The Earth Dwellers (12 page)

“The consortium voted and decided to—” Buff starts to say.

“Yah, I get
that
,” I say, cutting him off. “But why’d they make such an idiotic decision?”

A voice on my right says, “You should watch what you say, talk like that could be misconstrued as treason.”

I don’t need to turn my head to know the voice. Abe.

Gritting my teeth—not in anger, but with exertion—I turn to look at him. Of course, he’s walking easily, loping along beside me, carrying nothing. His bags are strapped to his ogre-like brother, Hightower, who manages them as easily as the mountain manages us.

“It’s not like you voted for this decision,” I say through clenched teeth.

“True,” he says, tapping a dirty fingernail on his yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “But it’s hard to argue with Glassy soldiers. Hey! Do you want a hand with that cart?”

I know he doesn’t mean his own hands. “It’s our responsibility,” I say.

“C’mon, Dazzy, don’t be such a spoiler. It’s not like I’m selling my brother into slavery. He likes helping, don’t you, Tower?”

Hightower grunts something that sounds enough like a
yes
for Abe’s purposes. “See? Take a load off. You, too, Boof.”

“It’s Buff,” Buff says, but he stops at the same time as I do, lowering to a crouch to set the cart on its front stopper. The temptation is too strong.

“Okay,” I say, “but we’ll take it back when he gets tired.”

“What’s going on down there?” a voice says from the cart bed. A face appears, hanging over the front. Darcy. “Why have we stopped?” She spots Hightower and shrinks back, ducking behind a barrel.

I move aside, massaging my neck, rolling my shoulders, feeling like I might if I’d gone sliding into a tree. Buff looks equally battered as he stumbles over to me.

“Ain’t that better?” Abe says.

I can’t say no, so I don’t say anything.

Hightower throws Abe’s and his bags onto the cart, drawing a squeal from the kids in the back, and then positions himself between the two handles. He takes a moment to scratch his arse and crack his knuckles before stooping to lift the cart, letting out a minor grunt. And then we’re moving, Hightower looking as calm and serene as if he’s carrying no more than a small child on his back.

“Now we can talk,” Abe says.

“About what?” I say, falling in beside him.

He lights up a cigarette.

“When did you start smoking?” Buff asks.

Abe laughs. “From when I could afford to buy them,” he says. “When Dazzy here took down the king and made me a very rich man.”

“None of us are rich anymore,” I mutter.

“This ain’t good,” Abe says, his mouth hanging open, displaying his yellow-black teeth like trophies.

I’m surprised that he says it. Abe likes hiding things, pretending everything’s alright when it’s clearly not. For him to say something like that, he must think our situation’s pretty bad indeed.

“What the freeze are they going to do to us?” I hiss.

Abe motions for me to keep my voice down, which I thought I was doing already. “I don’t know, kid, but I’d expect the worst.” The worst? Like King Goff worst, stealing our children—my sister, Buff’s siblings—and selling them as slaves? Or like Admiral Jones worst, using the children themselves as slaves, beating them with whips and otherwise making their lives the definition of misery? Or does he mean…

