The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) (19 page)

Jax obviously doesn’t want to give in to my being leader, but he knows I’m right. With a heavy sigh, he motions to Johnny and an older boy. “Let’s go check
it out.”

The light above the counter blinks, then glows brighter to illuminate the area. I glance at Smudge and see a glimmer of magic. “
Did you—?”

“Yes. It’s safer with the
light on.”

Jax moves hastily through the kitchen door with Johnny and the other boy at his heels, and they return a quick moment later. “Come on,”
he says.

“Yeah, seems like a good place to rest,” Johnny agrees. “Just some greenery on one side of the room. We poked, but nothing
scurried out.”

“Be careful what you touch,” says Smudge. “Some of it is highly poisonous. We’ll have to make sure it’s safe enough before we bring in the children.” She looks at Jax. “
May I?”

“Be
my guest.”

She slips around the counter, disappears into the back room, and she’s back a second later. “Common jungle ivy. It isn’
t poisonous.”

“Come on, everyone.” I motion them forward, and we file into a kitchen three times larger than the one at the
Tree Factory.

“Stay away from the vines.” I won’t say it aloud, but I’m still not sure what might be living in them. Halfway across the room near the wall, I choose a spot to set down my bag, as well as Chloe’s and Baby Lou’s. The new kid decides to be rebellious and lie down by himself, next to the ivy. I doubt telling him to move would do any good. I’d be wasting
my breath.

Chloe yawns beside me. “
Momma Joy?”

“Yes?”

“What happened
to Miguel?”

“He
. . .
got hurt.”

She glances up at me, her youth knowing more than it should. “
He died?”

I take her hand, tears in my eyes. “Yes, sweetheart.
He died.”

She scratches her nose with a tiny hand and stares at the floor. After a few seconds, she looks up at me again. “
Momma Joy?”

“Yes?”

“Are we gonna die, too?”

I crouch, knees aching from exhaustion and Baby Lou’s weight in my arms. “No,” I say. “I will not let that happen. Okay?”

She nods. “
Momma Joy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m hungry. Can we
eat now?”

At this, Baby Lou cries louder. She definitely knows that word—eat—and obviously agrees. Time for a changing, a meal, and a nice
long rest.

“Is anyone else hungry?” I ask. Mostly “yeses” come in reply. Johnny and I, as well as Aby and Jax, may very well go the rest of our short lives
without eating.

“Those with cans of food and water in your bags, take out five of each,” I instruct. “Two bites,
then pass.”

“Hey!” Johnny yells from the front corner of the room. He props a small door open with his foot. “Washrooms, and they look decent. Nothing alive in here,
at least.”

Soon, a group of children line up to use the washrooms. I lay Baby Lou down on a blanket and take a bottle of water from my bag, along with a few pieces of the T-shirt from the warehouse. I fill her own bottle and hand it to her, but she kicks her legs and screams, swatting and fighting me, because she’s so tired and cranky. After some wrangling, I get her cleaned up and re-wrapped snugly in a fresh cloth diaper, when Aby brings me a can of something called “
mashed potatoes.”

“Looks like stuff she can eat,” she mutters, handing me the can and walking away before I can
thank her.

I lift the spoon out and inspect the sticky white fluff. Smudge grins at me. When I catch her, she turns away. What a strange girl. Strange, yet intriguing. Kind of like this cloud-in-a-can. I spoon some out and
taste it.

“Oh my God,” I say. “This stuff is delicious.” Of course, anything would be. I offer a small portion to Baby Lou, and she takes a careful bite. As soon as she tastes it, though, she grabs the spoon. She’s never wanted to feed herself before. With Tree Factory slop, that’s not so hard
to understand.

I manage to get in a few bites before Baby Lou, Chloe, and another girl finish off the can. With food this delicious, I might be happy to eat again. And it may have the power to heal a broken heart—may. I’m not ruling out
the possibility.

After mealtime’s over, I roll Baby Lou up in a blanket. In my arms, she gulps on her water, eyes growing heavy, and I hum in her ear as Johnny digs through a couple of cabinets. The rest of the children get comfortable on the rotted
tile floor.

