The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) (9 page)

“What kind of animal are you making?” I
asked her.

“Does it matter?”
she responded.

I trace Millie with my fingers—droopy, uneven ears; four short appendages; a long tail where the stuffing has gathered in a fat lump at the end—and remember that day,
her words.

“What matters,” she continued, “is that you’re going to find one. You’re going to make it out, Joy. You’ll be free one day.” Then, she tossed a long brunette wave of hair over her shoulder, and showed me how to sew. My first—and last—lesson. Like with reading. Daddy taught me what little he knew, and I taught myself a little more. One last deep inhale into Millie’s smooth, stale fabric, and I lay it down next to
Baby Lou.

In a way, I suppose my mother was right. Though no one could’ve guessed what we’d find twenty-three levels beneath the earth. I wish I could tell her I witnessed a real animal roaming free beneath the sun
. . . .

I hold up the slinky black dress to inspect it. “Do you have any dresses?” I
ask Aby.

She nods. “An old one of my mother’s. Why?”

“Wear it,” I say, “Tonight, we’
re celebrating.”

“Oh?
Celebrating what?”

“Freedom.”

Once Aby and I are spot-cleaned and have nervously slipped into our too-snug-and-too-revealing dresses (with our everyday work boots), we quickly comb each other’s hair and fidget. Neither of us has ever dressed up for a
boy before.

“This is, like, a real date!” she says,
clapping quietly.

The
tap-tap-tap
at the door says it’s time
to go.

“Ugh—I’m changing,” I say, and go to peel the thing off of me. But Aby slaps
my hand.

“No, leave it. You look incredible. Besides, they’re here.
Come on.”

We wave to Serna and the other girl finishing up the last two garments, and they wave back. I mouth a ‘thank you,’ and the younger one rolls her eyes. Obviously jealous. Definitely understandable. This is the most excitement we’ve had in, like, well
. . .
ever, as Jax said. And leaving them behind to sew clothes for Arianna Superior
. . .
I probably wouldn’t be too happy about it, either.

Aby and I pause to do a last minute tug-and-straighten, then Aby opens the door, despite my frantic
head shaking.

“Hey!” she whisper-yells and jumps straight into Miguel’s waiting arms, wrapping her legs
around him.

Jax, on the other hand, struggles to pick his jaw up from the floor while I stand there like a big dumb lump of awkwardness. I kick a boot toe at the ground, and catch Humphrey peeking at me from under the sagging fat of his arm. He quickly hides his eyes when I glance
his way.

“Wow,” Jax whispers, “you look
. . .
”

“Fantastic, right?”
says Aby.

“Uh-huh.” He nods and takes a slow step forward, as if afraid to break me with too swift of a touch. “Gorgeous,” he says, while he slips both arms around my waist and lifts me up off the ground. He squeezes me tight, plants a soft kiss on
my lips.

“Thanks.” My cheeks burn with the embarrassment of my embarrassment. “Can we get
going now?”

“Certainly, mademoiselle.” Jax winks and takes my hand. “I feel like I need to be all formal and whatnot with you dressed
like that.”

We
all laugh.

“You look fantastic, too, Aby,”
Miguel says.

“Thanks.”

“Man”—Jax rubs his hands together—“do we have a night to remember ahead of us, or what? Here
. . . .
” He passes out breathers, which we strap to
our heads.

“A fine addition to this ridiculous dress,”
I mumble.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Jax counters. “You could take over the world in
that thing.”

I giggle. “Well, thank you. Maybe it’ll come in handy one day if we ever find a way out
of here.”

At the wash station shelf, Jax and Miguel move it away from the door, and in seconds, we all have our breathers on and air-locked, and have ducked into the darkness. I quietly close the door, feel for my spear and, finding it in the same spot as always, finally let out my held breath. Jax hands Aby and Miguel the two dimming light sticks from earlier, then cracks a new one. A bright bluish-white globe of luminescence glows brighter, becomes zig-zags as Jax shakes
it vigorously.

The ground grumbles with the thunder outside; a dark, low vibration that raises the tiny hairs on
my arms.

“Let’s hope the power doesn’t act up,”
Jax says.

“Seriously? Why’d you have to say that?” I ask. “Remember last time,
the jumper?”

“That was
a coincidence.”

