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

Emmanuel Superior flips a long brown curl from his shoulder—one of his worst wigs yet—and beckons to me with his usual purple fingernail.

  “Another glorious day at the Tree Factory!” Mona Superior sings, lifting her skirt and stepping over Diaz’s blood. Then, she sneers. “Now get to work, before I turn the jumpers loose.”

  With that, children hop from their seats to get in line. Most of them have never seen the jumpers the Superiors keep in their bunker as “pets-of-use.” Not many of them would like to. Except for Johnny, maybe; he has a fascination for stalking things in the dark. One night, he tracked something for three hours, only to find it was the smallest rat in the history of Bygonne. He ate it anyway, though, grumbling the whole time.

  I brush my arm against Jax’s; our usual greeting or departing gesture when we’re being watched. At the door, he takes his place at the front of the line. With a protesting Baby Lou, I start up the catwalk steps beneath flaring nostrils, a hairy nose-mole, and fake locks that may have nested families of vermin in their past life. Baby Lou whimpers, and her lip quivers. I brush a teeny curl from her eye as I reach the halfway point. That one act alone, I’m sure, makes the Superiors’ toxic blood bubble and churn beneath their skin.

  “Aww,” says Mona Superior once I’ve reached the catwalk. “Isn’t that precious?” Then, she smacks my face so hard my ears ring.

  “Ow!” I yell, flinching. “What was that for?”

  “For being such a filthy little trollop. I’m sure you’ve done something to deserve it.”

  Emmanuel Superior laughs, his pointy Adam’s apple bobbing above a choker of pink pearls. “Take your nasty excuse for a human being into the office. I don’t know why, but Your Madam Superior has decided to spare its life—this time.”

  When we finally get to the office, I’ll admit, I’m scared. Below me, Mona and Emmanuel Superior disappear behind the doors that lead to the Superiors’ bunker. They rattle shut as the smell of burning flesh greets me—unfortunately, a familiar smell when you’ve built trees your whole life. I know this stench well. A quick set-n-sear job on Diaz Superior’s ankle, maybe.

  I knock swiftly, and Arianna Superior answers. Her son lies still in the corner on the floor, eyes closed, his freshly set, bandaged foot propped up on two pillows. I watch his chest for breathing.

  “Oh, he isn’t dead,” says Arianna Superior, “but he may be soon.” She glides over to the corner, and I swear her legs aren’t moving. Her skirt’s thick, sure. Still, it appears as though she’s . . . floating off the floor. I blink and refocus. She reaches a tall shelf, lifts an arm, stretches up and keeps going, like her body’s made of rubber.

  I need sleep.

  I blink again, rub my tired eyes. She’s returned to normal height, a bottle in each hand, shaking one with a small amount of liquid in it. The other’s full. “Two drops, every four hours for the fever.” She hands me the nearly-empty bottle, then crosses to another corner of the room and picks up a pile of clothes. “When these are adequately washed and mended, you will get more medicine.” She drapes the clothes over my free arm.

  “Thank you, madam,” I say. “I’ll get them mended tonight before bed.”

  By the time I get back to the girls’ dorm, my arms are aching from the weight of Baby Lou and Arianna Superior’s atrocious clothes. The smell radiating from them is so grotesque, I don’t think I’ll ever eat again. Hard enough to eat in the first place.

  I drop the pile beside my bed, and lay Baby Lou down. She begins to cry, rubbing at her eyes with a shaky fist. “Shh, Baby, it’s okay. You’ll feel better soon.” I squeeze two drops of medicine into her mouth and hold it closed, puffing a quick breath into her nostrils to make her swallow. Then, I dip a small cloth into water, and soak down her curly hair and face, her trembling body. She cries from the chill.

  “I wish I could do more, sweetheart.” I affix her into the blanket sling on my back, where she’ll stay for half of the day until I can’t take the weight any longer, then I’ll lay her down in the playpen and hope she doesn’t cry the whole time. My options are extremely limited.

  Guilt and anger make me burn with fury, because I find myself thinking, Maybe she’d be better off dead.

