The Moon Dwellers

by David Estes

  The room is more like a closet, but is clean at least, with painted-white stone walls and slate floors. A single bed fills most of the room—we’ll have to duke it out for bed rights. There is a shared bathroom in the hallway, but with no guests other than us, we’ll have it all to ourselves. I close the door.

  First we check the view. For someone wanting a view of the Pen—like us—it is a good one. The Pen is dark and quiet. I can picture the girl sitting on her bed in her cell, wishing to be anywhere but there. I don’t dare to picture her on a slab of rock in the morgue. She can’t be dead. Can’t be. If she’s alive, I wonder if she is thinking about me, whether she had the same strange feelings I did when our eyes locked. Probably not.

  But even so, if I can somehow get her out of the Pen, no doubt she will be pleased, willing to get to know me. She will know who I am, but I hope that won’t be the reason she wants to get to know me. I am so tired of people liking me just because of my father. In my mind, that is more of a reason not to like me.

  “I’ve got to find out if she’s alive tonight,” I say suddenly.

  Roc glances at me, raising his eyebrows. I am ready for him to advise me that I should wait until morning, that I should do the responsible thing, be patient, but to my surprise, he says, “I know. Let’s go have a look.”

  When we pass the front desk, the same old man is sitting in the same position, reading the same paper, like he is glued to the seat. Perhaps he has a neck problem, which explains why again he doesn’t bother to look up. Or perhaps he just doesn’t like guests, or more specifically, doesn’t like us. It doesn’t bother me—the fewer questions and looks we get, the better.

  The security at the front gate of the Pen is light—only a single guard with an automatic weapon mans the station. I am impressed that they have guns. They aren’t easy to come by and the inmates are all less than eighteen years old; it seems like a lot of excess firepower to me.

  I’ve removed my shades, as they will make me stick out even more wearing them at night. I hope the low-brimmed hat will be sufficient to hide my face. I approach the guard with my head down, but I can feel him eyeing us.

  “Hoping to visit an inmate,” I say casually.

  “A guest?” the guard replies.

  I almost say what? but then realize we are talking about the same thing. Funny how they call their prisoners guests. “Uh, yeah, a guest,” I say.

  “Visiting hours are over. Come back between ten and two tomorrow.”

  The guard doesn’t sound like he’ll easily change his mind, but I have to try anyway. “Is there any chance of an exception?” I say.

  “No,” he says simply, his voice sounding tired, like he hates having to constantly have this conversation with people. I consider playing my son of the president card, but decide against it for two reasons. First, I don’t really want to give away my identity just yet. There is a good chance the press will get wind of it and then my father will send guards to bring me back. Second, I don’t want to rely on my name, or my father, anymore. I am tired of it. I am ready to just be me, for better or for worse.

  “Okay, we’ll be back at ten tomorrow,” I say.

  The guard doesn’t answer, just stares at us. No, it’s not at us, more like through us, like we aren’t even there. We leave.

  I know it isn’t a good idea to roam the city, especially at night, but we have to eat so we go for a walk. The subchapter has seen better days. Although the cavern it’s built in is magnificent, rising hundreds of feet above our heads and extending many miles in each direction, the town itself is deteriorating. Most of the shops and restaurants are boarded up, having insufficient business to exist. When people don’t have money, they can’t buy things—simple as that. I expect it means the remaining restaurants will be crowded, enjoying the benefits of being the only show in town, but I am wrong there.

  We pass a tavern. Through the window I can see a lone drinker propped on an elbow, sitting on a stool at the bar. Nursing a drink. And I mean nursing. He is sipping it like it might be the last drink he will ever take. Maybe it is. Maybe things are so bad that he spent the last of his money on the drink, and plans to commit suicide later tonight. I don’t know. Things like that don’t happen in the Sun Realm.

  We get to the end of the street without passing another open eatery. Turning left, I hear the distant murmur of music playing. Halfway down the block the soft glow of candlelight drifts through an open doorway. The sign above the door says simply Pizza. Not seeing any other options, we make for the light.