“You guys saw jumpers last time?”
Miguel asks.

“One. Right after Jax mentioned how it’d been a while since we
saw one.”

“Maybe we
should stay—”

“Nah, man, it was just one.” Jax runs his fingers through his hair. “And I speared it. So now, it’
s none.”

“Always more where that came from,”
I say.

Jax holds his light stick above my face. “You aren’t scared, are you?” He winks, but I merely stare back until I have to turn away. Now that the little bit of liquor has worked its way through my body, a fuzzy faded feeling surfaces. Embarrassment finds me unable to fend it off. Embarrassment and fear
. . .
interesting combination. Kind of like fruit
and death.

“No,” I finally say. “I’m
not scared.”

A total bluff, though my want to not be scared wins out. Mind over matter, my daddy used to say all
the time.

“Hell no, you’re not,” Jax says. “You’re one tough girl.
Wanna lead?”

“Let’s not get too carried away.” I hand the spear over to Jax and take my place behind him in the cramped passageway. Aby trails me, then Miguel, taking up the rear; our usual order when we come down together. The one time I led was the one time a jumper landed on me. Luckily, Jax has
good reflexes.

Before long, the passageway ends and opens up to the larger area that branches off into different corridors and stairwells, elevators and doors—all of which have been explored—and I fan my fading light stick in a semi-circle around me, keeping alert
for jumpers.

A small white rat scurries by,
startling us.

“Johnny would have the time of his life down here,” says Miguel. “He won’t quit bugging me to ask you to let
him come.”

“Yeah, I’d bring him,” Jax says, “but
. . .
”

“He’s a live wire?” Miguel finishes
for him.

“Yup. Love the guy, but he’s loco. And I don’t want to have to search him down in
this place.”

Miguel laughs. “You got
that right.”

We pass up the warehouse, moving quickly through the connecting tunnel between Bunker A and Bunker B. When we get to the stairwell door to start down the stairs, Aby breathes in deep behind me. “Ugh,” she says, “I hate going
down here.”

“Aw
. . .
I’ll keep you safe, baby,”
Miguel says.

“Evenin’,” says Jax as he steps over Old Jonesy’
s legs.

For the hundredth time I, too, step over him, and wonder how he died, right here in the stairwell, up against
the wall.

“It’s not the jumpers I’m worried about.” Aby shivers dramatically, easing over his legs
behind me.

“You ain’t afraid of him, are ya?” says Jax. “He’s such a sweet fellow. Shy, quiet
. . .
”

“Funny.”

Something slides against the concrete steps behind me, and I stop, shine my light stick to illuminate Miguel with Old Jonesy’s boots in his hand.
I smirk.

“What?” he says. “I need some new boots, man, look.” And he points his light down onto his own with holes cut in the toes to allow room for his feet, which probably outgrew the shabby things
years ago.

“You go right ahead,” I say. “I’m sure he won’
t mind.”

Jax inches up behind me. “Yeah, better a few sizes too big, than
too small.”

“And Old Jonesy’s got some big-ass feet,” Miguel says. “You know what
that means.”

Jax snickers.

“Oh my God,” I mumble. “You’re joking, right?”

Old Jonesy is now slumped over entirely, his body blocking our way back up. Once Miguel has on the dead man’s boots, laced-up and tied, Jax helps him reposition Old Jonesy like he was, setting Miguel’s raggedy boots
beside him.

“Thanks for the trade, man,”
Miguel says.

“Better?” Aby asks,
shivering again.

“Definitely.”

“I do not even want to know how
those smell.”

“Probably a lot like those clothes you washed for Arianna Superior,”
I say.

“Ick. You should wash those,” she says to Miguel. “Really.”

Once we descend the remaining flights of stairs, the citrus smell greets us, stronger than before, and triggers my heart-pounding. Almost there. None of us makes a sound as we traipse down the last dark and hollow corridor where the elevator lies. The closer we get, the stronger the citrus scent, vastly overpowering the normal mildew-and-musty smell of every underground bunker we’
ve explored.

“What’s with the smell?”
Miguel asks.

“The smoke smelled like that, real strong,” says Jax. “In that room, before we went to
. . .
wherever it is we
went to.”

“The Other Side. It has
to be.”

“All right, Momma Joy. If you
say so.”

