The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) (7 page)

Some days, it’s easier than others. Today is not
that day.

“What story are you gonna tell tonight, Momma Joy?”
Chloe asks.

“No story tonight. I’m sorry”—I yawn—“too sleepy. And I have a lot to do
before bed.”

Both rooms fill with groans and complaining, but I’m too drained to care much. Two more drops of medicine go into Baby Lou’s mouth, and she wrinkles her nose at the taste, but swallows on her own this time, without
the blowing.

“Good girl, Baby.” I pat her forehead. Still hot, though not
like earlier.

“What’s with the mountain of rags?”
Aby asks.

“Corpse woman gave me the ‘privilege’ of mending them for Baby Lou’s medicine. I have to finish them before she’ll give me
any more.”

“That’s ridiculous! How could she be so heartless?” Aby lifts a shirt from the top of the pile and sniffs it. “And—ew, gross—where did she get these? Off of
dead people?”

“She is the corpse woman
. . . .
”

Aby sighs, and plops down onto my bed, next to the pile. “Well, I guess we have a lot to do, then.”

“Oh no, Aby, you don’t
have to—”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I do. She’s my baby, too. And you’re exhausted. There’s no way you’ll get these all washed and mended tonight.” She points at the noisily ticking clock, hung slanted on the wall. “It’s already late. Let’s get everyone in bed, then you mend, I’ll wash. We’ll get it done in
no time.”

I grin. “You’re a great sister.” I kick off my daddy’s boots and peel my dirty socks from my stinky feet. “
Thank you.”

“Hey, no problem.” She
smiles back.

Serna takes over spray duty for me tonight, because she sees how tired I am. I rock Baby Lou to sleep while she gets the little ones hosed down, and almost fall asleep myself, sitting there. I should hose down, too. I’m filthy. I lay Baby Lou in her crib, grab a change of clothes, and stumble to the washroom, as clean little girls scramble out in fresh pajamas to hop into their beds. Chloe and the other littlest ones steal hugs and kisses from me on their
way past.

“Sorry I’m not telling a story tonight,” I say
to them.

“It’s okay, Momma Joy,” Chloe says. “You look tired. You can tell us one tomorrow.” She pops a thumb in her mouth
and smiles.

“Thank you for understanding.” I crouch down and kiss her cheek. “Now get some sleep, little sweethearts.
Pleasant dreams.”

They trot off in a line of whispers and giggles and jump into their beds, and I continue on to
the washroom.

“Want me to hold the hose for ya?”
Aby asks.

“Sure, thanks.”

The hose-down wakes me right up, so for once I’m happy about the cold water. I may be able to make it through the late-night clothes mending now. Plus, it feels good to be clean. Once I’m washed, Aby and I take turns slurping from the nozzle, then she turns the squeaky faucet off and tosses me a towel. I dry my skin and wrap the towel around my head as the remnants of dirty water from my body swirl down the drain in the
concrete floor.

“Feel better?”
Aby asks.

“Much.” I put on my clean clothes—articles we found in the Bunker A warehouse storage—and we
tiptoe out.

We stand staring at the nauseating mound of dead people’s clothes that Arianna Superior probably stripped from the carcasses herself.
I shiver.

“All right,” I say, steeling my resolve. “
You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Aby says with
a sigh.

After removing the needle and thread from the drawer between Aby’s bed and mine, I get to work on the first shirt and have it mended in a couple of minutes. Aby skips off quietly to the washroom to wash it, while I start on the next garment: a skirt with stains on it. My stomach churns as I fumble with the tear caked with dried blood. I set it aside and, trying not to think about how the woman died, move on to the next item. Aby returns with the damp shirt and drapes it over the line that runs through the middle of our room. I hold up the bloody skirt. “This one will need washing first,” I
tell her.

“Yuck.” She makes a face. “What do
you suppose—?”

“I don’t even want to think
about it.”

Pinching a tiny section of the fabric, she holds it at arm’s length, head turned to the side, scowling. She’d be much louder with her disapproval, I’m sure, if there weren’t rows of little sleeping
girls nearby.

“Do you want to trade jobs?”
I ask.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll just wash it with my
eyes closed.”

I giggle. “I don’t know how well that will work, but, okay
. . . .
”

“It’ll have to work, or it won’t get washed,” she whispers loudly, carrying it as far away from her body as possible, all the way to
the washroom.

