized I have my daddy’s spirit and the Superiors would never fully control me. Now, my stomach flip-flops like it did back then. A few years have gone by since they locked the doors, and us inside the Tree Factory, forevermore. If they caught us, it would surely be our deaths. Still, what kind of life are we living anyway?

  We step into the dank darkness, and I close the door quietly behind us. Blindly, I reach for my spear leaning against the wall. The roughness of its iron and the weight in my palm brings me comfort. Someday, I may bring it inside the factory and turn the place upside down. The Superiors’ blood would paint the walls, and I would usher my brothers and sisters underground, to—

  —utter darkness, bad air, and living off rats.

  The fantasy’s always grand, until it ends there, particularly with the rats. Their scratchy scurrying through the wall crevices makes me s
hiver. Of all the animals left last, why rats? I hate rats. My stomach knots up remembering the warmth dripping down my chin because hunger won out that time. . . . A chill devours me. “Light?” I say to Jax, trembling.

  He takes something from his pocket, gives it a shake, then his hand is glowing bright whitish-blue. “We’ll have to go to Bunker A’s warehouse first,” he says. “This is the last light stick we have.”

  “Okay. Where else are we going? I mean, did you have a specific destination in mind, or are we just exploring?”

  “Both, kind of. Remember that freight elevator in B?” He heads down, and I follow close behind.

  “The one that doesn’t work because there’s no electricity?”

  “Yeah. Maybe there’s a hidden staircase nearby that goes to the same place. I know there has to be more than six sub-level floors. And they had to have more stairs for emergencies, you know, in case of power failure . . . ? We might find the trolley tunnels, or . . . or even the reservoir where our water from the Other Side comes from, then we’ll have a way out—”

  “And, what? Swim to freedom?”

  “If we have to. Come on, we’ve gotta find a way to get farther down.”

  Farther down.

  I want to, as much as I don’t want to. Not even our parents knew what lay on the lower levels—if there were any. They all had stories supporting their speculations, of course, like science labs for creating new animal species that lived on less oxygen and were useful to us remaining humans. . . . And this was their reasoning behind the jumpers. Jumpers were one of the scientists’ “mistakes,” like the other, larger “mistakes” that escaped and killed off half of the population.

  Old Jonesy, the drunken storyteller who swore he knew all of Bygonne’s secrets, slurred on and on about the lower floors being overrun by beasts the scientists created, and how everyone was gobbled up. Then, he’d laugh and drink more, embellishing the story every time he told it. At first, the creature was as black-as-night and bigger than five grown men, then it was a two-headed, fire-breathing beast with ten eyes and wings as black-as-night . . . or something stupid like that. He had a thing for “black-as-night.” People would listen long enough for a moment’s entertainment, before pushing him off to the side, where Old Jonesy would slump alone in a corner somewhere. Exactly how we found him, years later. Last man standing in the Greenleigh bunkers wasn’t standing at all; he was slumped and alone, and still is.