by Andrea White
“How many meters have we walked?” Zert asked.
“Maybe a city block,” his father said.
“For regular-sized people, right?” Zert said.
“Yeah. It’s been so tough because we’ve been going uphill.”
Zert tried to size the hill as he would have if he’d still been BIG Zert. It seemed only the height of Roach Cowboy, but it felt as high as Mount Everest.
“Ready?” Jack winced as he struggled to stand. “We should go now.”
Even though Zert’s legs felt better, he thought his father looked as if he needed to rest a bit longer. “Five more minutes?” he asked.
His father nodded and practically collapsed back down onto the ground.
“What do you think Paradise is going to look like, Dad?”
“I think we should just wait and see,” his father answered.
Zert took another drink of water. “Did you watch that holomovie Burning Guns?”
“No,” his father said.
“The good guy lived in this little town. The houses were made out of wood, not cybratom. Smoke came out of these little chimneys, and everyone rode horses.”
His father gave a weak smile. “Well, we know Paradise won’t be like a holomovie.”
Zert shifted uncomfortably as something sharp pressed into his leg. He looked closer and saw a bone on the dirt in the middle of hundreds of footprints. He was sitting on an insect graveyard of broken bones and skulls.
“We should go,” his father said, struggling to stand. “We need to get to Paradise by nightfall.”
“Hey, Dad. Want me to carry your backpack for you?” Zert asked.
“No, thank you. I’m just a little out of shape. That’s all.”
Zert was about to insist when he heard a hissing sound. It was as though a kettle of chips were frying nearby, and when he looked up, he could see a pack of black birds coasting close to the ground. They were aimed right at him, their wings folded up so tightly against their sides that they looked like missiles swooping toward him.
“Duck!” his father shouted.
He was wrong. Those weren’t ducks or even birds. In the second before Zert dove down to hug the ground, he found himself gazing into the milky white eyes of a gigantic insect, nearly his size. Its compound eyes bulged sightlessly at him. The insect had a small head; a long, flat body; and tattered wings. Zert saw that a large symbol was scrawled across the insect’s chest in blue ink. It looked like a letter of the alphabet, a B. But … that was impossible.
Zert gasped, and gravel filled his mouth. The wind swept above his head as more insects flew past. His hands, pressed against the ground, were quivering as he waited for hairy claws to attack his back. He heard a final hiss, and then all was quiet.
“You OK?” Jack called, sitting up quickly to check on Zert.
“I thought we were dead,” Zert said, his voice shaking.
“They weren’t hunting us. I think they were fleeing something.”
“What were those?” Zert asked, scanning the sky for another hoard.
“They were roaches,” his father said quietly. “Giant roaches.”
“I think maybe they were blind. Did you see their eyes?” Zert asked. “They were white.”
“That might explain why they were flying so close to the ground,” his father said, looking in the direction they’d disappeared.
“Did you see a blue B on their chests?”
His father laughed. “I don’t think that’s possible, Zert. What was it? B for blind?” He chuckled to himself.
“I wish you’d believe me more,” Zert muttered.
“Hey, look at that sign.” His father stood up to cup his hands over his brows. He squinted toward the rounded mound of the hill and pointed up at the top.
Zert scrambled up. “Where?” If there was a sign, that meant some kind of civilization, and that meant food.
“At the base of that tree,” his father said.
There it was: “Paradise.”
Zert hurried up the last hundred paces of a path strewn with slippery gravel. This close to the top of the hill, the jungle of grass lining the trail had disappeared, and he felt puny. The wind could blow him away, or he could get his head taken off by a herd of flying roaches.
The sun, nearing the horizon, beamed straight into his eyes. It was going to be dark soon, and Dr. Brown had said that they needed to reach Paradise before dark. Those flying roaches were spooky enough. He didn’t want to face the Or Else of the night.
Zert put all his energy into a final push, and at last he reached the top of the rise. With his father still ten paces behind him, he scanned the valley below. A raging river raced between gigantic boulders next to two trees, one with dancing leaves and one with low-hanging branches.