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“Be alert,” he says. “Wait for the right time to turn the tables on the bastards.” He fingers the knife hanging from his belt. “One way or another, blood will be spilt before the day is done.”

~~~

Hightower pulls the cart the entire way to fire country, and I don’t think he even breaks a sweat. At the bottom, Abe insists Buff and I take over again. Not because Hightower needs a break, but because he wants his brother to “be ready.” Whatever that means. No matter what I ask him, he’s being all cryptic with me, talking about “chances” and “lost opportunities” and “winning the day.”

Fire country is boiling hot, as if the sun and the sand are in league together, creating the perfect conditions to roast humans alive. Almost immediately, the clothes start coming off. Coats and blankets, boots and socks. Some Icers are even using knives to cut their pants and shirts shorter. Soon we’ll be dressed like Heaters.

Most of the Icers have never felt this kind of heat, like they’re sitting in a fire. No doubt it’ll take a lot of getting used to.

Buff and I trudge along, pulling the cart across the hard, cracked earth, avoiding running smack into pricklers, which have drawn plenty of attention from the other Icers, having never seen such strange plants, all green and spiky and presenting themselves in countless shapes and varieties. I almost wish I was sitting back there with my mother and Jolie, just to see their expressions. There’s a whole, wide world out there just waiting to be explored.

But not this way. Not by being forced.

The safety of the trees and the mountain fade away behind us.

After a while, the soldiers stop us, order us to rest and drink, to ready ourselves for the final stage across the desert. They speak with clipped sentences, formal and sharp. Commands, not suggestions. They are our masters, not our allies. I even notice that the curly mustache representative from the Blue District isn’t looking so confident in his decision. His face is red, his clothes are streaked with dust, and he has a crying baby in his arms. Should we call a re-vote? I’m pretty sure the Glassy soldiers won’t go for that. The alliance has been made.

Abe and Hightower stroll away from us while we’re stopped, pointing at a bright, purple flower on a prickler, gesturing and smiling animatedly at a mouse-like creature that pops out of a hole, sniffs around, and then dives back out of the sun. What are they up to?

Be alert
, he’d said. I’m trying my best, but Jolie’s tugging on my arm, pointing at everything in sight, saying, “Do you see it? Do you?”

And I’m saying, “Yah, yah, Joles,” even as I’m watching one of the other reps from the Black District march over to one of the soldiers, waving his arms wildly, screaming at him. I can’t make out his words but I can tell they’re laced with obscenities and demands. When the soldier just ignores him, gazing off into the desert like the man doesn’t exist, he gets all up in his face, sort of bumping him with his chest. Still the soldier ignores him, but I see the Glassy’s fingers tightening on his weapon.

A lot of the other Icers are noticing the commotion now too, gawking and pointing. Murmurs ripple through the crowd like a water country wave, picking up speed and quickly alerting the other Glassy soldiers to the plight of their comrade. They’ve got us surrounded, but now they’re looking at each other, unsure of themselves.

One of them starts moving around the circle in the direction of the soldier being harassed, but another soldier yells at him to “Hold position!”

Be alert
. I scan my surroundings, looking in all the places the soldiers aren’t. Abe’s up to something—that’s the only thing I’m sure of. Then I see him.

Outside
of the ring of soldiers. Not Hightower, just Abe. Surprisingly, Hightower is nowhere to be found. Although he stands a foot above everyone else from ice country, Abe’s brother is missing, which means he must be crouching or sitting or hiding somewhere.

Abe’s on the move, staying low to the ground, moving silently behind one of the soldiers, who’s completely oblivious.

A distraction. That’s all the Black District rep is. He’s pushing the soldier now, and the soldier is finally paying him some attention, pushing back and shouting a warning at him. Now raising his weapon, pointing it at the guy, who finally backs off, his hands in the air…

Abe grabs the other soldier from behind, around the neck, twisting his head viciously to the side. The Glassy drops and Abe bends down to pick up his weapon.

No one notices except me, as the Icers and Glassy soldiers are equally distracted by the continuing scene with the man and the soldier. Now the man’s moving forward again, his arms out, as if trying to reason with the soldier. He points to the sky, at the sun, as if trying to say that the heat’s making everyone a little crazy, a little quick-tempered.

My eyes flick back to Abe, who’s striding around the arc of the human circle that is the entire population of ice country, all three thousand of us. He doesn’t run, just walks calmly, confidently, deadly.

A large form draws my attention on the other side of the circle. Hightower, having risen up from wherever he was crouching, is walking in the opposite direction, closing in on another soldier, who’s looking the other direction, toward his comrade who’s dealing with the irate villager.

And then, and then…

—Tower’s arm is raised, his clenched fist like a club, high above his head, and he

—drops it like a falling tree, right onto the crown of the soldier’s head.

The soldier crumples without so much as grunting.

I whip my head back to the other side, where Abe is swinging the fire stick like an axe at a tree, cracking it off the next soldier’s skull.

Finally, someone besides me notices. A scream, loud and shrill, pierces the murmurs of the crowd. Heads turn and feet scramble as everyone tries to figure out what’s happening. Who screamed and why? The remaining soldiers are doing the same, turning, realization flashing across their faces, because three of the other soldiers are missing, out of sight below the height of the people.

And they’re shouting, too, trying to make their voices carry over the rumbles of the village, growing louder and louder and—

—there’s a CRACK! sharp and like thunder, and right away, even though I’ve never heard it before, I know what it is. The sound of a fire stick being used. One of the soldiers has hurt an Icer, maybe even killed them.

Everyone’s screaming and running now, leaving everything—their carts and packs and everything—behind as they try to get away. CRACK! CRACK! CRACKCRACKCRACK!

The noises come fast and furious and provide the perfect, gruesome accompaniment for the fearful screams of the crowd.

“Dazz!” Jolie yells, clutching my leg. I grab her and throw her up onto the cart, where Buff is already corralling any of his brothers and sisters who clambered off when we stopped. They’ll be safe from the stampede up there.

People are charging around us, trying to get away, running back toward ice country, and I’m craning my neck to see what’s happening, who’s dying, where Abe and Hightower are.

The mob parts and there he is: Abe. He’s got the stolen fire stick raised and there’s a soldier lying flat on her back before him, her own weapon discarded to the side, her hands held out in front of her. Abe goes right on up to her, shoves the tip of the fire stick to her head, and

CRACK!

I see a spray of crimson liquid from her head and she slumps, unmoving. Dead. Abe killed her with the Glassy weapon. He knows how to use it. Somehow, he knows.

As the villagers continue to rush past, between them I see the bodies behind Abe. Two more soldiers. As lifeless as sacks of rocks. The cracks I heard weren’t from the Glassy soldiers—or at least not
all
from the soldiers. They were from Abe’s stolen fire stick, as he killed them.

Abe marches forward, his weapon raised once more. I follow his aim. There’s one soldier left, the original one, the distraction. The Black District rep is lying motionless in the dust in front of him. The Glassy’s pointing his weapon, but not at Abe, at Hightower, who’s stomping toward him, looking every bit like the giant that he is. Behind him are a few more fallen soldiers.

CRACK!

The soldier shoots and Tower’s shoulder twitches back slightly, like he’s been punched, but he keeps on coming, grabbing the Glassy’s fire stick, yanking it out of his hands, and bashing him over the head with it.

It’s over.

No, not yet. Abe approaches his brother, gently nudges him aside, points his stick at the head of the final soldier.

CRACK!

Now it’s over.

Chapter Nineteen

Adele

T
he truck lurches forward once more, but I don’t open my eyes. Can’t open my eyes because it’s too soon and I’m afraid they’ll betray me, show the lie.

The metal truck bed rumbles beneath me, and it’s a welcome distraction from my pounding head and throbbing arm. Tristan didn’t hold back, not one bit, for which I’m glad. The tenacity of his attacks might be the very thing that saves me.

I feel the truck turn and a wave of nausea fills my throat, either because of Tristan’s blow to the head or the vehicle’s movement—or perhaps a combination of the two. Even as I swallow it down, I wonder whether I should succumb to the urge, whether lifting my mask and vomiting on the soldiers’ feet will add further credibility to my story.

I hold it in. Is it my first mistake?