Parched

GEORGIA CLARK

Holiday House / New York

Copyright
^©
2014 by Georgia Clark

All Rights Reserved

HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

www.holidayhouse.com

ISBN 978-0-8234-3157-1 (ebook)w

ISBN 978-0-8234-3158-8 (ebook)r

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Clark, Georgia.

Parched / Georgia Clark. — First edition.

pages cm

Summary: Feeling guilty after her mother's accidental death, sixteen-year-old Tessendra Rockwood leaves the abundance of Eden to fight for survival in the drought-devastated Badlands, but when she joins the rebel group, Kudzu, to fight the tyranny of Eden's government, she is in for some big surprises.

ISBN 978-0-8234-2949-3 (hardcover)

[1. Science fiction.  2. Droughts—Fiction.  3. Survival—Fiction.  4. Revolutionaries—Fiction.]  I. Title.

PZ7.G5449Par 2014

[Fic]—dc23

2013022884

For Mum and Dad, for always being my biggest fans

I am extraordinarily grateful for my lovely, enthusiastic agent Chelsea Lindman from Greenburger Associates, who has been excited about “the robot book” from day one. I'm indebted to Sylvie Frank and her obviously excellent taste for ushering
Parched
into Holiday House in the first place. Huge thanks to everyone at Holiday House, especially Sally Morgridge; my wonderful editor, Julie Amper, for guiding me through the process with such expertise (I just have a few more changes—is that okay?).

Special thanks to Pascuala Ortuzar, whose initial passion for this story inspired me to keep going and whose scientific/medical knowledge is second to none! Thanks to Ora Colb and all the students in my Gotham Writers' Workshop courses who offered feedback, especially my teacher, Michelle Knudsen, whose insights were invaluable. I also tip-tapped away at the incredible Martha's Vineyard Writers Residency—twice!—thanks to the kindness of Justen Ahren. Everyone I met there; you are all fantastico!

Danke bolshoi to John “I speak a thousand languages” Tillet and Nat Fong for helping create Malspeak; what a fun, nerdy treat.

Thanks to every reader I strong-armed into looking at a draft, particularly Will Hines for excellent naming suggestions, Lori Goldstein, Ryan Williams (you
can
have ponytails without ponies!), Danielle DiPaolo, and Jen McManus. Ally Collier saves my life on a daily basis;
never, ever
leave New York! And what would I do without Nora “Nozzy Pants” Tennessen or Dan “Hello ladies” Fox? High-fives to Book Club and the Amalfi Crew while I'm at it.

Cheers to my little team at Showtime (best day job in the world!), especially Adam Waring, for genuine interest and support in my other life as an author. Also a shout-out to the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in New York; I wrote this book while doing a ton of improv with my teams Dreamboat, Kinsey and Cash Fur Guns. Everyone at UCB is great. That is all.

Huzzah to the passionate, supportive community of readers at Goodreads, in the blogosphere and working at independent bookstores and libraries; you're the reason I'm here!

Finally, thanks to the Clark clan. My brother William, for being a lovable nutbag. My smart and generous Dad, for never raising an eyebrow at my antics and cheering me on every step of the way. And my loving, kind, pioneering Mum, for too many things to list here. Reading this book to you over Skype was always the highlight of my week, and not just because I love the sound of my own voice. It was because you thought it was flawless. Love you guys.

My
eyes snap open with familiar panic.
Bang
. Awake.

There used to be a time when waking up was a gentle seesaw in and out of dreams, safe in a cocoon of warm blankets. Back then, the word
sleep
perfectly matched what I was emerging from: a long, drawn-out, sultry affair:
sleeeeep
. These days, I jerk awake with all the subtlety of unexpected vomit. This is because I live in the Badlands. And more specifically, because someone is pinching my big toe.

Heart leaping, I fumble for Mack. My bone-handled hunting knife is still under my pillow, never more than an arm's length away. Before I can even bring the room into focus, I'm shoving Mack out in front of me, and in the direction of . . . Mileka. My landlord's ancient skinny mother, crouching at my feet. My shoulders slump in relief as she opens her toothless mouth and laughs at me.

“Yes, funny,” I mutter, yanking my foot out from her thumb and forefinger. “Glad to see my abject terror is a source of such hilarity for you.”

My room—well, really more of a hole in the wall—is in its usual state of bomb-went-off disarray, managing to look messy despite my meager possessions. I drag myself up from the lumpy bedroll and pull on a pair of loose black pants that fall mid-calf. Like almost everyone in the Badlands, I sleep in my underwear. Too damn hot not to.

Mileka cocks her head to one side. I'm speaking English. She doesn't. Out here we speak Malspeak, a mangle of English and old languages like Spanish, Mandarin, and Russian. Dialects from a time when the land was defined by many borders. Now there's only one that matters. And I am on the wrong side of it.
“Ni me pugat.”
I tell Mileka she scared me.

“Zhukov,”
Mileka replies, grinning her strange, toothless smile at me.
“Quiere the fangzu.”

My heart manages to sink and shoot into my mouth at the same time. Mileka's son, Zhukov, is my current landlord and boss, and he wants his rent. The five dollars I owe him for the pleasure of staying in this flea-bitten hovel of a room for another week, I don't have. Again.

“Donde nar Zhukov?”
My attempt at sounding unconcerned when inquiring as to his whereabouts fails.

Mileka shrugs, ducking her head to retreat to the low doorway. Sharp eyes watch me as I slip my arms into my sun robe and try to tame my sleep-crazed hair. I'd been routinely shaving an undercut since I'd gotten out here to keep it off my neck. I scrape what's left into a long black ponytail. This includes three thin plaits threaded with speckled feathers that snake behind my left ear. A local custom that helps me blend in.