When I agreed to this chore, I had no idea what I was in for. Never has there been such awful, repulsive shreds of clothes. And to think, Arianna Superior will be wearing them with no care for the dead she violated by stealing them. This makes me hate her even more. She’s a filthy, rotten soul, and I’ll never understand why
she
gets to live thirty years past the average life span, when good people like my parents—like all of our parents—barely even
reach thirty.

At eleven, I give Baby Lou her medicine, relieved her fever has come down. Aby and I are only halfway finished; it’s going to be a long night. We work tirelessly—me, fixing tear after tear; her, running from me to the sink to the clothesline—until I’ve knotted the last strand of thread and handed off the last piece of clothing. She trots over to the washroom, and I check the clock. One-thirty. I lie down next to Baby Lou, and a couple of minutes later, after hanging the last wet item on the full clothesline, Aby collapses onto her bed
beside us.

“So, what’s the secret?”
she asks.

“Huh?”

“You said you’d tell me later, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

“Well, tell me, then.”

But I consider not telling her. How do you describe something like that without
sounding insane?

“I’m not sure how to
explain it—”

“Was it something you found in
the bunker?”

I nod.

“Well
. . .
what? What did
you find?”

“We found
. . .
paradise.”

“Paradise?”

“Yes,” I say. “I think it’s
. . .
somehow
. . .
a portal to the
Other Side.”

The second I close my eyes, it seems, the rise-alarm rings from the wall. I force myself awake to find Baby Lou’s fever is back. I give her the last two drops of medicine with some water, and she gulps it down, trembling from the open air on her hot skin. She whimpers and cries feebly. Not only will I be running the chopper on a few hours of sleep again, but I’ll also have Baby Lou to deal with all day. Again.

“Aby,” I
call over.

Still wrapped up in her blanket, she peeks over at us and sits up. “Morning.” She yawns and stretches. “How’
s Baby?”

“Still hot. Will you hold her while I get ready? Then, I’ll hold her while
you do?”

“Sure.” Aby swings her feet over the bedside and ties her long red curls up in a knot. “Poor thing.” She runs her fingers along Baby Lou’s soft,
warm cheek.

“Yeah, thank goodness I’m getting more medicine for her.” I scan the clothes on the line. “Thank you so much. There’s no way I would’ve finished without
your help.”

“What are sisters for?” She winks, then nuzzles her nose against Baby Lou’s neck. “You sure you’ll be fine with her today? You didn’t get a lot of sleep
. . . .
”

“You didn’
t either.”

“I know, but—”

“I’ll
be fine.”

“Well, let me know if you need anything. You know where to
find me.”

“Okay.”

“Paradise,” she whispers, smiles, and scrunches her shoulders like she does when she’s excited. “Can we go tonight? Pleeeeeease
. . . .
?”

“Maybe.”

She taps her feet on the floor, and bounces on her bed. “We can get one of the other girls to watch Baby while we go. Serna’s good
with her.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” I say with a yawn. “I’m too tired to think right now. Let me talk
to Jax.”

Soon, I’m changed into work clothes with my boots laced up tight, ready to face Arianna Superior with her washed and patched-up garments. Still a disgusting, ratty mess, but much less so than
last night.

With Baby Lou slung on my back and Arianna Superior’s clothes draped over my arm, I lead the girls from the dorm when the door opens. To our surprise, Diaz Superior—on crutches—waits to guide us to breakfast in an unusual moment of semi-sobriety. The fire in his eyes gives it away. When he’s able to walk straight, he likes to be close instead of up on the catwalk like the others, in case any of us acts up. That way, he’s within arm’s reach. The familiar coil of thornwhip, strung through his belt loop, peeks out from behind him. Today, he wants someone to take out his anger on. God knows he won’t take it out on his mother. She’d kill him with no remorse. With the flick of a finger. Not sure why she hasn’t yet, it’s obvious she despises him. That could explain why he doesn’t have his own
oxygen tank.

Jax nods slightly as we reach the common area door. I breathe deep and prepare myself. You never know with Diaz. He’s flinching with each step.
Why on Earth is he mobile?
He shouldn’t be up for at least another week. Either his mother put him up to this, or his bloodlust was too great for him to stay still. He sways at the door, and I move aside to let everyone pass. With a whimper, Baby Lou tucks her face down behind
my back.

“What the hell do you want?” Diaz spits a fat lump of mucus onto my boot toe—on my daddy’s boyhood boots. I could breathe fire. But I tame it. For
Baby Lou.