But there were no people, wooden houses, or fast horses, like in the holomovie he’d seen.
He needed to think differently, to think small. Houses for BIGS would stand out. But houses of Rosies would not. He scanned the bases of the trees, beneath bushes, along rocks.
A thin trail of smoke wafted up from a flat rock that stuck out the side of a low hill.
His father reached him, breathing heavily. He sounded done for the day. Yet, that whisper of smoke was still so far away.
Paradise. Their future home didn’t seem cute, orderly, or homey. It was a bit of gray smoke against a backdrop of gray rocks. We hiked all that way for this? We left everything behind to come here? This is our new life?
But then, Zert’s eyes traveled to the mountain, a mountain so tall and proud that for just a minute, he forgot about his sore legs and hurting feet, he forgot about the speckled couch he’d left behind and the Or Else worry about his future, he forgot about what he was going to say to Uncle Marin if he ever saw him again, and he just gaped.
17
NO COMMUNITY WITHOUT A VOTE
The downward slope was steep and covered in tiny rocks that looked slippery.
Zert could get down, but navigating the path would be hard for his father.
Without saying anything, Zert’s father dropped onto his bottom, the heels of his shoes pressed down for guidance, and started sliding down the gravel slope. He shouted over his shoulder, “In the army, we called this a two-cheek descent.”
Zert squatted and started toward the fire on the rock below. Even though his butt was dragging, the bumpy ride was fun. But he kept alert in case another platoon of roaches blew in from nowhere.
He stayed focused on that swirl of smoke.
As they had traveled a thousand miles in a wormhole, could they also have traveled thousands of years back in time? What if only the new arrivals wore the clothes they received from Ellis Log but the Rosies in Paradise were more like cavemen wearing loincloths and sitting around a fire? His father’s remark about eating worms had been his signal that everything going forward was going to be different. From now on, he needed to try his best to expect the worse, and then maybe he wouldn’t be too disappointed.
Zert scuffed along on his bottom and occasionally set off a cascade of rocks rattling down the hillside. As he got closer, he could see a man tending a fire. The man stood on a large rock that jutted out over a cliff. Underneath an overhang in what appeared to be an outdoor kitchen, Zert spotted pots and pans. The man was wearing blue jeans—thank goodness, not a loin cloth—covered with pockets in weird places, similar to the outfit of one hundred pockets that Zert had on. The Rosie’s hair was tied back in a ponytail, not tangled and wild. The man held a stick in his hand, not a spear, and his face was clean, not marked up with war paint.
Every once in a while, as they approached, the stranger glanced in their direction but didn’t seem worried or surprised.
Jack reached the bottom of the hill first. He stood up slowly and brushed himself off, his eyes on the ponytailed man.
Zert was just a few seconds behind his father.
“Hallo, Rosies,” the man hollered. A necklace of animal teeth hung around his neck. Uh-oh—this
guy is definitely a step away from normal. The tooth in the center was stained pink.
His rat-skin cap crooked on his head, Jack walked over and shook the man’s hand like men used to in the old days before the Epidemics.
“I’m Donjumpers Gibson. People call me Don G.,” the Rosie said. “We all have simple names here.”
“My name is Jack Cage,” his father said. “I like your policy.” He nodded at Zert. “This is my son, Bezert Cage. Everyone calls him Zert. He’s named for Bezert Eberheart.”
Bezert Eberheart had started Citizens Against Change, a movement to try to get people to live like they did in 2050. Zert had never liked his name, but now that he had shrunk, it seemed completely inappropriate.
Don G. turned to Zert. “How old are you, Zert?”
“Thirteen,” Zert said.
“I’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter. I’ll introduce you in a bit,” Don G. said. He was a little taller than Jack. Besides the lines etching his face, his most prominent feature was his mouth, small and sort of off center. He took on a firmer stance. “You aren’t thinking of settling here in Paradise, are you?” His eyes locked with Zert’s. Not giving him the time to answer, he asked them, “Where are you headed?”