  Entering the pizzeria, I let Roc step in front of me as I see half a dozen heads turn toward us. The music playing is by some sun dweller rock band, The Stone Crushers, I think, and has an up-tempo beat that makes you want to get up and dance. No one is dancing tonight. They are, however, eating pizza and it smells pretty good.

  There is no one to greet us so we just take a couple seats and wait for service. None of the other customers pay any attention to us. A few minutes later, a short bald man with horn-rimmed glasses pushes backwards through a set of swinging doors. He is wearing a red apron and balancing four circular trays of pizza across his outstretched arms.

  “Who ’ad the cheese?” he says with a grunt.

  Every hand in the place goes up except ours. He quickly dishes out the pizzas and collects a few coins from each party. Then he turns toward us. “What’ll ya have?” he says.

  “Whaddya got?” I ask. When the guy’s eyes narrow, I realize I should have just said cheese pizza, because I know he has it. Instead, my simple question instantly draws more attention to us than I want. I glance at Roc. He’s chewing his nails off one by one.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” the guy says.

  “Just visiting for a day or two,” I say, hoping it will satisfy him and he’ll go back to serving us.

  He raises a single bushy eyebrow. “Travelers, huh?” he says. “We don’t get many travelers. Where ya from?”

  Now I know we’re in a bit of trouble. I can tell him the truth, tell him we are sun dwellers, but I have no idea what effect that will have. Will he and his patrons be excited that a sun dweller is visiting their subchapter? Or will they be angry, ready to have a political discussion that involves their fists and our faces? All it takes is one moon dweller with a chip on his shoulder to cause us serious problems. On the other hand, if I lie, tell him we are from some other subchapter, he might ask questions that I’m not able to answer. I will have to keep lying, spinning myself deeper and deeper into a web of deceit.

  I opt for truth—big mistake.

  “We’re visiting from the Sun Realm,” I say.

  You could have heard the sound of one of Roc’s chewed off nails drop to the floor, that’s how quiet it gets. It even feels like the music stops playing, although in reality the song just happens to end at the exact same time.

  “The Sun Realm, eh?” the pizza man says. I know that everyone inside is listening to our conversation now, slices of pizza dangling from fingertips, some in mid-bite. I know the man isn’t going to let it go in a hurry. I am glad the restaurant is only lit by candles—it will be near impossible for him to identify me.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Never served a sun dweller before,” the guy says, his light tone switching to heavy right about the time he says the words sun dweller. I sense a hidden meaning behind his words: It’s not that he has never had a sun dweller in his pizzeria, but that he will never serve a sun dweller, even if they are his only customers.

  “Fair enough,” I say, standing up. “We’ll take that as our cue to leave.”

  The pizza man puts a hand on each of my shoulders and pushes me firmly back into my chair. “There’s a first time for everything,” he says.

  I’m not sure what he means. That he is going to serve us like any other customers? Or that he is going to head back into the kitchen and cook up the most delectable, hot, gooey, poisoned pizza he has ever made? Whatever the case, I’m not going to take any c
hances. As soon as the owner barrels through the swinging doors to the kitchen, I am back on my feet. Roc is up at the same time, knowing without asking what our next move will be.

  We move toward the door.

  Two big men block the door, standing tall with their arms crossed. Not good. I don’t even know where they’ve come from. I don’t recall seeing them in the restaurant—and if they had been, we would’ve seen them moving toward the door. They could have come from outside, but I probably would’ve heard them scuffle across the threshold, unless they are professional sneaks. There is a staircase that rises up from just to the right of the entrance, however, presumably leading to sleeping quarters for the bald pizza man. Perhaps he has sons who live with him, who, upon overhearing our conversation—key words being sun and dwellers—thought it polite to pop down and say hello. Of course, these men are staring right at us and their lips aren’t exactly moving; if not “hello,” I would take “good evening,” “welcome,” or even “hiya” at this point. No words—just stares. If these guys are his sons, they are genetic freaks, more than twice the size of their dad.