As if it
never happened.

“Madam Superior had me mend her clothes for medicine,” I say. “And I’m finished. I need to take her the clothes and get the
medicine now.”

He snarls a laugh, leans back against the wall, resting a crutch against it, too. “Well, now
. . .
ain’t that sweet?” He snatches up a shirt and inspects the stitch. “It seems you missed a spot.” Then, squeezing the cloth in both hands, he yanks outward until the fresh seam tears open again, the thread endings reaching out like little arms, begging
for justice.

I’m frozen, speechless. Baby Lou cries, and white hot rage burns inside me. He snatches up another article and rips it in two. Then another, and another, and another, until the weight has lifted from my arm and transplanted itself into my heart. Every item is torn
in two.

I start to walk toward my table, numb.

“Hey!” he calls behind me. “I didn’t say you could
go anywhere.”

I turn back toward him while Jax and everyone else watches. Once I’m near him again, he slaps me and I fly backward, knocking Baby Lou from her blanket. She screams, and I scramble to scoop her up. My face is throbbing and wet, as Diaz Superior moves closer, thornwhip raised
to strike.

Jax erupts from his chair and slams it against the wall. Diaz pauses at the sound, and in seconds, Jax is between me and Diaz Superior, fists ready, chest heaving, body bent forward. I imagine his eyes, dark and brutal, valiant and fiery, like a hero from the stories I’ve told and read to the children in
the past.

Only now do I see that hero
in Jax.

“Go ahead,” he says coolly. “Do it. I
dare you.”

Diaz snickers and teeters on his crutch. Then, he cocks back as if to bring the whip down hard, until an unbearable screech makes us all cover
our ears.

“What are you doing!” comes the howl of Arianna Superior as she bursts through the doors leading to the Superiors’ bunker. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. Like she has wheels for feet. Her sparkling tank struggles to keep up, as Aby steals away Baby Lou into the common area,
to safety.

“Are you aware he’s the best oxygenizer we’ve ever had?” Arianna looms over her son. “Explain to me what’s going
on here!”

“I had your clothes all sewn,” I say, “but he ripped
them all—”

“She’s lying,” Diaz counters. “She brought them to me, just
like this—”

“No”—Jax shakes his head—“she didn’t. He ripped the clothes, then he slapped her and cut her face, and he was going to whip her and the baby to death. And if that happened, who’d run the chopper? Sure as hell won’t be me. I have solenoids
to make.”

What a sly boy
he is
.

Arianna glances from the pile of clothes up to her son, and I swear her eyes glow red. Diaz grumbles as he disappears, hobbling toward the corridor to the Superiors’ bunker.

“Please, madam,” I say. “I stayed up until nearly two o’clock washing and mending everything. I need
more medicine—”

“No.” She lifts her golden mask and inhales deep into it. “Once you have adequately mended these garments, like
we agreed—”

“But
. . .
but I
already did!”

She swoops down into my face in one swift motion, tip of her nose a splinter from mine—the closest I’ve ever been to her. A dark energy swirls around her, mixed with the smell of rust and salt—tears, maybe?—like she alone is responsible for the world’s pain, suffering,
and decay.

“Do you like to breathe?”
she asks.

“Doesn’
t everyone?”

“Are you aware that it’s extremely disrespectful to answer a question with
a question?”

“
Is it?”

Her face flushes blood-red. “Do you know what happens to those who do not respect and obey
their Superiors?”

“They get the easy
way out?”

I stare into her dead eyes, and she stares back into mine as I invite her to kill me. In this moment, I’ve silently defeated her. Not caring—or bluffing that you don’t—makes the threat of losing your life a
flimsy weapon.

“I’ll mend the clothes again tonight,” I add. “Thank you,
Madam Superior.”

“Yes. You will. And you’ll do it hungry. Humphrey!” she calls. “Do not serve Miss Montgomery any
slop today.”

I almost
thank her.

Humphrey grumbles in response, and Arianna Superior turns swiftly, gliding up the catwalk steps. When she reaches the top, she’s joined by Mona Superior, who whispers something to her, then Arianna goes on toward
the office.

“Beasts!” Mona laughs. “It is now time to discuss a change
in quota.”

We collectively hold our breath. Even the smallest of us knows what
that means.

