The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure)
Read The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) Online
Authors: Christina L. Rozelle
PRAISE FOR THE TREEMAKERS
“I cannot recommend this book high enough, it is an energetic, carefully written adventure into a world that could be, a place that wouldn’t be out of step in our nightmares, and full of characters that you are willing them on to succeed with every page. An absolute triumph of a book, utterly entertaining. . . .”
—Author Martin Skate
“Overall, the author played my emotions like a virtuoso. Every chapter plucked emotional chords that were played with dexterity. This is not improvised jazz, but a carefully crafted composition of emotion
and adventure.”
—Eric Morrison,
Amazon customer
“What I loved the most about the book was that it didn’t shy away from being gritty and real and hardcore. These characters are tough! There were some parts that were even hard to read, but it was those parts that made me feel so deeply about the book
and characters.”
—Author Amy Bartelloni
“The Treemakers is one of my favorite stories I have read. Mrs. Rozelle’s bleak and terrifying dystopian world is utterly amazing! I found the book original and I was very emotionally invested in the characters. While each one is trying to make a life in a world that is destroyed and devoid of caring adults they become a family of friends, brought together by their desire to live freely and to
love openly.”
—Caelan Cox,
age 17
“The Treemakers is an original concept that’s very well written. An emotional and wonderfully imaginative story that will enthrall you from the very beginning. Believable and descriptively beautiful, I did not want to put this book down. It’s definitely action-packed with enough twists to keep you guessing until the
very end.”
—Angela Berkley, Amazon customer
“This is by far one of my most favorite stories that I have ever read. This author is amazing at keeping you at the edge of your seat throughout the entire book. I am so excited to find out where she takes
this story.”
—Michelle Kluttz, Amazon customer
“A wonderful book, filled with action, mystery, depth of character and a believable setting, written by a gifted storyteller. Christina L. Rozelle has brought to life a world that could be, if our penchant for using the earth without giving back doesn’t cease. She has created images both brutal and terrifying, while holding tight to the promise of one young woman. A girl, really, Joy has been through the hardships inherent in “The Jungle” by Upton Sinclair. She has memories infused with hope. She has the “youngers” to care for that look up to her. She has “olders” who rely on her to know what to do. She has challenges enough to daunt the strong of heart, but she perseveres. When you read this book, you feel these things penetrating your heart. Read this book, and you’ll be
thanking yourself.”
—Lawrence Parent, Amazon customer
“The images are STRIKING! You are given every detail of this world and as the scenery changes, you will love the flow! It’s heartbreaking and yet breathtaking ! Joy’s world is ugly yet you will see so
much beauty!”
—Author Leslie Cox
“The Treemakers is very unique. And the plot twists are amazing. The author took on some very painful and disturbing topics with poise and bravery. I loved the book and look forward to
the sequel!”
—Author Casey L. Bond
“This YA Sci-fiction novel is well-written, very descriptive and a novel with originality, in which is very rare, which gains this author major points! As I read this novel, I had no problem keeping up and imagining exactly what the author wrote. With each book, I look for whether or not I was emotionally invested . . . and with this novel, I was. Not only did I love this book, I did not want it to end. But when it did, I found myself searching to see when the next book will be out. So you can count on me to read that one, as well. I will be
eagerly waiting.
Kudos to Christina Rozelle for a wonderfully emotional, adventurous YA Sci-
fiction book!”
—A Bibliophile’s Review
Copyright
Copyright © 2014 Christina A. Rozelle
A Spark in the Dark Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief quotes used in critical articles
and reviews.
Cover/Interior layout by John Gibson
Dedication
For my children, Savanna, Sierra, Skyla, and Miles. You are masters of love, patience, encouragement, understanding, joy, kindness, and forgiveness. You’ve been my beacons in the night, so bright, a bleak world of blindness has disappeared into this new dawn. A million thank-yous and kisses would never be enough to express my deepest gratitude, honor, and humility, that I’ve been blessed with another chance to be
your mother.
Contents
Last week, Pedro looked out the window one second too long and lost his left hand in the chopper. Everyone knows the blade comes down in four seconds, even if you’ve never worked this station before. Because although it’s not the Tree Factory’s most dangerous machine, it’s right next to the only window. That’s what makes it so hazardous. That, and the huge appendage-slicing blade that slams down at sixty miles an hour to dissect two-inch
titanzium plates.
Pedro won’t be coming back. He’s useless to the Superiors now. He can’t build trees, so he’s gone to who-knows-where. Probably the cannibals somewhere east, because no one will trade anything worthwhile for a cripple, and missing a hand apparently doesn’t change the flavor of one. Or so says Diaz Superior. Pedro’s younger brother, Miguel, went red when he heard that, and the Superiors locked him in the dungeon for two days. While his sobs and screams echoed through the pipes below the Orphan Dorms, we dreamed of vengeance. Pedro’s the only blood family Miguel had left. I swore I’d help him get his revenge one day. When the
time comes.
