The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) (12 page)

I think I hear Jax spit. Then, the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a thud against the wall makes me
go rigid.

“Jax!”
I scream.

Emmanuel laughs again. “Don’t worry, tramp, your excitement is coming soon.” But in a split second, his laughter turns to a howl. “You bit me! You filthy wretch!” Another punch
or slap.

“There’s more where that came—
mmph
—!”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Emmanuel says. “Now, it’s
my turn.”

“Stop hurting him, you monster!” I shriek. Sounds of pain through waded cloth will forever be burned into my dark reservoir of hatred for the Superiors. Finally, I surrender my futile fight and let my body fall against the wall. I’m powerless to
save him.

For now.

A plan for revenge sets ablaze inside me. I squeeze my fists, pressing my fingernails into my palms, crying silent tears for my best friend. They’re going to get what they deserve. I’ll make sure
of it.

Part of me believes Jax knowing I hear his abuse makes it all the more humiliating for him, so I hum loudly to myself; it helps muffle the noises. Soon, my humming becomes a song my mother used to sing to me. She’d hum the parts she didn’t know. Unfortunately, I only remember one line now
. . .
something about sunshine
and love.

Jax’s screeching door snaps me back
into reality.

“Did you enjoy the show, little tramp?” Emmanuel Superior calls from the corridor. “It was nearly as enjoyable as your mother. Sweet dreams now
. . . .
”

 I try to let his words pass through me like vapor, but my mother’s ghost and her haunted past still linger in the room, along with some stench of truth. My mother never would’ve—
would she?

I press my ear to the wall and hear sniffling. I’ve never witnessed Jax
cry before.

“Jax?” My voice shakes. “Are you
. . .
okay?”

More sniffling and chain rattling answer at first, then a long, heavy silence follows before he
speaks again.

“So
. . .
you’ll marry me, then?” He’s broken and weak, not even
faking strength.

“Of course, Jax,” I cry. “Of course
I will.”

The most intense and miraculous act I ever witnessed was done by my daddy in Bunker C’s saloon and performance hall. He told me I couldn’t go; it was past my bedtime, and my mother needed me there. Each breath for her rattled death and she’d be gone any day now. He didn’t want to go either, but with my outgrown shoes and nothing to trade for Blue Notes to buy more, his eyes shimmered with the regret of no choice. He kissed my forehead as I lay beside my mother and tucked the blanket under
my chin.

“I don’t really need any shoes, Daddy—”

“Nonsense. You haven’t had a new pair in years.” He gave my head a soft pat. “Hush now, and get some sleep. I’ll be back in a
little while.”

“What if Momma doesn’t make it through the night?”
I whispered.

“She will. And I’ll be back soon, anyway.” He smoothed my hair back, and gave her
a kiss.

“Okay. Night, Daddy.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

I closed my eyes, pretending to surrender to sleep, but after the door to our room shut, I rose and tiptoed down the corridor behind him. He moved sleekly, silently in his long black cape and tall black hat. But being barefoot, I had no trouble moving silently as well. I followed him all the way to the performance hall, snagging a big brown coat from the full coat rack on the wall. I waited until the doorman, who was nearing end-of-days, moved down the hall to hack his lungs where he wouldn’t disrupt the show, and then I slipped through the door, past the fancy, hand-painted sign that read: Zephyr the Magnificent – Performance tonight! Ten
Blue Notes.

With the heavy hood covering my head, I sat near the back, shivering with nervous excitement as scantily dressed young women bound him with seven heavy chains and seven thick locks. His expression was of calm strength and confidence as a clear cube rose up from the stage and enclosed him. In seconds, channeled water from underground began to fill it quickly as he struggled against the chains. It rose past his knees, past his stomach and chest—and when the water had reached his chin, he still hadn’t broken free of one chain or lock. Once it had risen over his head, I counted the seconds and played with the fear of his death for but a moment. I knew my daddy better than that. It was just
another illusion.

He’d put on a good show, holding it until the very last second, and then, when the audience thought all was lost, he’d shockingly free himself to an explosion of amazement. I’d never watched him perform for an audience before, but I could accurately guess how it
would happen.

Sure enough, at a minute twenty-seven, he shed the chains and shot up from the water, to the roar of an awe-intoxicated crowd. He’d miraculously freed himself, again.

But that, like all of his tricks—like freedom in life itself—was
an illusion.

“Joy?” Jax calls out, startling me from
my reminiscence.

“I’
m here.”

“
You alive?”

“Yes. Are you all right, Jax?”

“Dandy.”