  §

  By the end of the day, I’ve reached a new level of exhaustion, barely able to hold Baby Lou in my arms. Or even move my arms. My feet ache, and my back and neck throb with hot, sharp pains. My eyes struggle to stay open.

  And I have ratty corpse’s clothes to mend. Ugh. But I’m doing it for Baby Lou, not for Arianna Superior, I have to remind myself of that.

  You take the dark with the light and build on.

  Some days, it’s easier than others. Today is not that day.

  “What story are you gonna tell tonight, Momma Joy?” Chloe asks.

  “No story tonight. I’m sorry”—I yawn—“too sleepy. And I have a lot to do before bed.”

  Both rooms fill with groans and complaining, but I’m too drained to care much. Two more drops of medicine go into Baby Lou’s mouth, and she wrinkles her nose at the taste, but swallows on her own this time, without the blowing.

  “Good girl, Baby.” I pat her forehead. Still hot, though not like earlier.

  “What’s with the mountain of rags?” Aby asks.

  “Corpse woman gave me the ‘privilege’ of mending them for Baby Lou’s medicine. I have to finish them before she’ll give me any more.”

  “That’s ridiculous! How could she be so heartless?” Aby lifts a shirt from the top of the pile and sniffs it. “And—ew, gross—where did she get these? Off of dead people?”

  “She is the corpse woman. . . .”

  Aby sighs, and plops down onto my bed, next to the pile. “Well, I guess we have a lot to do, then.”

  “Oh no, Aby, you don’t have to—”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course I do. She’s my baby, too. And you’re exhausted. There’s no way you’ll get these all washed and mended tonight.” She points at the noisily ticking clock, hung slanted on the wall. “It’s already late. Let’s get everyone in bed, then you mend, I’ll wash. We’ll get it done in no time.”

  I grin. “You’re a great sister.” I kick off my daddy’s boots and peel my dirty socks from my stinky feet. “Thank you.”

  “Hey, no problem.” She smiles back.

  Serna takes over spray duty for me tonight, because she sees how tired I am. I rock Baby Lou to sleep while she gets the little ones hosed down, and almost fall asleep myself, sitting there. I should hose down, too. I’m filthy. I lay Baby Lou in her crib, grab a change of clothes, and stumble to the washroom, as clean little girls scramble out in fresh pajamas to hop into their beds. Chloe and the other littlest ones steal hugs and kisses from me on their way past.

  “Sorry I’m not telling a story tonight,” I say to them.

  “It’s okay, Momma Joy,” Chloe says. “You look tired. You can tell us one tomorrow.” She pops a thumb in her mouth and smiles.

  “Thank you for understanding.” I crouch down and kiss her cheek. “Now get some sleep, little sweethearts. Pleasant dreams.”

  They trot off in a line of whispers and giggles and jump into their beds, and I continue on to the washroom.

  “Want me to hold the hose for ya?” Aby asks.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  The hose-down wakes me right up, so for once I’m happy about the cold water. I may be able to make it through the late-night clothes mending now. Plus, it feels good to be clean. Once I’m washed, Aby and I take turns slurping from the nozzle, then she turns the squeaky faucet off and tosses me a towel. I dry my skin and wrap the towel around my head as the remnants of dirty water from my body swirl down the drain in the concrete floor.

  “Feel better?” Aby asks.

  “Much.” I put on my clean clothes—articles we found in the Bunker A warehouse storage—and we tiptoe out.

  We stand staring at the nauseating mound of dead people’s clothes that Arianna Superior probably stripped from the carcasses herse
lf. I shiver.

  “All right,” I say, steeling my resolve. “You ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Aby says with a sigh.

  After removing the needle and thread from the drawer between Aby’s bed and mine, I get to work on the first shirt and have it mended in a couple of minutes. Aby skips off quietly to the washroom to wash it, while I start on the next garment: a skirt with stains on it. My stomach churns as I fumble with the tear caked with dried blood. I set it aside and, trying not to think about how the woman died, move on to the next item. Aby returns with the damp shirt and drapes it over the line that runs through the middle of our room. I hold up the bloody skirt. “This one will need washing first,” I tell her.

  “Yuck.” She makes a face. “What do you suppose—?”