I breathe in deep, and rub my gloved hands together as the chopper
revs up.
Another glorious day at the Tree Factory!
I imagine Mona Superior saying in that fake, singsong voice
of hers.
“Yeah, right,”
I mumble.
The chopper’s light blinks green, and a sheet of titanzium drops down the chute from Abrilynne upstairs. My eyes slip to the window. Sunlight reflects purple twinkles on the sill, a layer of dust with tiny fingerprints dotting it. Our trees circle the factory and the Superiors’ private bunker a hundred yards away. Beyond that stand ghost-Bunkers B and C, baked by the raging sun. Farther, the eastern aboveground tunnel’s sealed-off entrance. No one’s used that thing
in years.
I focus back to the blade, slide the metal to the gridlines, grip the safety handles,
and count.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The blade squeals down and slices the sheet into perfect, even halves. I send them along the conveyor belt to Samurai, who douses them with a chemical that helps to retain heat, before blasting them with the sun torch. Then, with giant mechanical tongs, he shapes them into rainwater-catching and-
storing cylinders.
I’m glad I don’t have that job. After watching Molina burn to a crisp, I have a hard time even glancing in
that direction.
As I’m cutting, Samurai drops the new cylindrical base into water to harden. Then, Johnny removes it to solder its seam. His part has to be perfect; any holes, and the base won’t hold water, and the tree won’t operate correctly. From there, Miguel inspects the quality and attaches the spiky roots and top brackets to hold the oxygenizing branches
in place.
In the scrap rooms, Toby and the younger children sort scraps and fabricate branches that draw in poison air and send it to the photosynthesis solenoid to be released as oxygen. Then, they attach two-foot-long spiked roots that lock the trees into the ground. We treemakers have a whole mess of jobs, but the most important one belongs to my best friend, Jax. He carries the life of Bygonne on
his shoulders.
Jax spends all day upstairs in the Brain Room, constructing new photosynthesis solenoids—the heart, brain, and lungs of the trees. Without them, our trees would be useless. His poor apprentice, who’s been learning this job for a year, knows a lot, but the Superiors like Jax’s speed. His apprentice is anything but fast, though if something ever happened to Jax, at least his knowledge of solenoids would still
be around.
Another sheet drops down, and again I look outside.
What was it like out there?
When sunlight was still precious, nourishing
. . .
? Now, it fries everything through that lovely hole in the sky. The Superiors have a safety suit in their office for when Humphrey has to fix a tree malfunction, and for when they need to be replaced every six months because of the harsh climate’s wear and tear. They have to give him liquor, of course, or he wouldn’t go. Who’d
want to?
I position the sheet into place and grip the handles. The blade slices it, and I send the halves down to Samurai. Here, where you work depends on your age, and how strong and quick you are. And since I’m the strongest and oldest girl at sixteen last May, the Superiors assigned me the chopper once Pedro left. I even had the “privilege” of cleaning up his blood. Disgusting, but I bit my tongue and did it, because this was my daddy’s last station seven years ago before
he died.
Before this, I worked upstairs for two and a half years with Abrilynne, and before
that
, I spent nine years of my young life sorting in Scrap Room A, sneaking off to visit my daddy at the chopper every chance I’d get, down to the last day of his life. There were only two Superiors then; it was easier to get away with things. I remember the smell of my daddy’s sweat as he handed me a stale, stolen cookie—back when they still had them—hidden in his sleeves for the occasion. He’d pull one “from behind my ear” and feed it to me. I’d giggle, and he’d send me back to the
Scrap Room.
I hated it there. Cramped, dark, reeking of waste, oil, and burnt wire sheath
. . . .
I’d stare through blurred tears at stained walls, trying to hang onto the memory of my mother’s face. Horrible times. Hiding behind mounds of scraps as “those who did not perform adequately” were whipped to unrecognizable shreds by the Superiors and their ragged-faced militia men. And with hundreds slaughtered in the uprisings, it was naïve to be hopeful any longer. Even so young, I knew that
wretched truth.
Now that everyone else in Greenleigh is dead, we’re safer. Someone has to build trees for Bygonne. But that doesn’t mean we’re the lucky ones. Whether slashed or slaughtered, devoured by the noxious air of freedom, or rotting gradually from the lungs outward
. . .
there’s a plethora of awful ways
to die.
I learned that firsthand with my parents; my mother, then a few years later,
my daddy.
Not a day goes by that I don’t see him standing here next to me. His hands reflect in the gray metal of every cut I make, thanks to his gloves that protect my own. The day he died, I snatched them from the ground here and measured one to my own hands.
I’ll never fill these
,
I thought.