Not exactly howdy and welcome, Zert thought. He shifted his weight a little. A caveman would be better than an unfriendly new neighbor who didn’t want them.
His father turned pale under his sunburn. “Yes,” he said, “we are. Is there a problem?”
“It depends,” Don. G. said.
They couldn’t get maximized. What were they supposed to do if Paradise wouldn’t take them? Go back to the light pole and complain to customer service?
“Why don’t you help me load up the fire?” Don G. paused. “We can talk as we work.” He headed toward some chips piled in neat stacks alongside the hill.
“I can help,” Zert said.
“No,” his father waved him off. “Sit down, son.” When Zert kept gazing at him, his father added, “I’m OK.”
Zert plopped down while his father followed Don G. Better let his dad talk to Don G. for a minute. Show Don G. what a nice guy he was so the Rosie would let them stay.
And feed them dinner.
The fire smoldered in the middle of the rock. A pipe sticking out from the side of the hill dripped water. The water fell into a narrow tube and cascaded down the slope. He looked around for the outdoor kitchen he had spotted from afar.
A shelf neatly stacked with plates, bowls, pots, and pans was built into the rocky face of the cliff. But the pots and bowls were all empty.
On Flade Street, a new restaurant had opened a drive-through lane for Flairs—flying chairs. He didn’t have to ask. There were no fly-throughs here.
His dad and Don G.—their arms full of blocks of something dark—were heading back toward the fire.
“It’s a great community,” Don G. was saying. “We all look out for each other. But not everybody fits in.”
In the world he came from, you had to be wealthy to be able to live in an Up City; he and his dad had never fit in there, either. People who lived in Up Cities had access to vaccines and cleaner air and water. Somebody always got to decide who belonged or didn’t belong. Somebody got to choose who to cut out. Zert glared at Don G. And it was never the Somebody who got cut.
Don G. held up a gray block. “Dried buffalo dung,” he said as he tossed it onto the fire.
“Buffalo dung?” Zert sputtered.
Don G.’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t born here?”
“Nope. We just arrived,” his father said.
The Rosie stared at Zert now, and his gaze seemed to size him up as thoroughly as an identity wand receiver, except instead of stats like DNA, fingerprints, and longevity, he sensed Don G. was registering softer stuff like his talent, energy level, and honesty.
Zert had never seen a gaze that asked so much. He rubbed his aching ankle, and Don G. turned back to the fire.
Don G. threw a chip on the fire and the flames rose up. “I’ll tell you frankly, Jack. Minimized kids don’t do well here. I’m the leader of our community, and if I had it my way, we’d ban them all.” His voice trailed off.
Jack cleared his throat. “Don’t tell me your community doesn’t want to give all kids a chance?”
The smoke from the fire stung his eyes, and Zert felt a slight burning of tears. So Paradise was just like Low City DC, where they threw kids like him and Cribbie into Teen Jail.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Don G. said. “We just finished dealing with a minimized kid. He never adjusted to living here, and we finally had to expel his family. He set a bad example for our other kids. For everyone.”
“If you give us a chance, you’ll want us to stay,” his father said, smiling like he did at his reluctant customers.
But Don G. only looked at him and stroked his chin. His eyes turned to Zert, but he didn’t say anything.
After a long pause, Jack turned to gaze at the fire. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you risking a fire so close to the parking lot?”
“We take precautions if there are campers in the area, but by and large, the people who visit this park never notice anything at all.” Don G. shook his head. “I could be hanging out in my birthday suit and they wouldn’t notice me. We’re almost invisible to them.”
So no BIG would ever notice him again? And the Rosies didn’t want him either? There wasn’t a third choice for him. Where was he supposed to go? His stomach grumbled, and he scuffed his heel against the dirt to hide the sound of his hunger.
“We keep the fire going twenty-four hours a day,” Don G. was saying.