“Jackpot!” Johnny calls out, startling Baby Lou and a few others. “Ooh, sorry. Jackpot,” he says again, quietly. A cabinet he’s opened in the back corner by the ovens and the refrigerator is full of folded blankets. Dust flies as he beats one with his fist. “They’ll work.” He passes them around while I tuck Millie into Baby Lou’s blanket with her. I lay her down next to Chloe, who hugs her new doll tightly, and cover them both with another blanket. In seconds, they surrender to sleep. Two minutes, and they’
re snoring.

Three more little girls lie on Chloe’s other side, snuggling with their dolls, while another line of girls are on the far side of Aby, who’s chosen, strangely, to lie down right beside me, facing the opposite direction. At our feet, the boys make themselves comfortable, creating a wall between us and the rest of the room. Except for the new kid, of course, who’s sprawled out in
the open.

Jax stands before us all. “Listen up, older boys. We’re going to take shifts. Everyone needs rest, but someone also needs to keep watch. Groups of two.” He peers around the room. “No clock in here, so
. . .
when you can’t hold your eyes open any longer, wake up the next pair. We’ll start at that end”—he points to our left—“and work our
way down.”

I consider talking to Aby, but it’s probably best to leave her alone, let her rest. Doesn’t seem like she wants to talk to me anyway, seeing as how I knocked her unconscious minutes after her boyfriend died. An “I’m sorry” might be good. But maybe it’s too soon
for that.

Smudge sits near the door, back against the wall, not looking the slightest bit tired. The lights dim—thanks to her, I’m sure—just enough to see by, though dark enough to sleep. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d sit next to her for hours, asking a million questions, probably faster than she could ever
answer them.

Johnny timidly walks over to Smudge and crouches to offer her a piece of cloth and a bottle of water to wash with. She stares at him curiously for a few seconds, then takes them and says “Thank you.” Johnny tips Old Jonesy’s hat and grins, then heads toward me. “Here you go.” He gives me a half-bottle of water with hastily
cleaned hands.

“Thanks, Johnny.” I pour the water into my own hands, and use a square of cloth to wash off Miguel’s blood. The remnants in the grooves of my fingernails will have to stay for now. I can’t waste any more of our drinking water. I’ll just try not to look at my hands. Shouldn’t be too hard; I have so many other ones to
focus on.

“Is Jax taking the first shift?” I
ask quietly.

“Yeah, him and two other guys. Would you feel better if I took the
first shift?”

“No, it’s fine. Thanks, though.”

And here, for the longest time, I thought Johnny was the unstable one. We all did. Now, I’m seeing a whole different side of him. Different sides to everyone I thought I knew. Johnny’s become a confidant, a leader; someone I can trust and depend on. The others, Jax and Aby
. . .
their masks have crumbled, dropping pieces here and there for us to trip over as we try to navigate the storm. You really don’t know someone until they’ve been pushed to the edge.
Will they fall
. . .
or fly?
Or maybe, sometimes, it takes falling to learn how
to fly.

Johnny clears his throat. “Okay, well
. . .
I’ll be right over there if you need me.” He points a few
people down.

“Okay,” I say. “Get
some rest.”

“You, too, Joy.” And he walks back to his blanket to lie down, with a split-second glance at Smudge before
he does.

I dig through my daddy’s magic bag to find the pants and shirt my mother slept in every night. I’ve never worn them, but I guess now’s the time. Taking them from the bag, I cross to the washroom when one becomes available, and before I close myself up inside the stale-smelling space, Johnny gives me a
reassuring nod.

Inside, it’s apparent the washroom was once a luxury. Gold peeks out from underneath grime on all of the knobs and handles. The once pristine white-with-gold-swirl countertops are now dingy, fractures crawling along the surface. In the blurry mirror, I briefly take in my reflection, then look away. Bruised, scratched, and scabbed. Filthy. A
wretched mess.

I shed my daddy’s work shirt, plastered hard with Miguel’s dried blood, then my mother’s jeans, which aren’t as bad. Maybe once we’re on the Other Side, I can wash most of it out with good soap. Can’t bear the thought of
discarding them.