  “Excuse me,” I say, still trying to avoid confrontation. They don’t move, just stand there staring. I try to squeeze through the middle of them, but they inch closer together, shoulder to shoulder. I attempt to skirt around them, but they move like a single organism, blocking the side. The only option left is through them. So be it.

  I take a few steps back and charge.

  The feint is as important as the attack itself.

  I fake like I am going to try and club each of them over the head with a different one of my fists. Because all of my activity is aimed high, they counter with high defenses and attacks of their own. The guy on the left covers his head with his arms and hands to block my attack. The guy on the right goes on the offensive, attempting a haymaker punch intended to end the fight quickly, possibly breaking my jaw or giving me a mild concussion. Big mistake.

  At the last second I throw my head back and launch both feet forward like torpedoes. Each boot heel hits one of the guys’ knees. I have so much forward momentum that the impact is like getting hit by a concrete block. I feel their knees buckle, crack, bend back the wrong way. And I hear their screams of pain, a harmonized “ARGHHH!” that will surely bring the pizza man running back out of the kitchen.

  They tumble backwards out the open doorway and I land on them in a mess of arms and legs, at least two of which contain broken bones. Not mine.

  While I attack, Roc is not idle. He is already out the door, grabbing me under my arms, hoisting me back to my feet. And then we are running.

  The guys with the broken kneecaps won’t be chasing us, but we don’t know who else might come to their rescue. Given our first taste of subchapter 14 hospitality, we aren’t about to stick around and plead our case to the locals. Apparently, all those screaming, cheering girls—the ones chucking underwear—at the parade the day before live outside the town.

  We don’t hear anyone pursuing us, but we don’t stop running until we are back inside our motel lobby.

  The hotel guy should look up, considering the way we burst through the door, panting and sweating and out of control. But he doesn’t. He isn’t reading his paper anymore either. He’s rolled it up and is using it as a pillow, his craggly old cheek resting upon it, smudging the print all over his face. Buzzing snores arise from him. Deep sleeper, I think. Hear no evil, see no evil. The perfect place for us to stay.

  I never thought I’d be so happy to see the inside of that tiny shoebox room. Roc and I sit down on the bed and look at each other, our eyes wide. Then we are laughing, in between taking deep, heaving breaths, happy to just be away from that terrible pizzeria.

  “What was that all about?” Roc says.

  “I dunno. I guess they don’t like us,” I say.

  “More like hate us.”

  I nod. “Good thing they didn’t recognize me.”

  “We can’t stay too much longer in this place,” Roc points out.

  “I know. But I have to at least try to see her, to do something, to make sure she’s okay.”

  “Then we have to do it tonight. We can’t linger, Tristan.” Roc’s eyes are dark and serious. I value his counsel, even when I don’t want to hear it.

  “We’ll go at midnight,” I say. “Let’s get some sleep.” My stomach is growling, but I ignore it.

  We have three hours before midnight. I let Roc have the bed. It isn’t often he gets something that I don’t. Roc sets an alarm and goes straight to sleep. I linger, taking the time to brush my teeth and shower in the empty bathroom. I have to be presentable if I am going to see her tonight.

  By the time I get back to the room, Roc is breathing heavily, twitching slightly on the bed as he dreams about getting chased by angry guards, or perhaps deranged pizza chefs.

  I take my place on the floor, using the extra pillow to rest my head on. The stone is hard under my back, but that is one thing I am used to: stone. Everyone living in the Tri-Realms is used to it. I can’t wait for the day I’ll be free of it.

  Before I drift off to sleep, I think about how I fainted when I was thinking about the girl. It is as if her beauty, or her presence—or maybe her aura?—is too much for my own soul to handle. I hope I won’t faint when I meet her—I’d die from embarrassment when I woke up.

  I sleep, either dreamlessly or without memory of my dreams.

  We wake up, not by Roc’s alarm clock, but by the muffled sound of gunshots in the distance. Before I am fully awake I know where the sounds emanate from: the Pen.

  I leap to my feet, reaching the window at the same time as Roc. My back is aching from sleeping on the hard, stone floor. I’m not used to it.

