The Moon Dwellers

by David Estes

  He looks at Elsey. “Did you tell them?”

  Elsey grins at him. “Mission complete,” she says, standing at attention, her hand perpendicular to her forehead in a rigid salute. “Ready for your next order.”

  “At ease, soldier,” Tristan says, laughing. “She really likes this role-playing stuff,” he says, explaining to me.

  “She always has,” I say, “but she’s no soldier and you’re not a general.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m just kidding—lighten up,” I say, grinning. Although our hands are clearly soul mates, our minds still have a ways to go. He doesn’t know I am sarcastic a lot, but he’ll learn quickly.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says again.

  “And enough of the apologies,” I say. I’m trying to act normal, but am not sure if I’m succeeding. I am also trying to avoid making direct eye contact with him, for fear of being sent into a stupor, unable to speak or think.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “If I’m not the general, then who is?”

  “I nominate myself,” Roc says.

  “I second it,” Elsey says.

  “Hey, don’t I get any votes?” I say.

  “Nah, Tristan and Roc are really fun,” Elsey says.

  “And I’m not?”

  “Not as fun as them,” she says, grinning.

  “Thanks a lot!” I exclaim, grabbing her and whirling her around.

  “As general,” Roc says, “our first order of business is to eat breakfast. Then we’ll head over to the Camp of Death and Skulls and Crossbones and all that.”

  “The Camp of Blood and Stone,” I correct.

  “I think that’s what I said,” Roc says, chuckling.

  Tawni hands each of us one of the wafers Elsey found the night before. It isn’t a very appetizing breakfast, but it is better than going hungry. And it is quick, which I like. I am anxious to find my dad. He’s done so much for me in my life and now I have the chance to do something for him. I can’t fail him.

  I also need the distraction. Although I try to keep up my side of the constant bantering that has begun ever since Tristan and Roc joined us, inside I am still a wreck. I can’t block my emotions out like the rest of them seem to do. I feel bad that my heart ballooned the night before, when Tristan held my hand, feeling more alive than it has in months. I feel bad because Cole is dead, and yet I am enjoying myself, getting to know Tristan. Why do I deserve to find such happiness in the midst of such misery? Every five minutes it feels like my heart is shriveling up like a raisin. And then I look at Tristan and it pumps back up again. I wonder if my heart can survive such imbalance for long.

  We leave our little hideaway without seeing anyone. People are staying indoors after the previous night’s bombing. The smoke has cleared, revealing the extent of the destruction. It is bad, but not irreparable, if only the star dwellers will let us rebuild.

  Although the dusty streets are deserted, we walk single file, sticking to the edges of buildings, ready to dive for cover if any sun dwellers appear. Or any star dwellers. Probably any moon dwellers, too. We don’t know who we can trust.

  Tristan is just in front of me, which I would know even if my eyes were closed. It’s like an invisible tether connects us whenever we are close. The tether has low-voltage electricity surging through it, leaving me tingling. His strides look awkward, ginger, like he’s walking on eggshells, trying not to crack them. Each step is likely sending splinters of pain through his injured leg and back.

  We speak in hushed voices.

  “Where did your brother come from?” I ask.

  “Although I’d like to say he was adopted, I’m pretty sure he came from my mom’s stomach, same as me,” Tristan says, grinning.

  I shake my head and grin back. “No, I mean yesterday. How’d he know we were here?”

  “I’ve been wondering that, too,” Tristan says, his smile fading. “If I had to guess, I’d say my dad sent him as soon as Rivet reported that you were headed here on the train.”

  I nod slowly. “But why’d he attack you like that?” I ask.

  Tristan glances back and says, “We haven’t been getting along lately.”

  He didn’t really answer my question. “But why—”

  “He’s not like me, Adele. He’s different—like my father. Not good.”

  “So you mean bad, right?”

  “Yeah, bad.”

  “Which makes you good then?”