A bellow from below answers my question.
“Donde nar ella?”

Mileka and I widen our eyes at the same time, so quickly it'd be funny if I weren't in a stack of trouble. Finding a new place to sleep would be a major hassle. Plus, I like Mileka. Maybe one of these days I'll even tell her my real name.

“Lillith's nyet là!”
Mileka screeches, covering for me.

“Mentirosa!”
Zhukov roars back, not believing her. The stairs wheeze and creak under his weight.

Mileka presses a worn silver key into my palm, voice low and urgent:
“Zhuan ban ba al bar.”
She's offering me her shift at the water bar. If Mileka pretends to leave for work as usual, Zhukov won't look for me there.

I hook the worn straps of my backpack over my shoulders and breathe a quick thanks,
“Danke bolshoi.”
I find a hard chili candy in my pocket—Mileka's favorite—and toss it over. She catches it neatly and rewards me with another gummy grin, waving her hands at me to go, now.

As Mileka disappears to face her beast of a son, I push open the dirty glass window. A whoosh of dry heat hits me in the face, momentarily sucking the air from my lungs and burning my eyeballs. I blink fast a few times, squinting in the glare. Then, after hooking one leg over the open window, I shimmy expertly along the narrow stone ledge and start climbing down the bone-dry drainpipe. My boots kick up tiny puffs of red dust as I land squarely on my feet.

The narrow street shimmers unevenly in the relentless heat, empty but for some barefoot kids playing stones. Over a hundred degrees and it's still early morning. After only a few steps, I have to pull up my sun robe's hood to stop my hair from feeling like it's melting.

Welcome to Kep Sai'an. Population: who the hell knows.

Zhukov's water bar is only a few blocks away, and by
blocks
, I mean a few twisting back streets of rundown shacks and gutted buildings housing dozens of families. Some of the shacks are alive with noisy chatter, crying babies, even the occasional waft of cooking food. But many are quiet, no signs of life at all. Some have been quiet for weeks.

It was kind of Mileka to offer me her shift. If I'm lucky, I'll scrounge my rent together in tips. But it's unlikely. What little money the locals have is not being spent on the guarded girl who serves them the crappy
aqua ferro
—iron water—that dribbles from Zhukov's taps. It's being spent on the aqua ferro itself.

But before I start serving out said water, it's time for breakfast. Breakfast used to mean eggs and coffee and creamy yogurt swirled with fat berries, all fresh and organic and harvested in the Farms. Now it means
pourriture
.

I suppress the urge to gag.

The compact little stall I've been eating at in Kep Sai'an is sandwiched tightly between two buildings whose tall walls provide coveted shade. This one tends to get my business because it's slightly less horrible than the hundreds of others littered around town.

I find a seat between a silent old man with a face like a gnome and a couple of women wearing colorful patchwork dresses and conical straw hats. They all ignore me.

I nod at the
pourriture
mama and hold up one finger. She ladles a spoonful of gelatinous gray porridge into a wide plastic bowl and drops it in front of me. A little slops over the edge, and my stomach turns in disgust. Lifting the plastic spoon—reused, no less—I let the cheap millet stew drop in globs back into the bowl. It's as slimy as snot and the color of snails.

Eat it
, I command myself.
Eat it!
It may not taste good, but it will fill me up for the day. I swallow mouthful after mouthful. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

The women next to me are gossiping intensely in Mal.
“Un mes,”
one woman insists.

The other disagrees, shaking her head vigorously.
“Un semana.”

I can guess what they're talking about. Water. And how quickly it's going to run out.

The old man next to me rises like a ghost.
“Danke.”
His thanks to the pourriture mama sounds painfully hoarse.

After I finish, I leave a couple of copper coins on the table and head toward the bar. I'm almost looking forward to a quiet morning; maybe I can crash out for a nap if there are no customers. I'm stretched thin with exhaustion, and not just from the heat. I haven't had a good night's sleep since, well, since my life fell apart and I ended up stuck out here. But as I round the last corner, I see that I won't be alone at Zhukov's water bar.

Dozens of local kids, their dark eyes wild with dehydration, are gathered silently around the entrance. There are more every day, ever since they lost their jobs in the Manufacturing Zone. Their coat-hanger bodies hunch on the unpaved street. Their limbs look as gaunt as the dead trees that shoot up from the hard, red earth.

Even after a year of seeing kids like this, I still feel a flush of something raw and sad. But I can't help them. There are too many. I'll just have to deal with dozens of pleading eyes staring me down. Or maybe this time they won't just be staring. I've heard rumors that water bars are being held up for even the tiniest amount of
aqua ferro
. Maybe today these kids will work it out that together, they could overpower me.

Another bad day in the Badlands. Is there any other kind?

I draw in a deep breath of dry, searing air and remind myself: this is the way it is. I move confidently through the crowd. Thankfully, they scatter to make way.

The metal shutter rises with a screech, spilling light into the dim, dusty bar. A long wooden counter runs along one wall, facing a few mismatched tables and chairs that sit unevenly on a packed dirt floor.

I toss my sun robe and backpack under the bar, then begin twirling Mack through my fingers. Casually enough so it won't be mistaken as an invitation to fight, but fast enough so the kids outside can see I know how to use it. I traded my scratch for it the first week I was here. Technology won't protect you from being attacked for fresh water. A badass blade will. Back in Eden where I grew up, the closest thing to knifework I'd experienced was cutting up a loaf of warm bread. Last night, I'd gutted a wild prairie chicken after scaling a rock face to find its nest and slit its throat.

What a difference a year makes.

The knife handle glides through my fingers, under and over in a fast figure eight. It's a neat trick, and easier to learn than you might think. Easy, that is, if you have a lot of time on your hands and nothing to distract you.