The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) (4 page)

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 shiver. 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.

“Farther down,” I finally repeat with
a sigh.

Jax holds the light above my face. “You aren’t scared, are you?” He wraps an arm gingerly around my waist to bring
me closer.

“Of course not.” I stare, unwavering, into his
green eyes.

“Joy Montgomery
. . .
” He kisses me without warning, his lips lingering on mine before he backs away. “Your bluffs don’t work
on me.”

My body numbs, warms. “You
. . .
kissed me.”

“Did you
like it?”

“I’m not
sure yet.”

“We can do it again
if you—”

“No, it’s okay
. . . .
”

“Ouch.” He lays a hand dramatically over his heart, then tugs his breather into place over his mouth
and nose.

I pull mine on, too, tighten the strap, and activate the air lock. “Let’s just
. . .
get to
the warehouse.”

§

After a long walk in awkward silence, winding through dark and littered corridors, we reach the busted warehouse door of Bunker A. Perched on a sewage pipe, a red-eyed rat twitches its whiskers at us, and I freeze. Jax holds out his hand for the spear, and I give it to him slowly as we stand in silence, holding our breath. I pray for the rat to scurry off and, after another few seconds of it sizing us up, to my relief,
it does.

“It’s been a while since we came across a jumper, huh?”
Jax whispers.

“Don’t
say that.”

“Why?”

“Every time you do, seconds later, a frothy-mouthed, bloodthirsty killer dives at us from the ceiling.” My eyes travel up to the iron support beams where jumpers like to hide. I let out a long breath as we climb over a fallen door to push aside the tilted one leading into the warehouse. Ransacked crates—torn through by the Superiors, maybe; or by the last of the living—lie spread open, covered in years
of dust.

“Is it me,” I say, “or are there fewer of those things every time we come
down here?”

“Rats? Oh, I dunno. But, seriously
. . .
you didn’t like
the kiss?”

 “I didn’t say that, but
. . .
” I stop in my tracks, searching for a good explanation. “You’re my best friend,” I say. “Like a brother, even
. . . .
”

“Oh, come on. You can’t honestly tell me you’ve never thought about
kissing me.”

“I didn’t say that, either.” We lock stares for a few seconds, and a slight grin
slips through.

Jax puts his arms around me. “I knew
you did.”

“Jax, no”—I push away—“it’s not right. Like, bad timing, maybe? Toby—”

He puts a finger to my breather, over where my lips are. “You’re breaking rule
number two.”