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

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  Stumbling up the stairs, pausing every other one to steal another kiss, Jax and I finally make it back to the dorms. Humphrey’s in the same position we left him—sitting up, hands still clasped in front of him, except now he’s snoring.

  “You aren’t fooling anyone,” says Jax, and he drops the third-full bottle of liquor onto the cot, startling Humphrey awake.

  “Took you long enough,” he grumbles and snatches up the bottle. He unscrews the cap and has it emptied in seconds, with hardly a cringe, then hands the drained evidence back to Jax. “Get rid of this.”

  A flash of purple light flickers from the chopper window. Jax heads toward it, returning the empty bottle to his back pocket. I follow, still swaying from the liquor and the evening’s events. When we get to the window, lightning rips through the sky—an electric web of destruction, promising to split the clouds open any second to spew toxic filth onto Greenleigh and the rest of Central Bygonne. It rains here more than anywhere else, and depending on the severity of the storm, the stability of the Tree Factory’s power is questionable.

  “Nice,” Jax says. “That’s what we need, more excitement.”

  “Trees have to fill with water somehow,” I mumble. “Come on, I need to get Baby Lou her medicine.”

  Jax takes my hand, and we travel back down the hallway. “Okay, but then we’re going out again.”

  “We are?”

  “Yup.”

  “Where?”

  “You know where. Miguel wants to bring Aby.”

  “You told him?”

  We approach a reclined, temporarily silenced Humphrey.

  “We’re going in for a couple minutes,” Jax says to him, “but we’re coming right back out.”

  Humphrey shrugs. “Don’t get caught.”

  “I wish you’d quit saying that.”

  Another shrug. “It’d be game over if you did.”

  “Thanks for that constant reminder.” I shove Jax into the shadows on the other side of his door. “You told Miguel?” I repeat.

  “Well, you told Aby. Of course I told Miguel. He’s my best friend.”

  “I thought I was your best friend.” And I make a dramatic pouty lip, one he’ll only witness when there’s liquor in me.

  He tugs me closer, takes the opportunity to nibble on the lip softly. “You’re more than that.” He slaps my backside. “Now come on. The night’s young. Get Aby. Wear that sexy black dress.” Then he winks and disappears inside the boys’ dorm as I float to ours and pour through the door like water.

  “Joy!” Aby guides a needle into a piece of fabric, tugs the string through the other side. “What took you so long? I’ve been worried sick. Did you get the medicine?”

  Besides Aby, only Serna and another girl are still sewing. The pile of ripped garments has shrunk to only a few remaining, and the stack of neatly lain, freshly re-mended clothing is tall by its side.

  “Yeah, I got the medicine. And we were . . . sidetracked.” I can’t hide my grin. “Awesome job on the clothes! I can’t believe you’re almost finished.”

  Aby’s eyes widen with knowing, and her mouth gapes. She covers it, then quickly removes her hand. “You didn’t!” She stands and sniffs at my breath. “Is that . . . liquor I smell? Joy! Tell me all about it. I want details. But not too many, that would be—”

  “There’s not much left, right?” I interrupt.

  “Huh?” She blinks. “Oh, no. Just three things. These girls are sewing maniacs over here.” And she winks at them. Their eyes are heavy and glazed from the extra hours of monotonous work after twelve hours of hard labor. “The others kept dozing off mid-stitch and poking themselves, so I sent them to bed.”

  “Nice work, girls. How’s Baby?”

  “Still hot and dry. She drank water, but not much.”

  I go to her crib with the medicine bottle and pick her up. She stirs, but doesn’t wake. “Hey sweetheart, I have your medicine.” Her cheek’s hot against my lips. I unscrew the bottle, drip two drops into her mouth, then blow into her nostrils to make sure she swallows.

  “She needs a doctor,” Aby says.

  “I know.”

  But we both know that’s silly-speak. The cost of taking her to a doctor in Taborton—the nearest living, breathing city, ten miles west of here—is twice as much as buying three new orphans. And leaving the Tree Factory with Baby Lou . . . someone would have to go along to care for her. The Superiors sure won’t. That would mean showing someone the way to the trolley tunnels . . . the way out. Totally out of the question.