  “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  Pinching a tiny section of the fabric, she holds it at arm’s length, head turned to the side, scowling. She’d be much louder with her disapproval, I’m sure, if there weren’t rows of little sleeping girls nearby.

  “Do you want to trade jobs?” I ask.

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll just wash it with my eyes closed.”

  I giggle. “I don’t know how well that will work, but, okay. . . .”

  “It’ll have to work, or it won’t get washed,” she whispers loudly, carrying it as far away from her body as possible, all the way to the washroom.

  When I agreed to this chore, I had no idea what I was in for. Never has there been such awful, repulsive shreds of clothes. And to think, Arianna Superior will be wearing them with no care for the dead she violated by stealing them. This makes me hate her even more. She’s a filthy, rotten soul, and I’ll never understand why she gets to live thirty years past the average life span, when good people like my parents—like all of our parents—barely even reach thirty.

  At eleven, I give Baby Lou her medicine, relieved her fever has come down. Aby and I are only halfway finished; it’s going to be a long night. We work tirelessly—me, fixing tear after tear; her, running from me to the sink to the clothesline—until I’ve knotted the last strand of thread and handed off the last piece of clothing. She trots over to the washroom, and I check the clock. One-thirty. I lie down next to Baby Lou, and a couple of minutes later, after hanging the last wet item on the full clothesline, Aby collapses onto her bed beside us.

  “So, what’s the secret?” she asks.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you’d tell me later, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Well, tell me, then.”

  But I consider not telling her. How do you describe something like that without sounding insane?

  “I’m not sure how to explain it—”

  “Was it something you found in the bunker?”

  I nod.

  “Well . . . what? What did you find?”

  “We found . . . paradise.”

  “Paradise?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I think it’s . . . somehow . . . a portal to the Other Side.”

  SEVEN

  The second I close my eyes, it seems, the rise-alarm rings from the wall. I force myself awake to find Baby Lou’s fever is back. I give her the last two drops of medicine with some water, and she gulps it down, trembling from the open air on her hot skin. She whimpers and cries feebly. Not only will I be running the chopper on a few hours of sleep again, but I’ll also have Baby Lou to deal with all day. Again.

  “Aby,” I call over.

  Still wrapped up in her blanket, she peeks over at us and sits up. “Morning.” She yawns and stretches. “How’s Baby?”

  “Still hot. Will you hold her while I get ready? Then, I’ll hold her while you do?”

  “Sure.” Aby swings her feet over the bedside and ties her long red curls up in a knot. “Poor thing.” She runs her fingers along Baby Lou’s soft, warm cheek.

  “Yeah, thank goodness I’m getting more medicine for her.” I scan the clothes on the line. “Thank you so much. There’s no way I would’ve finished without your help.”

  “What are sisters for?” She winks, then nuzzles her nose against Baby Lou’s neck. “You sure you’ll be fine with her today? You didn’t get a lot of sleep. . . .”

  “You didn’t either.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, let me know if you need anything. You know where to find me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Paradise,” she whispers, smiles, and scrunches her shoulders like she does when she’s excited. “Can we go tonight? Pleeeeeease. . . . ?”

  “Maybe.”

  She taps her feet on the floor, and bounces on her bed. “We can get one of the other girls to watch Baby while we go. Serna’s good with her.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I say with a yawn. “I’m too tired to think right now. Let me talk to Jax.”

  Soon, I’m changed into work clothes with my boots laced up tight, ready to face Arianna Superior with her washed and patched-up garments. Still a disgusting, ratty mess, but much less so than last night.

  With Baby Lou slung on my back and Arianna Superior’s clothes draped over my arm, I lead the girls from the dorm when the door opens. To our surprise, Diaz Superior—on crutches—waits to guide us to breakfast in an unusual moment of semi-sobriety. The fire in his eyes gives it away. When he’s able to walk straight, he likes to be close instead of up on the catwalk like the others, in case any of us acts up. That way, he’s within arm’s reach. The familiar coil of thornwhip, strung through his belt loop, peeks out from behind him. Today, he wants someone to take out his anger on. God knows he won’t take it out on his mother. She’d kill him with no remorse. With the flick of a finger. Not sure why she hasn’t yet, it’s obvious she despises him. That could explain why he doesn’t have his own oxygen tank.