  He sighs. “I don’t know, I guess because I don’t believe what my father does. Or maybe I’m not good, because it doesn’t seem like anyone is these days. I’d rather classify myself as not bad.” He turns his head and manages a sideways grin, but I can tell that talking about his family is hard for him.

  But I plow ahead anyway. I feel like I have to. After all, we did hold hands last night when I barely knew him! The least I can do is try to get to know him the morning after. Plus, I want to. I want to know everything about him.

  “So you’re not like your dad or brother…”

  “My father or brother,” he clarifies. It seems the distinction between dad and father is important to him. I wonder if it’s a sign of respect for the President or a lack of closeness with the man who helped create him.

  “Okay—father. So if you’re not like them, does that mean you are like your mother?”

  “I hope I’m like my mom was,” he says, once more changing my word slightly.

  “Was?” I say, hoping I’m not probing too much.

  Tristan goes silent for a moment and I worry I’ve offended him. We tiptoe across an empty intersection and duck behind another building. Roc is leading—he said he knows the way.

  Finally, Tristan says, “My mom disappeared a while ago.” Although he says it calmly, evenly, I can feel a weight behind his words. The same kind of weight I feel in my own voice when I speak about my parents.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “It was better that she went. For her. I’ll find her someday,” he adds.

  “I’ll help you,” I find myself saying.

  He glances back. “I’d like that.”

  The tingling in my body, which I’ve started to get used to, increases suddenly, like a surge of electricity, and I find myself giddy with excitement. I have the urge to rush to his side and grab his hand, walk with him. I restrain myself.

  Roc says, “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re approaching the boundary to the camp.”

  I look around—all I can see are buildings. For a second I think Roc might’ve gotten confused, but when we turn the next corner, the buildings suddenly disappear and are replaced by a high stone wall. The wall is gray and sheer and would’ve appeared ominous, an impossible barrier between me and my dad, except there is a gaping hole in it.

  Scorch marks are burned along the edges of the hole, the result of a force so powerful it could’ve only been from an incendiary. Three times, I think. Three times we’ve been effectively saved by the star dweller bombs. At some point I am really going to have to write the star dweller leaders a letter thanking them.

  I chuckle under my breath at my own joke.

  “What?” Tristan says.

  “Nothing. Just thinking how strange it is that I’d still be stuck in the Pen if not for the star dweller bombs. Or worse, I might be dead. They always seem to explode when and where I need them the most, like a guardian angel is helping me.”

  “You think there’s something to it?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. More likely it’s just a coincidence. They seem to be bombing everything,” I say. Despite my nonchalant response, something tells me there is more to it. But it doesn’t make sense—can’t make sense. Why would the star dwellers be trying to help me do anything? They don’t even know who I am. They have much bigger problems to deal with now. Like how to win a war. I shrug off my thoughts and try to focus on our present situation.

  We have a way in now, but I’m afraid to take it, afraid that
the entire camp is destroyed, the prisoners left to die while the guards evacuated.

  “It’ll be okay,” Tristan says, as if reading my mind.

  “I know,” I lie.

  The first bomb hits just as we are creeping through the hole. Another day of bombing has begun. If we weren’t so used the sound of distant bombs, we might have mistaken it for something else, a piece of machinery firing up maybe, but by now we can identify the roar of thunder as not a fluke underground storm, but as the mirthful cry of pointless destruction.

  Elsey cries out, but I manage to quickly slap a hand over her mouth, silencing her. We huddle together, hoping there isn’t a guard just inside the wall, close enough to hear the noise. Warmth flows into my skin as my arm brushes against Tristan’s.

  He looks at me, his eyes serious. He leans in and I think he might kiss me, although clearly it isn’t the time or the place.

  “Wait here,” he says.

  I start to object, but he is already gone, slipping inside the wall and around the corner. I see the hilt of his drawn sword flash before he moves out of sight. He moves remarkably fast considering his wounds. He’s still not moving normally, but his limp has lessened.

  Roc must see the concern on my face, because he says, “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. I taught him everything he knows.”