  “Can you two finish up these last three things?” I ask the girls.

  They nod.

  “Why?” Aby asks.

  “We’re going out again,” I whisper.

  “What? Where?”

  “You’re coming, too.”

  Her eyes light up, and she claps her hands.

  I give the bottle to Serna, who tosses me a concerned glance.

  “If we’re not back . . . when you wake up, make sure Baby Lou gets two drops every four hours. And don’t let the Superiors find this bottle, whatever you do. Hide it at all costs, got it?”

  “I won’t let anything happen to it,” says Serna. “But you’ll be back, right?”

  “Yes.” I kiss Baby Lou’s cheek and lay her down in her crib, covering half of her body with a blanket so she doesn’t catch a chill. “But . . . just in case.”

  I retrieve my box of belongings from under my bed and dig through it; a deck of cards, scant clothing, a few tattered books of fairy tales, and Millie, the animal my mother made me, until I find the slinky black dress I hid underneath it all. I take it and Millie out to inspect them both. Many things my mother made with her hands, but this I remember most. She removed half of her own bed pillow’s stuffing and cut a pattern out of an old skirt, coughing the entire time. It wouldn’t be much longer until she was gone from my life forever.

  “What kind of animal are you making?” I asked her.

  “Does it matter?” she responded.

  I trace Millie with my fingers—droopy, uneven ears; four short appendages; a long tail where the stuffing has gathered in a fat lump at the end—and remember that day, her words.

  “What matters,” she continued, “is that you’re going to find one. You’re going to make it out, Joy. You’ll be free one day.” Then, she tossed a long brunette wave of hair over her shoulder, and showed me how to sew. My first—and last—lesson. Like with reading. Daddy taught me what little he knew, and I taught myself a little more. One last deep inhale into Millie’s smooth, stale fabric, and I lay it down next to Baby Lou.

  In a way, I suppose my mother was right. Though no one could’ve guessed what we’d find twenty-three levels beneath the earth. I wish I could tell her I witnessed a real animal roaming free beneath the sun. . . .

  I hold up the slinky black dress to inspect it. “Do you have any dresses?” I ask Aby.

  She nods. “An old one of my mother’s. Why?”

  “Wear it,” I say, “Tonight, we’re celebrating.”

  “Oh? Celebrating what?”

  “Freedom.”

  NINE

  Once Aby and I are spot-cleaned and have nervously slipped into our too-snug-and-too-revealing dresses (with our everyday work boots), we quickly comb each other’s hair and fidget. Neither of us has ever dressed up for a boy before.

  “This is, like, a real date!” she says, clapping quietly.

  The tap-tap-tap at the door says it’s time to go.

  “Ugh—I’m changing,” I say, and go to peel the thing off of me. But Aby slaps my hand.

  “No, leave it. You look incredible. Besides, they’re here. Come on.”

  We wave to Serna and the other girl finishing up the last two garments, and they wave back. I mouth a ‘thank you,’ and the younger one rolls her eyes. Obviously jealous. Definitely understandable. This is the most excitement we’ve had in, like, well . . . ever, as Jax said. And leaving them behind to sew clothes f
or Arianna Superior . . . I probably wouldn’t be too happy about it, either.

  Aby and I pause to do a last minute tug-and-straighten, then Aby opens the door, despite my frantic head shaking.

  “Hey!” she whisper-yells and jumps straight into Miguel’s waiting arms, wrapping her legs around him.

  Jax, on the other hand, struggles to pick his jaw up from the floor while I stand there like a big dumb lump of awkwardness. I kick a boot toe at the ground, and catch Humphrey peeking at me from under the sagging fat of his arm. He quickly hides his eyes when I glance his way.

  “Wow,” Jax whispers, “you look . . .”

  “Fantastic, right?” says Aby.

  “Uh-huh.” He nods and takes a slow step forward, as if afraid to break me with too swift of a touch. “Gorgeous,” he says, while he slips both arms around my waist and lifts me up off the ground. He squeezes me tight, plants a soft kiss on my lips.

  “Thanks.” My cheeks burn with the embarrassment of my embarrassment. “Can we get going now?”