Quickly, I wash my face with the rest of the water in the bottle, then change into my mother’s night clothes, surprised to find they fit me perfectly. Perhaps too perfectly. A tiny pink bow dots the V-neck that swoops down to show more of me than I’m used to. The soft, pink-and-white fabric brings back so many memories
. . .
lying in bed next to her; listening to her labored breathing; feeling the cloth, hot with fever from her skin; praying for her pain to go away, though at the same time, praying for another day with her. I know how it is to be conflicted. I suppose that’s my connection
with Smudge.

When I come out of the washroom, Johnny’s eyebrows arch, and he grins at me. He gives me a thumbs-up, and my face flushes hot. It’s a nice gesture, though I’m not concerned with how I look, other than being free of blood and dirt. Quietly, I lie down on my blanket next to Baby Lou and Chloe, and Aby again turns her back to me. Jax’s eyes dart between the two of us, and I shift my back to them both. I can’t think anymore right now. So I drape my arm across Baby Lou and a snoring Chloe, and I, too, give myself
to sleep.

It seems like seconds after I close my eyes, screaming jolts them open again. I sit up to find Chloe flailing by the wall. Inches from her and Baby Lou crawls another mammoth cockroach. Immediately, I yank up Baby Lou, and Johnny plants the thing to the floor with a
crossbow bolt.

“It was on me, Momma Joy!” Chloe cries, swatting at her head. “It was on me,
again!
”

“Look!” Someone to my left points across the room at another cockroach perched on top of the new kid’
s head.

“Hey, new kid!” Johnny calls over. “Wake up!” He aims his crossbow and cautiously moves toward the boy, whose stillness beneath the heavy insect makes my blood
run cold.

With one swift kick, Johnny sends the disgusting bug flying across the room, though a part of its ripped-off head remains attached to the kid’s scalp. The headless body stills its squiggling, and Johnny crouches to take the boy’s wrist in hand. He drops it, shakes his head. “Jax, where
are you?”

I leave Baby Lou and Chloe with Serna and rush over to Johnny, glancing around on my way. Jax, Aby, and Smudge are
all missing.

“What happened?”
I ask.

“That thing sucked out his brains or something, look
. . . .
” And he points to the piece of insect still attached through what appears to be a tube inserted into a bloody hole in the top of his head. His sunken eyes and cheeks show something’s obviously missing
behind them.

“Oh my God
. . . .
” A wave of nausea hits me. I turn away. “Where are Jax and Aby, and—?”

The door opens, and I’m relieved to see Smudge. I repeat my question
to her.

“They left a couple of hours ago,” she replies. “He left two boys to watch, and told me not to follow, so I
. . .
respected his wish. But then, two hours passed, and I was
. . .
worried and went to search for them. I came back when I heard the screaming.
What happened?”

I address the group. “Who did Jax leave in charge? Come here, please.”

Johnny joins us at the door and tells Smudge what happened. “So I’m thinking the quicker we can find Jax and Aby and get to your Rabbi friend, the better,”
he says.

“Raffai,” she corrects. “And
I agree.”

Two boys approach, staring guiltily at
the ground.

“What happened?”
I ask.

One boy shrugs. “He left us in charge. Said they’d be
back soon.”

“Okay
. . .
so weren’t you supposed to
be watching?”

“We fell asleep,” the
other says.

Irritated, I wave them away, though I might’ve done the same thing, too. In fact, guilt bubbles up to the surface, and now I’m thinking it’s my fault. I should’ve stayed awake; I should’ve
been watching.

“So, they just
. . .
left?” I ask Smudge. “
No explanation?”

“Not directly. I heard them discussing finding a way out through the aboveground tunnel, and
. . .
” She bows
her head.

“And, what?”

“I think they
. . .
wanted privacy.”

An ember of jealousy sparks inside, hotter than before. The thought of them alone together angers me for so many reasons. Is now really the time for that? They must be losing
their minds.

“We have to go find them,”
Johnny says.

“What about the children?” I ask. “Did Jax take
the spear?”

“Yes,”
says Smudge.