Zert ducked his head and blinked to dry his eyes from the hot tears he felt coming on. They had made a mistake. The only question was just how bad his new life was going to be. And as his dad said: Would they survive?
The fire was the size of a haystack. In holomovies, fires were red. These flames were orange, black, and gray. The strands played around in the breeze, licking each other and drawing back.
“We require a vote before you can be allowed to settle here,” Don G. said. His words hung in the silence between them. He turned to face Zert’s father. “But we’ll give you three weeks before we decide.”
Three weeks! That was no time at all. But it didn’t seem as if it would matter anyway. This man with the weird necklace had already decided.
“We’ll give you some food and fur, but if we vote no, you’ll need to leave the next day,” Don G. said.
“And go where?” Zert asked, trying to control his voice so the others wouldn’t hear the lump in his throat.
“There are more settlements. But your whereabouts are not our problem,” Don G. said plainly. He stood with his arms crossed.
Zert saw that his father’s shoulders were hunched.
“No matter where you end up, you’ll have to find a trade. What did you say you did?” Don G. asked.
“Exterminator,” his father said with a broad smile on his face. “I inherited my business from my father, who inherited it from his.”
Don G. smirked. “The most useless profession in Paradise,” he said.
“Before that I was in the army,” Zert’s father added quickly. “I was stationed—”
Don G. cut his father short. “Cobblers are in short supply here.”
“A cobbler?” Zert asked.
“You know, a shoemaker,” his father said.
“I know what a cobbler is, Dad,” Zert said. His father had never made anything in his life, except for a few batches of inedible cookies. There was no way he was going to be able to make a shoe.
His father stared down at his bony hands. They would drop a needle.
“You asked me earlier what work you need to do if you want to support the community,” Don G. said. “And I just told you.”
Jack nodded.
Zert gritted his teeth. His father hadn’t given any thought to how they were going to make their living here. This man
didn’t want them, and his father would never be able to learn how to make shoes.
Don G. said to Zert, “You’ll probably want a look around while I gab with your dad.” He stomped one foot on the dirt. “This is Pancake Rock.” Then, he walked over to its edge and pointed toward the ground. “The school’s underneath that bush there.”
The school—the one that Zert probably wouldn’t get to attend or graduate from.
Despite his aching feet, Zert wandered over to the edge of the rock. “I don’t see it,” he said.
“All right, I’ll show you,” Don G. said. Without waiting for a response, he started hiking down the stairs cut into the side of the hill. They looked like steps from ancient ruins.
“Our school’s one of the safest buildings in the settlement,” Don G. said. “We fused together bottles of PeopleColor to build it.”
PeopleColor Middle School. If only Cribbie were with me and could hear this stuff.
Cribbie! Zert started walking faster to try to outrace the bad feeling that he felt in the pit of his stomach. He glanced down at his naked wrist; he couldn’t even pull up a photo of his friend on his communicator.
“Where’s the housing?” his father said.
“We have some nice caves left,” Don G. said.
The World Council had built low-income housing on Flade Street known as “the caves” for their lack of windows. Cribbie had lived in one for a while. The house was clammy, dark, depressing, and it had had mold growing in the shower.
“We’ll lend you one for now,” Don G said.
Don G. sounded helpful and almost friendly now, except for his use of the word lend. They would have three weeks, but then what? “We’ll go to the cave in a minute,” he said. He pointed at a clearing near the base of the hill. “There’s our playground.”
Zert’s old school didn’t have an outdoor playground. He wouldn’t mind playing outside, as kids did in the old days. But this playground, a jumble of cylinders, spools, and pipes, looked like an industrial site. When Zert adjusted for scale, though, trying to see everything through his old eyes, what he saw was a collection of trash: a tomato soup can, a spool without any thread, a plastic straw, a couple bars of soap, some eyeglass frames bent into some sort of a jungle gym, a stack of bottle caps, and half of a globe with nails stuck in its sides. It was a garbage playground.