But here I am, wearing them, feeling the heat of fresh-cut titanzium through worn brown leather, breathing in the open-air dust that swirls around my head, like he did. I’m closer to him now, standing where he stood, gripping the same safety handles he gripped as the chopper’s blade comes down. Gazing out the same window between cuts at two of the six windowless bunkers encircling us
. . . .
When he was alive, they were, too. Greenleigh was a living,
breathing city.
Bygonne didn’t exist a hundred years ago, until our idiot ancestors burned a hole in the sky a thousand miles wide. Those who made it out before The Wall went up
. . .
they were the lucky ones. The rest were banished, forced underground. Most died. Those who survived had to adapt in a dead world. I wish they had all died. That way, none of us would be here, until our last breath, building trees
for Bygonne.
At least they came up with bunker air-filtration systems which allow us halfway-decent air. And heat-resistant titanzium for trees and bunkers, so we don’t have to be underground. Knowing you’re beneath the earth, especially for long periods of time, is confining and utterly maddening. A glance outside brings much relief. It would bring even more if we could see The Wall
from here.
Supposedly, The Wall’s thicker than fifty men and a thousand feet high, with a force field to the Stratosphere to make sure we stay on this side and not “infect” the Outsider’s portion of the Earth with our bad air and stupid genes. We’re forbidden from even knowing what’s outside of Bygonne, much less going there. Thank goodness for the Other Side’s secret charities who feed us and channel us fresh water. Not that the food’s anything to be excited about, but
. . .
it’s better than being hungry, though not by much. And without their fresh water, the most abundant thing we have here, we’d perish in no time
at all.
A zillion titanzium slices and a million daydreams later, it’s almost lunchtime. My hands are killing me; I haven’t built up calluses in the right
spots yet.
A sweaty and distraught freckled face appears in my peripheral. “Where’s Toby?” he demands. This is one six-year-old you don’t want to piss off. Another sheet squeals down, and I guide it to
the gridlines.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Wasn’t he with you in Scrap Room B
this morning?”
“Yeah, but he left thirty minutes ago, and hasn’t come back yet.” He’s red hot with anger; he may
spontaneously combust.
The chopper cuts, and I send the plates down the line. “He probably went to the washroom.” I rub my aching hands together. “Give him a few
more minutes.”
He glares and stomps off toward Scrap
Room B.
These children are irritatingly dramatic. The pressure of the work doesn’t help, I’m sure. But we all know how important our jobs are, even with the dark and twisty crevices the Superiors hide their evil in. That’s life in Bygonne. You take the dark with the light and
build on.
If we didn’t make trees, we wouldn’t have enough oxygen to breathe—period. In the same way we, the treemakers, act as one body to fabricate trees so Bygonne breathes another day, our trees give life where there’d otherwise be none. Bunker air-filtration systems clean out some of the poisonous ozone gases, but without our trees, they wouldn’t have enough oxygen to filter in, and we’d all die. A hundred trees circle the Tree Factory alone. Even if it’s not perfect air, it’s most likely the cleanest in Bygonne. One positive to being
a treemaker.
Another sheet squeals down, and I gaze out the window. Bygonne’s a burner today; not a cloud in the sky. I start to guide the sheet into position, when something moves outside. My heart skips a beat, then hits the floor. I jerk back as the chopper blade comes down, slicing uneven halves, and slam my hand on the emergency alarm button, racing to
the window.
“Toby!”
Screams are coming from somewhere, and I realize they’re from my own mouth. Beneath the murderous morning sun, Toby’s flimsy breather melts from his face into the dirt. His clothes catch aflame, his dark skin bubbles and pops, the blood boiling beneath it. He drops to
his knees.
I drop to my own beneath the window. My brothers and sisters leave their stations and crowd
around me.
“Joy, what happened?” Jax crouches
beside me.
“Toby
. . .
” I point above my head. “Toby
. . .
went
. . .
outside.”
“What?” He stands to peer out with the others, pushing to get a peek. “How did he get
out there?”
Miguel stares at
his shoes.
“Miguel
. . .
what?”
“He asked me this morning how to disable the alarm for the
flush chamber—”
“And you told him!”
I scream.
“I thought he was just curious!” He takes off, slamming his fist into a wall and sending a broom flying as he disappears down
the hallway.
Jax wraps me up in his arms as I cry. “He didn’t know,” he whispers. “How
could he?”
“I know.” I wipe my eyes. “You should go talk to him. I’ll
be okay.”
He helps me to my feet and, giving my arm a squeeze, takes off
after Miguel.
The speakers crackle overhead. “Attention all treemakers,” says Mona Superior. “Please report to the common
area immediately.”
I stand on shaky legs and look
outside again.
For weeks, Toby’s been saying he wanted to be free. I didn’t think anything of it. We all want that. He said he wanted the sun to free him like it did his ma. I didn’t understand what he meant. I do now, seeing him there, arms outstretched like a
scorched angel.
I think he may even
be smiling.