  We huddle together, gazing across the road and through the fence. The Pen is dark and quiet—like before. Gunshots once more reach our ears. Although the sound is stifled, both by walls and distance, neither Roc nor I have any doubt as to the origin: a semi-automatic weapon. Countless times we’ve heard similar sounds tremor through the walls of the palace, a result of army training exercises nearby.

  I spot movement along the fence. I point it out to Roc, and we watch as a dark form creeps in the shadows, moving silently toward a door leading inside. The figure reaches the door and waits. A minute passes without gunshots or movement from the ghost.

  The hollow door clangs open, ringing like a bell across the yard, through the fence, and into our ears. Two forms spill from the Pen, momentarily thrust into the glow of a single light illuminating the entranceway. They move quickly out of the light, joining the shadow in the shadows. Although they are only visible for a split-second, a mere wrinkle in time, I know without a doubt who they are—I suddenly feel dizzy.

  Roc seems to recognize that something is wrong, and manages to thrust an arm behind me, catching me just before I collapse. “Tristan?” he says.

  Thankfully, I don’t pass out. My legs feel like rubber and the whole room is spinning, but I hang on to consciousness. Roc holds me up until the feeling passes.

  “It’s her,” I say. “We have to go.” Although she didn’t look at me, I felt the warmth of her green eyes hit me, like a blast of hot air from a furnace. She’s alive! Although I’ve been trying to convince myself that she survived the encounter with the big guy the day of the parade, in my heart I believed it had ended in tragedy. I’m not used to things going my way.

  Before leaving, I risk a final glance out the window, hoping I won’t be affected by seeing her again. The threesome reaches the fence and starts to climb. “No electricity?” I say aloud.

  A group of guards, at least six, I think, charge out into the yard. They are headed straight for her, toting guns and nightsticks.

  Time to go.

  Roc is already in the hall, looking back like he expects me to be right behind him. I cross the room in two long strides. We tear down the hall.

  If the twelve flights of stairs have a hundred and forty-four steps, I think my feet touch about th
irty-six of them. It is a wonder I don’t trip and tumble all the way to the bottom, breaking every bone in my body. As long as my heart is intact, I don’t care.

  We rush past the sleeping deskman and into the cool night.

  We freeze on the sidewalk when we see the scene before us.

  Chapter Nine

  Adele

  The explosion rocks the still night air like a freight train crossing a rickety wooden bridge. I cling to the fence for dear life, as superheated air whooshes past me with the force of a stick of mining TNT.

  We are lucky. Damn lucky.

  The bomb blast knocks out a section of fence twenty yards to the left of us, leaving us relatively unscathed. Had we chosen that part of the fence to climb, we would’ve been hurtled to our deaths on the unforgiving rock slabs in the yard.

  The good news: The bomb has also taken out every last guard in the yard behind us. Evidently they were running along the fence when it hit, trying to get to where we are climbing. Their bodies are scattered throughout the yard, some quite a distance away from each other, tossed like ragdolls by the power of the explosion. I don’t know if they are dead. Frankly, I don’t care.

  The bad news: The guards on the other side of the fence were as protected as we were. They are still standing under us, still aiming their guns at us. Given the stress they are under—what with all their friends out cold on the other side and bombs going off (okay, it is only one bomb so far)—I am afraid they might just open fire and ask questions later.

  We are frozen in place, waiting to be torn apart by hot steel bullets. All watching the guards, waiting. It is horrible. An eternity in hell wouldn’t be worse than these ten seconds. Or maybe it is only five. I don’t know—all I know is it is bad.

  The next bomb hits a building across the street from the Pen, directly beyond our section of fence. A maelstrom of glass and rock rubble rains down upon the guards and they do what any other well-trained officers of a fine juvenile delinquent facility would do when three of their guests are trying to escape: they run. For good measure, they even throw down their guns to allow themselves to run faster. I’ve never understood the expression turned tail and ran until now. If the guards had tails, they most definitely would’ve turned just before they took off.