  “Certainly, mademoiselle.” Jax winks and takes my hand. “I feel like I need to be all formal and whatnot with you dressed like that.”

  We all laugh.

  “You look fantastic, too, Aby,” Miguel says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Man”—Jax rubs his hands together—“do we have a night to remember ahead of us, or what? Here. . . .” He passes out breathers, which we strap to our heads.

  “A fine addition to this ridiculous dress,” I mumble.

  “It’s not ridiculous,” Jax counters. “You could take over the world in that thing.”

  I giggle. “Well, thank you. Maybe it’ll come in handy one day if we ever find a way out of here.”

  At the wash station shelf, Jax and Miguel move it away from the door, and in seconds, we all have our breathers on and air-locked, and have ducked into the darkness. I quietly close the door, feel for my spear and, finding it in the same spot as always, finally let out my held breath. Jax hands Aby and Miguel the two dimming light sticks from earlier, then cracks a new one. A bright bluish-white globe of luminescence glows brighter, becomes zig-zags as Jax shakes it vigorously.

  The ground grumbles with the thunder outside; a dark, low vibration that raises the tiny hairs on my arms.

  “Let’s hope the power doesn’t act up,” Jax says.

  “Seriously? Why’d you have to say that?” I ask. “Remember last time, the jumper?”

  “That was a coincidence.”

  “You guys saw jumpers last time?” Miguel asks.

  “One. Right after Jax mentioned how it’d been a while since we saw one.”

  “Maybe we should stay—”

  “Nah, man, it was just one.” Jax runs his fingers through his hair. “And I speared it. So now, it’s none.”

  “Always more where that came from,” I say.

  Jax holds his light stick above my face. “You aren’t scared, are you?” He winks, but I merely stare back until I have to turn away. Now that the little bit of liquor has worked its way through my body, a fuzzy faded feeling surfaces. Embarrassment finds me unable to fend it off. Embarrassment and fear . . . interesting combination. Kind of like fruit and death.

  “No,” I finally say. “I’m not scared.”

  A total bluff, though my want to not be scared wins out. Mind over matter, my daddy used to say all the time.

  “Hell no, you’re not,” Jax says. “You’re one tough girl. Wanna lead?”

  “Let’s not get too carried away.” I hand the spear over to Jax and take my place behind him in the cramped passageway. Aby trails me, then Miguel, taking up the rear; our usual order when we come down together. The one time I led was the one time a jumper landed on me. Luckily, Jax has good reflexes.

  Before long, the passageway ends and opens up to the larger area that branches off into different corridors and stairwells, elevators and doors—all of which have been explored—and I fan my fading light stick in a semi-circle around me, keeping alert for jumpers.

  A small white rat scurries by, startling us.

  “Johnny would have the time of his life down here,” says Miguel. “He won’t quit bugging me to ask you to let him come.”

  “Yeah, I’d bring him,” Jax says, “but . . .”

  “He’s a live wire?” Miguel finishes for him.

  “Yup. Love the guy, but he’s loco. And I don’t want to have to search him down in this place.”

  Miguel laughs. “You got that right.”

  We pass up the warehouse, moving quickly through the connecting tunnel between Bunker A and Bunker B. When we get to the stairwell door to start down the stairs, Aby breathes in deep behind me. “Ugh,” she says, “I hate going down here.”

  “Aw . . . I’ll keep you safe, baby,” Miguel says.

  “Evenin’,” says Jax as he steps over Old Jonesy’s legs.

  For the hundredth time I, too, step over him, and wonder how he died, right here in the stairwell, up against the wall.

  “It’s not the jumpers I’m worried about.” Aby shivers dramatically, easing over his legs behind me.

  “You ain’t afraid of him, are ya?” says Jax. “He’s such a sweet fellow. Shy, quiet . . .”

  “Funny.”

  Something slides against the concrete steps behind me, and I stop, shine my light stick to illuminate Miguel with Old Jonesy’s boots in his hand. I smirk.

  “What?” he says. “I need some new boots, man, look.” And he points his light down onto his own with holes cut in the toes to allow room for his feet, which probably outgrew the shabby things years ago.