I shift into another uncomfortable position. How would my daddy have gotten out of this one? There’s no illusion in these very real shackles and chains, no audience watching in the dark, cheering me on, other than the memories of those who loved me, and the fear that those I love now may be dead as well—
or soon.

Now is my time to shine, alone.

But not
entirely alone.

“Help me, Daddy,”
I whisper.

And he’s next to me, whispering back:
Fear is the greatest illusion of all. Face it, fight it, and
be free.

When the stairwell door opens again, I know my time has come, and I’m ready for it, welcoming it, even. I get into position, sitting with my back against the wall, lifting my shackled feet high off the floor and, steadying my breathing, try to remain perfectly still. Though my legs begin to shake, I hold them in place, gritting my teeth against the exhaustion that wants me to give up. My door slides open, quieter than the rest. The dim light from the hallway illuminates a figure from behind, though I can’t tell who it is, and I remain silent as two large rectangles—cages—are placed right inside the doorway. With the flick of a wrist, they rattle, and my cell door quickly
closes again.

It only takes a few seconds for scurrying sounds to reach my ears. I hold my breath, steady my trembling legs, and hope against hope that at this moment, twelve hours on my feet, building leg muscle every day, will pay off, like
last time.

Two enormous white jumpers come into view, and I cringe. They could eat me in three bites. The Superiors must’ve been overfeeding them
. . .
until now. With a shrill hiss, they lunge. The first one gets right under my feet, and I bring my boots down with every ounce of my strength and all of the hatred I have in my body—and crush
its skull.

The second backs up, hissing and bearing
its fangs.

“Joy?” Jax calls out. “
You okay?”

I prepare for strike number two. The jumper circles me, and I lift my skull-stompers back into the air. “Come here, sweetie,” I sing to it. “I won’t
hurt you.”

“Joy!” Jax is frantic now, thrashing in
his shackles.

“I’m fine,” I say calmly. “
Handling it.”

Jumper Two decides he’s too hungry to wait and rushes toward me, right over the body of his friend, and I bring my boots down in one swift,
crunching blow.

I have to stop myself from shouting my triumph for the whole Tree Factory
to hear.

Now is where real victory will be born, where I’ll finally become something. In the dark and silent promise of death, I’ll make a way for us—a life. I’ll keep my promise to Miguel and put an end to this—
for good.

With my heels, I drag the fat body of one jumper into my lap. My fingers shake, and I fight nausea. I’ve done this before, though for different reasons. Last time, I hadn’t eaten for days; this time, I need a way out to save my friends—
my family.

Trying not to breathe in the filth-smell of the rodent’s fur, I raise it to my mouth and, pausing for one last nerve-gathering, I bite into it. Warm wetness drips down my chin. I gag, sputter, and spit the nastiness from my mouth, then dip my fingers into the tear and spread the warm skin apart until I rip the hole wide enough. I dig through the creature’s slimy entrails until I’ve curled my fingers around a rib bone. With a jerk and twist, it snaps, and I extract it from the animal’s body, then toss the carcass aside. I trace the bone with my fingers, its pointy tip, and say
a prayer.

Then, I jostle it in the keyhole of my shackles
. . .
and they
click open.

My blood is fire in my veins as they drop and dangle from the chain attached to my neck shackle. I feel for the keyhole there and carefully insert the bone. This time it takes some wiggling, and after a half-minute of panic, it too, clicks open. I carefully remove it from my neck and set both shackles onto the ground to start on my ankles. With a quick jiggle of the bone in the keyhole, they clank open to
the ground.

My daddy would
be proud.

But I’m not
free yet.

The shackles were easy, but the door
. . .
I’m not feeling
good about.

Sure enough, there isn’t even a keyhole. I steady my breathing to calm my panic. This room is ancient, probably about to collapse. There has to be a way out. I tiptoe back to the wall where Jax is on the
other side.

“Jax?”

“Joy, are
you okay?”

“Jax, I’m out of my
chains and—”

“Shit, really? How?”

“I’ll tell you later. Right now, I need to get out of this room.
Any ideas?”

“I have
no clue.”

“I’ll have to wait until they come back and open
my door.”

“
Then what?”

“Uh
. . .
kill them? Is there any other choice?” I squint into the window’s scant light and run my hands along the stone wall’s
crumbling grout.

“Did they put jumpers
in there?”

“Yes. But I took care
of it.”

“I love you
so much.”

Somewhere in a dark corner of the Earth, a flower blooms, opening itself to the toxic world around it. I stamp it with my feet. It has no business here now, clogging my mind when I need to focus on escape. Besides, those return words don’t flow freely in a mouth still quivering from rancid
jumper blood.