  Jax nods slightly as we reach the common area door. I breathe deep and prepare myself. You never know with Diaz. He’s flinching with each step. Why on Earth is he mobile? He shouldn’t be up for at least another week. Either his mother put him up to this, or his bloodlust was too great for him to stay still. He sways at the door, and I move aside to let everyone pass. With a whimper, Baby Lou tucks her face down behind my back.

  “What the hell do you want?” Diaz spits a fat lump of mucus onto my boot toe—on my daddy’s boyhood boots. I could breathe fire. But I tame it. For Baby Lou.

  As if it never happened.

  “Madam Superior had me mend her clothes for medicine,” I say. “And I’m finished. I need to take her the clothes and get the medicine now.”

  He snarls a laugh, leans back against the wall, resting a crutch against it, too. “Well, now . . . ain’t that sweet?” He snatches up a shirt and inspects the stitch. “It seems you missed a spot.” Then, squeezing the cloth in both hands, he yanks outward until the fresh seam tears open again, the thread endings reaching out like little arms, begging for justice.

  I’m frozen, speechless. Baby Lou cries, and white hot rage burns inside me. He snatches up another article and rips it in two. Then another, and another, and another, until the weight has lifted from my arm and transplanted itself into my heart. Every item is torn in two.

  I start to walk toward my table, numb.

  “Hey!” he calls behind me. “I didn’t say you could go anywhere.”

  I turn back toward him while Jax and everyone else watches. Once I’m near him again, he slaps me and I fly backward, knocking Baby Lou from her blanket. She screams, and I scramble to scoop her up. My face is throbbing and wet, as Diaz Superior moves closer, thornwhip raised to strike.

  Jax erupts from his chair and slams it against the wall. Diaz pauses at the sound, and in seconds, Jax is between me and Diaz Superior, fists ready, chest heaving, body bent forward. I imagine his eyes, dark and brutal, valiant and fiery, like a hero from the stories I’ve told and read to the children in the past.

  Only now do I see that hero in Jax.

  �
��Go ahead,” he says coolly. “Do it. I dare you.”

  Diaz snickers and teeters on his crutch. Then, he cocks back as if to bring the whip down hard, until an unbearable screech makes us all cover our ears.

  “What are you doing!” comes the howl of Arianna Superior as she bursts through the doors leading to the Superiors’ bunker. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. Like she has wheels for feet. Her sparkling tank struggles to keep up, as Aby steals away Baby Lou into the common area, to safety.

  “Are you aware he’s the best oxygenizer we’ve ever had?” Arianna looms over her son. “Explain to me what’s going on here!”

  “I had your clothes all sewn,” I say, “but he ripped them all—”

  “She’s lying,” Diaz counters. “She brought them to me, just like this—”

  “No”—Jax shakes his head—“she didn’t. He ripped the clothes, then he slapped her and cut her face, and he was going to whip her and the baby to death. And if that happened, who’d run the chopper? Sure as hell won’t be me. I have solenoids to make.”

  What a sly boy he is.

  Arianna glances from the pile of clothes up to her son, and I swear her eyes glow red. Diaz grumbles as he disappears, hobbling toward the corridor to the Superiors’ bunker.

  “Please, madam,” I say. “I stayed up until nearly two o’clock washing and mending everything. I need more medicine—”

  “No.” She lifts her golden mask and inhales deep into it. “Once you have adequately mended these garments, like we agreed—”

  “But . . . but I already did!”

  She swoops down into my face in one swift motion, tip of her nose a splinter from mine—the closest I’ve ever been to her. A dark energy swirls around her, mixed with the smell of rust and salt—tears, maybe?—like she alone is responsible for the world’s pain, suffering, and decay.

  “Do you like to breathe?” she asks.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Are you aware that it’s extremely disrespectful to answer a question with a question?”

  “Is it?”

  Her face flushes blood-red. “Do you know what happens to those who do not respect and obey their Superiors?”