  I laugh. It is high pitched and nervous, but a laugh nonetheless. It helps to calm my nerves.

  We hear a quick yell and then a groan, followed by a thud. I’ve had enough of waiting and rush through the wall, expecting violence of some sort.

  Instead, there is only Tristan, grinning, standing over his fallen adversary.

  I approach him, feeling my heart beat faster as the distance between us lessens. “Is he…dead?” I ask.

  “Just unconscious,” Tristan says. His grin fades and he raises a finger in the air. “We have to hurry.”

  I can hear a dull commotion further into the camp. Something is happening. Something big. Inside the wall we can see all the way to the main buildings, where the prisoners are probably kept. But the sound arises from further south, past a cluster of massive stone blocks stacked in a pyramidal structure.

  I don’t know how I know, but I do: my father is here. Admittedly, being this close after not seeing him for so long makes me go a bit crazy. Okay, really crazy. I take off, leaving my friends behind, envisioning a joyous reunion with him, jumping into his arms, holding him to me.

  It’s a long run, and my initial burst of speed wanes, forcing me to drop into well-measured, paced strides. Tristan catches up halfway to the pyramids, pulling alongside me, galloping along in a strange limp-run, his breathing heavy, but not as heavy as mine. To his credit, he doesn’t try to stop me, to reason with me, like so many other guys would do. He seems to understand that I have to do what I’m about to do.

  Whatever that is.

  “What’s the plan?” he says as we run together.

  Plan? Huh? The word sounds as meaningless to me as a phrase uttered in an ancient language by someone who forms words by clicking their tongue against the roof of their mouth. “I…uh…well…” I stammer. Finally, I say, “Get my dad?” What a plan! I even say it like a question, as if I’m not sure that’s why we’re sprinting across a barren prison camp. Good one, Adele.

  Tristan deserves a medal for patience. “So go and kick some butt then?” He tries to grin, but the pain of running with his injuries turns it into a grimace.

  “Exactly.” His assured tone gives me strength, and I feel like we have a plan, even though we don’t. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Never felt better,” he says.

  “Liar.”

  The pyramids loom closer. They are a lot bigger now that we are close to them, rising hundreds of feet into the air. I veer right, heading for the outer edge of the first one in the line of three. Tristan follows, keeping pace and sticking close to my side. As we pass the corner, my eyes widen at the sight before me.

  Dozens of other giant, gray pyramids dot the landscape, rising majestically above us.

  The commotion we heard from a distance is getting louder and soon we can make out individuals yells. It sounds like a battle.

  I continue to steer us in the direction of the sound, but we still can’t see anything except the pyramids, which are staggered in such a way that they block the view in every direction once you are in their midst.

  “We’re close,” Tristan says. “Get ready.”

  Ready for what? I have no idea, but I nod anyway. We pass a final pyramid and abruptly our vision opens to a wide open rock slab plane. A half-constructed pyramid stands a ways off. In front of the pyramid: chaos—the source of the noise.

  A mob of prisoners are fighting the guards, who are using long whips and Tasers to hold them off. None of them have guns. Clearly the intention is to hurt, not to kill.

  But the guards aren’t doing so well. We pull to a stop, and as we watch, one of the guards is bashed over the head by a shirtless guy wielding a rock. A prisoner. His body is covered in scars, some dark and ancient, and others fresh—some even ooze bright red blood.

  There are hundreds of prisoners, all of whom are in a similar condition. None of the men wear shirts and they all have various injuries, likely caused by the sting of the guards’ whips. The women wear ratty tank tops and sport similar welts and gashes. But they’ve had enough.

  The revolt is ultraviolent and for a few minutes we watch in awe as the prisoners start to gain an advantage. Although the inmates are taking a beating, the guards are dropping fast, being pelted with stones or bludgeoned by bare fists, a result of the overwhelming force that is gathered to defy them.

  The camp name suddenly makes sense. The Stones: the massive stone blocks used to construct the pyramids—they were likely constructed off the backs of the prisoners, a pointless exercise that appears to have no purpose other than to inflict pain. The Blood: the prisoners provide that when abused by the guards.