Johnny motions to the far end of the room. “Look at all those drawers.” The dusty ovens and refrigerators sit nestled among a ton of cabinets, like the one he found the blankets in, and rows of drawers beneath them. “This is a kitchen. There have to be knives somewhere.” He retrieves his bolt from the insect, slinging guts from it, and clicks it back into place while the three of us cross the room to the drawers. But after digging through every one of them twice, plus all of the cabinets, we don’t find a
single knife.

“Someone’s already cleared them out,” says Johnny. “They had to. Nothing useful anywhere.” He removes a thick sheet of paper from a drawer and arches an eyebrow, whistles softly. “Here, check this out. This is what this place used to look like.” He holds it up, worn around the edges, with a picture and words on the front. “What does
it say?”

I take it and trace the fancy lettering below the most stunningly elegant structure I’ve ever seen. Words that are nearly impossible
to conceive.

“Read it out loud,”
Johnny says.

I take a breath. “Gomorrah Grande: Give Your Ultimate Sacrifice today, in luxury, and live forever the life of
your dreams.”

“What does that mean?”
he asks.

“I’ll explain everything once we are out of this place,” Smudge says. “We need to find your friends, and quickly. Leave the weapon with someone here. The three of us
can go.”

“Without a weapon?” Johnny scratches his head. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea,
do you?”

“Please,” says Smudge. “I never use weapons. You have to
trust me.”

Johnny looks at me, but I’m remembering the monster flying back into the air, moments before Smudge slung Miguel over her shoulder and jumped onto the boat. “We have to trust her,” I say. “She knows more about this place than we do. And she’s survived down here alone,
without weapons.”

For a moment, he stands in frozen contemplation, before shrugging and trotting off to a group of older boys, one of which he chooses and gives a quick crossbow
lesson to.

“Are you sure they’ll be safe down here?”
I ask.

“No. As your friend said, we are not entirely safe anywhere. But if you give them metal cooking pans and utensils, they could either fight off more insects or get our attention if they
need help.”

“
Good idea.”

Johnny returns after he and the other boy move the new kid’s body to the farthest corner of the room. He’s uneasy without his crossbow, stuffing his hands into his pockets, shrugging. “
What now?”

“Help me get some pans and utensils to pass out,” I say, and I explain to him what Smudge
told me.

Johnny shrugs again. “Okay, sounds like
a plan.”

So we clear the cabinets, the most deadly utensil being a sharp, three-pronged fork, which I hand to an
older boy.

“Seriously?”
he says.

“Seriously.” I squeeze his shoulder and whisper, “Let’s just hope you don’t have to
use it.”

Johnny, Smudge, and I take a step back to view our pathetic little army. I want to laugh, but I’m afraid it would become tears. All of the children I’ve grown to love and have become protector of
. . .
defending themselves with ordinary kitchen items. Chloe grips her wire whisk as if her life depends on it. She isn’t so far from
the truth.

“Everyone listen up,” I announce, “we have to go find Jax and Aby so we can get out of here. Lock the door behind us, and do not open it unless you hear three knocks.” I motion to the boy with the crossbow and he comes forward. “Guard the door,” I tell him. “And if we’re
not back—”

“We’ll be back,”
Smudge says.

Chloe cries, then Baby Lou starts to cry, too. My anger at Jax and Aby flares into silent rage. If anything happens to these children while I’m gone
. . .
I don’t know what I’ll do. I give Baby Lou a hug and Chloe a kiss. “Be a strong girl,” I say. “I’ll be
back soon.”

Chloe nods her blonde head
and sniffles.

“Take good care of my Baby,” I
tell Serna.

She nods, too, cradling a frying pan beneath her
other arm.

“Come on,” says Johnny, “we need to hurry. They could be
in trouble.”

“Oh, they’re in trouble all right,” I mumble. “
Big trouble.”

§

As soon as we cross the threshold, the door closes swiftly behind us, and we hear two
deadbolt clicks.

“I’m thinking we should’ve grabbed one of those pans,”
Johnny says.

And I’m thinking I agree with him. Surveying our surroundings—leafy vines that have swallowed the walls, twisty jungle trees that have pushed right up through the tile floor—I feel so small
and vulnerable.

“It’s fine,” Smudge says, removing her hood from her head. “It’s your friends out here we should worry about.” She moves ahead, waves a hand behind her. “Stay close. When I came out looking for them earlier, I thought they may have gone upstairs to search for a ground-level exit. I took the elevator up, but didn’t see or hear them anywhere. So we should start our search
down here.”