“There’s nothing else it could be,” I argue. “At least I
. . .
I don’t think
there is.”

The rhythm of our eight feet stepping softly toward the known-but-still-unknown is teetering on too much to handle. Nervousness brings a slight nausea, but it could be from the liquor. Last time Jax and I found liquor in the kitchen, I was nauseous for two days. Soon, our globes of light shine in the reflection of the elevator doors a few feet down the otherwise dark corridor. Adrenaline makes
me shudder.

 “Well?” I say. “Go on then, Jax
. . . .
”

He steps forward, fist clenched, knuckles raised to knock, when the light above it lights up and the elevator dings. The door
whooshes open.

Aby jumps into Miguel’s arms, and I take a
step back.

“Jax,” I say, “you didn’
t even—”

“I know, I know. More importantly, though, I didn’t even press the button.
Did you?”

I shake
my head.

“
You two?”

They shake
their heads.

“Someone’s definitely down here,”
I say.

The light goes dark again and the elevator doors begin to close. “Come on.” Jax pushes them open again with the spear, holding them in place. “If whoever it is wanted to hurt us, we’d be hurt already.” He gets on the elevator, spear still against
the door.

Aby, Miguel, and I
stand frozen.

“Okay.” He shrugs, moves the spear, and the door begins
to close.

“Jax!” I grab the door, which pops back open again. “What are
you doing?”

“Going to the Other Side
. . .
or whatever. You
three comin’?”

“What have we got to lose?”
Miguel says.

He’s got
a point.

We enter the elevator with Jax, and he lets the
door close.

“Enter destination,” the computer voice says, making us
all jump.

“I forgot about that,” I say, trying to catch
my breath.

“Does it matter what we enter?” Jax raises his head toward the ceiling. “Won’t you take us where you want
to anyway?”

With a small lurch, the elevator begins to descend, rattling and screeching like before, if not more, because of the
extra weight.

“This is totally creepy,”
Aby whispers.

“This is nothing,” I say. “Wait until we get to twenty-three.”

Again, like before, after a long descent and much ear-popping, the light to sub-level twenty-three glows and stays lit, while the elevator comes to a stop. The door opens to the frail, grasping cobweb on the overhead fixture. The right-hand corridor is still entirely dark, but straight ahead is lit up with flickering yellow bulbs and green oxygen lights. Jax and I remove our breathers, echoed by a cautious Aby and Miguel, and we’re greeted by the citrus-and-
rot stench.

Jax leads the way, moving purposefully down the long hall, and when we reach the paintings, Aby and Miguel get caught up in their brilliance and mystery, as Jax forges ahead to our green-lit door. I press my hand in my print from before and find it dry. I half-expected it to be some kind of miracle, never-dry paint, which someone from years and years ago used to paint these here. But no. There’s no denying it. Someone is definitely
down here.

Someone who’s a
superb artist.

“Will you please come out?” I’m surprised by my own voice making its way through my unusual trepidation to find the Joy I know. The Joy my daddy raised to be a survivor, a fighter; the Joy who gives fear a swift kick to the jaw and
pushes onward.

“Your art is marvelous,”
I continue.

Aby gives me a
fearful glance.

I squeeze her hand. “Jax is right. I don’t think whoever’s down here would hurt us. Whoever painted this
. . .
is someone good. Someone we want to meet.” I
nudge Jax.

“Um, yeah,” he says. “My favorite is the dancing ladies. Sexxxxxy.”
He winks.

Miguel snickers. “Yeah, how ’bout some nudes
next time?”

Aby
kicks him.

“Ow!”

“Could you please tell us if this is the way to the Other Side of The Wall?” I call out. “There are almost forty of us. The youngest is a year-and-a-half old. She’s sick, and we’re starved, and
. . .
and if this is it, please
. . .
we need to know
. . . .
”

We stand silent for a short eternity before it’s apparent we won’t get
an answer.

“Well, then,” I add, “will you at least make sure we get back? If we get stuck there, nobody would take care of the children.” And as these words come out of my mouth, I consider this fact for the
first time.

Jax reaches for the
green button.

“Jax, wait,” I say. “Let’s
get them.”

“Who, the children? That’s crazy! What if we get brought back again? We can’t bring thirty-something children down here in the middle of the night on a whim. No.” He shakes his head. “
Bad idea.”