“You have been producing many fine trees as of late,” she continues. “We are very satisfied with each of your positions and feel you all know your jobs well. Which is why we have decided to increase production. You will be expected to produce one hundred trees per day now, as opposed to the prior seventy-five. The line will move quicker, so be prepared. And do not lose quality. We have signed a contract with Taborton. Their salvagers will supply us with extra materials, and in return, we will give them a third of our production.” She takes a deep breath in her oxygen mask, then continues. “If you perform adequately, you will be rewarded with one hour of evening free time in the cellar. And I pray I don’t need to remind any of you what happens if you do not perform adequately
. . . .
”

At the words “free time,” the energy in the room changes. It’s been months since we went down there. The Superiors are definitely up to
no good.

“And if the rest of you expect another meal today,” Mona Superior adds, “get yourselves to your stations and begin work immediately. In five minutes, work will be double-time.”

Jax helps me pick up the clothes, while everyone heads to their stations, excitement plain on their faces. No one cares that they’ll be working harder. They’ve been offered a small taste of freedom, and now they’re dancing in the clouds. How cleverly evil of the Superiors. This will increase production much more than threats, starvation,
or beatings.

Aby joins us with Baby Lou. “What do we do?”
she asks.

“We take these clothes back to our dorm,” I say, “drop them off, and get
to work.”

Jax and I head down the hallway with Aby at our heels. “But
. . .
but what about Baby? She
needs medicine.”

 At the dorms, Jax slips something into the clothing pile. “Eat it fast,”
he whispers.

“Thanks,” I whisper back. He stays at the threshold while I take the clothes inside, dig out the lump of bread, and cram it into my mouth in
two bites.

“Joy?” Aby follows me in, frantic
with worry.

“She’ll have to go through the day without it,” I explain through my chewing. “Just the day, though. I have
a plan.”

She tries to read in my eyes what it is. “You’ll tell
me later?”

“Yes. Now, help me get her changed. I’ll keep her for the first half of the day, give her plenty of water and keep a bucket and a cloth nearby to cool her down when she
needs it.”

Aby nods and changes Baby Lou into a clean diaper, then wraps her shivering body in
a blanket.

“I need to go,” Jax says from the doorway. “Is your face okay? You might
need antiseptic.”

“It’s fine. I’ll brush some on before I
go out.”

“Okay. I’ll catch up with
you later.”

“Thank you, Jax. For
. . .
saving us.”

“Of course.” And with a quick half-smile, he’
s gone.

Aby hurries the first-aid kit out from under her bed as the warning alarm sounds. A quick brush of rubbing alcohol later, I grab a stack of rags, a bottle and a bucket, and we both hurry to
our stations.

I barely have enough time to get Baby Lou into her playpen with a fresh bottle of water before the chopper begins to beep at me. Hopefully, she’ll let me leave her there for a while, because my body can’t take her weight much more with this lack of sleep. Maybe I’ll be lucky. I breathe in deep, and press the “ready” button.

When all of the lights are lit, the line starts. One good thing, I suppose—the adrenaline will keep me awake today. The first slab of titanzium slides down, and I rush it to the gridlines and count, using the second hand of the window’s
wall clock.

One.

Two.

Three.

The blade falls, slicing two
perfect halves.

Three seconds isn’t bad. I can
handle it.

An hour into production, and I was right about the adrenaline; I’m more alert, even if my stomach begs for nourishment. I’m used to that, though. The exhaustion will catch up eventually, but it’ll be replaced by adrenaline again tonight when I risk my life for
my Baby.

Twenty minutes later, shrieks erupt down the line. Samurai is engulfed in flames. I slam my hand on the emergency stop button, grab my bucket, and rush to him, dousing the fire with what little water is left. It’s hardly fazed. Frantic, I rip off Baby Lou’s blanket sling and attempt to wrap it around Samurai’s writhing body, but he’s swinging his arms, the flames ever-growing. Without thinking, I punch him in the face. He drops to the ground, and I cover him with the blanket. The fire dies immediately, leaving him burned and bloody,
but alive.

“Someone get Mona Superior!” I cry. “He needs
medical attention!”

Johnny sprints toward the catwalk stairs and punches the emergency alarm. Samurai moans, then it’s drowned out by the shrill siren. I feel faint. Too much blood
. . . .
In some spots, the skin is gone completely. Charred muscle and bone peek through, tinged with hints
of red.

“It’s okay, Sam,” I tell him. “We’ll get you all fixed up.” I cradle his head in my lap as Aby and
Miguel approach.