“There’s another elevator?”
I ask.

She nods. “For inside the hotel. It begins on the next
level up.”

“Should we call for them?”
Johnny asks.

“No.” Smudge shakes her head, voice low, almost a whisper. “It’s best to be quiet, especially when others are around. We don’t want to alert them to our whereabouts more than we
already have.”

“You really think others are here?”
I ask.

“Yes. I know
there are.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” says Johnny. “Let’s hope they’
re nice.”

“That is not extremely likely.” Smudge scratches her neck near the black string of letters and numbers
printed there.

“What does that mean?” I ask, pointing at
the tattoo.

She starts at the question. “Oh
. . .
that
. . . .
”

We head in the opposite direction of our entrance, passing rustling leaves and shuffling sounds that may be critters scurrying around, trying to find the best angle to attack from. A dark doorway set in the far corner comes into view, and Smudge heads toward it. To our left and out from under a massive mushroom sticks the bent legs of a fallen golden bird. High above, and caught in thick, dangling vines, the chain which once
held it.

“So, are you going to tell us, or not?” Johnny asks. “Because I’m a little
curious myself.”

“Curiosity
. . . .
” Smudge’s eyes shift around the room. “That’s one of the more dangerous ones
. . . .
”

“You know, you’re something else,” says Johnny. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re cute—real cute—but sometimes, I have no idea what you’
re saying.”

“My name,”
she says.

We stare, confused, as we reach the
shadowy doorway.

She stops and faces us slowly, points at the tattoo. “This is my
real name.”

“I thought Smudge was your name,”
I say.

“No, that’s kind of a
. . .
nickname.”

“So”—I lean in to get a better look—“7ZS3-22Y is your
real name?”

She nods.

“Man,” says Johnny, “things must be
real diff—”

Smudge holds up a hand, puts a finger to her lips, and motions for us to get between her and the wall. We scurry behind while she stands as still as stone, eyeing the thick leaves a few feet ahead. Something swishes them, and they
wave slightly.

Smudge raises her left hand, arm outstretched, palm facing the
hidden intruder.

I hold
my breath.

The leaves wave again, then something leaps through—furry and brown, with yellow eyes and a long striped tail, sharp fangs in a frothing mouth. An invisible force knocks it back into the leaves, and it howls as it smacks the wall behind the
thick vines.

After a few intense seconds, Smudge tugs her sleeve down over
her hand.

“How did you do that?”
I ask.

“Yes,” rises an unfamiliar voice from within the vines. “How
did
you
do that?”

The leaves move again, and this time, the shape of a person—a leafy person—moves forward. I make out brown eyes set in dark-brown skin, almost entirely hidden by leaves. A long, silver kitchen knife in his hand reflects the light. Then, a second figure steps forward, holding the creature that tried to attack us, a second silver knife in its
own hand.

“Well, we found the kitchen knives,”
Johnny says.

“What the hell did you do to Tallulah?” a girl’s voice demands. I make out pale skin, slits of angry black eyes, jet-
black hair.

“It will not die,” Smudge says calmly. “It’s only temporarily stunned. It will be fine in about
an hour.”

“She. Tallulah’s a she. And in an hour, I think I’ll let her gnaw on your face.” The girl, covered from head to toe in leaves, comes closer. She stops in front of Smudge, towering over her by at least three or
four inches.

“Then I may have to do more than stun her next time,” says Smudge, without a hint
of intimidation.

“Look,” I say, “we don’t want any trouble. We’re trying to find our friends so we can leave, then we’ll be out of
your way.”

“Where did you all come from?” the boy asks, his deep voice sweet and soothing, like a well of
sleeping angels.

“I’m Joy, and that’s Johnny. We’re treemakers from Greenleigh. And that’s Smudge. She’s
. . .
”

“From the far east,”
Smudge says.

“Far east?” The girl laughs. “Yeah, right. More like, what planet are
you from?”

“Treemakers, huh?” the boy says, ignoring the girl’s accusations. “What are you doing down here in
the jungle?”