  Now the guards’ blood is mixed with the prisoners.

  Our timing is remarkable. That we arrive during such an event is incredible, to say the least.

  “Do you see him?” Tristan asks.

  “Who?” I say, watching the brutality with morbid curiosity.

  “I don’t know, your dad maybe?”

  Duh. The whole purpose of our being here. I scan the mob, hoping to see his dark mop of hair and neatly trimmed mustache amongst the prisoners. I don’t think about what it might mean if he’s not amongst the fighters.

  I think my eyes sweep past him three or four times before I recognize him. Subconsciously, I know it is him, because my gaze keeps returning to one spot, but my mind fails to believe it’s him. His black hair is long and disheveled, down to his shoulders. His mustache is accompanied by a thick, black beard, covering the better half of his face. His uncovered body, always strong from his work in the mines, glistens with sweat and blood and is as hard as the stones he is forced to work with.

  But there is no mistaking his eyes. Emerald green and piercing, like mine. Exactly like mine. Looking into them has always been like looking into a mirror for me.

  When he happens to turn toward me, searching for a guard to fight, he spots me and our eyes lock. I don’t know if he thinks I am a mirage, a misfire of one of the thousands of synapses in his brain, but he just stands there staring at me. His shoulders slump as if even seeing a mirage of me is too painful for him to bear.

  I wave at him.

  His head perks up and his head cocks to the side. I guess maybe he doesn’t think a mirage can wave. Whatever the case, he takes off running to me. I charge toward him, wild with excitement. My legs feel as light as air. I am giddy, gleefully childlike. A few of the guards see him break away and race after him, one of them snapping a whip at his heels.

  Ignoring the crackle of the whip, my dad thunders toward me with reckless abandon. The gap between us disappears. Forty feet. Thirty. Twenty.

  Crack! The guard slings the whip with practice
d precision and this time it connects, wrapping around my father’s legs and tripping him up. He manages to brace his fall with his arms and skids to a stop ten feet from me, his arms immediately sheening with fresh blood from new scrapes.

  We go for the guards. One for me; one for Tristan.

  I choose the one with the whip. I’m not sure where this sudden need for revenge comes from, but I can’t seem to control it. First Rivet, because of Cole. Now the whip-carrying guard, because of my father.

  The guard pulls the strap back and snaps it at me. I see it coming, ducking so low I am forced into a roll, clunky and painful on the stone. I emerge from the roll on my feet and still moving at full force. I’m not sure a train could stop me at this point. It is like I’m possessed by a demon, only observing my crazed self from afar.

  When the guard sees the look on my face, his own face flashes fear, cheeks turning white and mouth contorting. I lead with an elbow, spearing him in the mouth with it and likely jarring a few teeth loose. Maintaining my momentum, I follow through with a shoulder to his sternum, flattening him onto his back and trampling overtop his chest.

  I screech to a stop and look back. Tristan has the other guard at sword point, but then switches the blade to his left hand and punches the guy hard in the head twice. His head lolls to the side like he’s unconscious.

  The guard I battered is groaning and writhing in pain. I don’t think he’s going to be a threat anytime soon, so I leave him and run to my dad, who is pulling himself to his feet. Despite his aches and pains, he is smiling, his arms outstretched.

  Although it isn’t exactly as I planned in my mind, I jump on him, wrap my arms and legs around him, hugging him harder than I ever have before, not caring that he is covered in a mixture of dirt and blood. “Dad…oh, Dad,” I murmur into his chest.

  “My precious daughter,” he says, rubbing my back.

  I hear Tristan say, “Not trying to spoil the reunion here, but we’ve got to go.” Reluctantly, I release my dad and turn to Tristan, who is watching us with one black eye; the other is trained on the continuing battle between the guards and prisoners. I see what he is worried about. A few of the guards have broken away from the fray and are gesturing at us wildly.