“I’m going to search for a way out,” I say instead. “Maybe the bars are loose on the door.” I take off before hearing his response and inspect all four bars, pushing, pulling, and yanking on them. Not so much as a jiggle in any direction. I shove my shoulder against the door—
Maybe I can force it open?
—but it’s secured deep in
the wall.

I give up and decide waiting is the only choice left. I step back over the bloody mess of the two jumpers, lift the heavy bodies off the floor by their tails, and discard them in the far back corner. Then, I position myself inside my shackles without re-locking them, gripping the bone tight in my hand. I’ll need to make it appear like I’m still chained when the Superiors come in, which should be any time now. Or perhaps, a long time
from now.

I try to imagine piercing the bone through the body of a Superior, and where the best place would be. Slipping my left hand from its shackle, I press different areas of my chest and neck, finally deciding the soft indention at the base of the throat would be the best—and easiest spot to
aim for.

I spend the next hour or so filing the bone on the rough concrete, rotating it to get it from all angles. The tip was pointy to begin with, but not sharp. It’ll need to be as sharp as possible, I’ve only got one shot to make things right. Zero room
for error.

“Jax?”

A few seconds of silence passes before he answers. “Yes?”

“I’m going to get us out of here, okay?”

“Okay, Joy,” he says, voice drained of all hope and faith in me. I envision his eyes, lacking the light they’d have if he actually believed in me. But I’ll show him. I’ll show
them all.

For a while, I drift in and out of sleep, fighting the urge to pull out of the shackles and curl up into a more comfortable ball. Giving the impression of helplessness at a second’s notice will be my saving grace. I can’t give in to exhaustion now. Soon
. . . .

On cue, the stairwell door slams shut again. My eyes snap open wide, I grip the bone tight. A cell door squeals—either Aby’s or Miguel’s.

I take a
deep breath.

“Thanks for dinner!” I yell. “It was delicious! Best meal I’ve had since the last time I was here—Oh!—and if that’s you, Emmanuel, I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely ghastly that scar looks. I mean, you’d think after seven years it’d fade some—but, no!” I laugh. “The more bad makeup jobs you try to cover it with, the more noticeable it gets!” Then, I explode with my best possible fake laughter, until I hear the just-opened door close again and my own door rattle open. Sure enough, the flowing silhouette of Emmanuel Superior’s satin house robe twirls behind him as he moves through
my doorway.

I stand, faux shackled arms up over my head, as if protecting myself from a coming blow, but when he gets close enough, my breath catches. Framing the scarred and hideous face of Emmanuel Superior
. . .
are the long red curls of
my sister.

“We’ll see how much you have to say in a few minutes,” he snarls, and grabs my left arm. I whip my right wrist from its opened shackle and pierce his throat with the sharpened rib bone. Zero error. He grapples at it, falling to the ground, blood oozing from
his neck.

I slip out of my other shackles and scramble for the key ring in his bulging robe pocket. Instead, I find a handkerchief and a wad of cloth. He swats at me, but his widened eyes and his gasps for gurgling breath tell me he’s near-gone. I push him onto his other side and fish the key ring from his other pocket, then yank Aby’s hair from his head. First time I’ve ever seen his real hair—white around the edges of a giant bald center. No wonder he always
wears wigs.

When I finally leave him, his body has stilled. I rush next door to Jax’s cell, Aby’s hair folded up under my arm, and my heart races as I push
the button.

“Joy?”

I run to him and throw my arms around his neck,
squeezing tight.

“Did you
kill him?”

I nod, my shaky fingers fumbling with
the keys.

“That was brilliant, how you lured him
to you.”

“Thanks. I wasn’t sure if it was going
to work.”

After trying two different keys, the third one unlocks his shackles and he’s free in seconds, too. He enfolds me in his embrace, as if he’d never loved anything or anyone
so much.

“I told you I’d get us out,”
I whisper.

“I
believed you.”

“Come on, we have
to hurry.”

We slip quietly from his cell. My head swims with too much adrenaline, and not enough sleep or food and water; everything’s surreal. In Miguel’s cell, he doesn’t believe his eyes, either. “How
did you—?”

“He’s dead,” says Jax. “She
killed him.”

“Was that why you were screaming those things, to make him come
to you?”

“Joy?” Aby calls over from the next cell. “Is
that you?”

Miguel points to the wig of red hair still tucked beneath my arm. “Is that
. . .
what I think
it is?”