  “You go right ahead,” I say. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  Jax inches up behind me. “Yeah, better a few sizes too big, than too small.”

  “And Old Jonesy’s got some big-ass feet,” Miguel says. “You know what that means.”

  Jax snickers.

  “Oh my God,” I mumble. “You’re joking, right?”

  Old Jonesy is now slumped over entirely, his body blocking our way back up. Once Miguel has on the dead man’s boots, laced-up and tied, Jax helps him reposition Old Jonesy like he was, setting Miguel’s raggedy boots beside him.

  “Thanks for the trade, man,” Miguel says.

  “Better?” Aby asks, shivering again.

  “Definitely.”

  “I do not even want to know how those smell.”

  “Probably a lot like those clothes you washed for Arianna Superior,” I say.

  “Ick. You should wash those,” she says to Miguel. “Really.”

  Once we descend the remaining flights of stairs, the citrus smell greets us, stronger than before, and triggers my heart-pounding. Almost there. None of us makes a sound as we traipse down the last dark and hollow corridor where the elevator lies. The closer we get, the stronger the citrus scent, vastly overpowering the normal mildew-and-musty smell of every underground bunker we’ve explored.

  “What’s with the smell?” Miguel asks.

  “The smoke smelled like that, real strong,” says Jax. “In that room, before we went to . . . wherever it is we went to.”

  “The Other Side. It has to be.”

  “All right, Momma Joy. If you say so.”

  “There’s nothing else it could be,” I argue. “At least I . . . I don’t think there is.”

  The rhythm of our eight feet stepping softly toward the known-but-still-unknown is teetering on too much to handle. Nervousness brings a slight nausea, but it could be from the liquor. Last time Jax and I found liquor in the kitchen, I was nauseous for two days. Soon, our globes of light shine in the reflection of the elevator doors a few feet down the otherwise dark corridor. Adrenaline makes me shudder.

  “Well?” I say. “Go on then, Jax. . . .”

  He steps forward, fist clenched, knuckles raised to knock, when the light above it lights up and the elevator dings. The door whooshes open.

  Aby jumps into Miguel’s arms, and I take a step back.

 
“Jax,” I say, “you didn’t even—”

  “I know, I know. More importantly, though, I didn’t even press the button. Did you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You two?”

  They shake their heads.

  “Someone’s definitely down here,” I say.

  The light goes dark again and the elevator doors begin to close. “Come on.” Jax pushes them open again with the spear, holding them in place. “If whoever it is wanted to hurt us, we’d be hurt already.” He gets on the elevator, spear still against the door.

  Aby, Miguel, and I stand frozen.

  “Okay.” He shrugs, moves the spear, and the door begins to close.

  “Jax!” I grab the door, which pops back open again. “What are you doing?”

  “Going to the Other Side . . . or whatever. You three comin’?”

  “What have we got to lose?” Miguel says.

  He’s got a point.

  We enter the elevator with Jax, and he lets the door close.

  “Enter destination,” the computer voice says, making us all jump.

  “I forgot about that,” I say, trying to catch my breath.

  “Does it matter what we enter?” Jax raises his head toward the ceiling. “Won’t you take us where you want to anyway?”

  With a small lurch, the elevator begins to descend, rattling and screeching like before, if not more, because of the extra weight.

  “This is totally creepy,” Aby whispers.

  “This is nothing,” I say. “Wait until we get to twenty-three.”

  Again, like before, after a long descent and much ear-popping, the light to sub-level twenty-three glows and stays lit, while the elevator comes to a stop. The door opens to the frail, grasping cobweb on the overhead fixture. The right-hand corridor is still entirely dark, but straight ahead is lit up with flickering yellow bulbs and green oxygen lights. Jax and I remove our breathers, echoed by a cautious Aby and Miguel, and we’re greeted by the citrus-and-rot stench.

  Jax leads the way, moving purposefully down the long hall, and when we reach the paintings, Aby and Miguel get caught up in their brilliance and mystery, as Jax forges ahead to our green-lit door. I press my hand in my print from before and find it dry. I half-expected it to be some kind of miracle, never-dry paint, which someone from years and years ago used to paint these here. But no. There’s no denying it. Someone is definitely down here.