The Earth Dwellers

by David Estes

  “Now we can talk,” Abe says.

  “About what?” I say, falling in beside him.

  He lights up a cigarette.

  “When did you start smoking?” Buff asks.

  Abe laughs. “From when I could afford to buy them,” he says. “When Dazzy here took down the king and made me a very rich man.”

  “None of us are rich anymore,” I mutter.

  “This ain’t good,” Abe says, his mouth hanging open, displaying his yellow-black teeth like trophies.

  I’m surprised that he says it. Abe likes hiding things, pretending everything’s alright when it’s clearly not. For him to say something like that, he must think our situation’s pretty bad indeed.

  “What the freeze are they going to do to us?” I hiss.

  Abe motions for me to keep my voice down, which I thought I was doing already. “I don’t know, kid, but I’d expect the worst.” The worst? Like King Goff worst, stealing our children—my sister, Buff’s siblings—and selling them as slaves? Or like Admiral Jones worst, using the children themselves as slaves, beating them with whips and otherwise making their lives the definition of misery? Or does he mean…

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “Be alert,” he says. “Wait for the right time to turn the tables on the bastards.” He fingers the knife hanging from his belt. “One way or another, blood will be spilt before the day is done.”

  ~~~

  Hightower pulls the cart the entire way to fire country, and I don’t think he even breaks a sweat. At the bottom, Abe insists Buff and I take over again. Not because Hightower needs a break, but because he wants his brother to “be ready.” Whatever that means. No matter what I ask him, he’s being all cryptic with me, talking about “chances” and “lost opportunities” and “winning the day.”

  Fire country is boiling hot, as if the sun and the sand are in league together, creating the perfect conditions to roast humans alive. Almost immediately, the clothes start coming off. Coats and blankets, boots and socks. Some Icers are even using knives to cut their pants and shirts shorter. Soon we’ll be dressed like Heaters.

  Most of the Icers have never felt this kind of heat, like they’re sitting in a fire. No doubt it’ll take a lot of getting used to.

  Buff and I trudge along, pulling the cart across the hard, cracked earth, avoiding running smack into pricklers, which have drawn plenty of attention from the other Icers, having never seen such strange plants, all green and spiky and presenting themselves in countless shapes and varieties. I almost wish I was sitting back there with my mother and Jolie, just to see their expressions. There’s a whole, wide world out there just waiting to be explored.

  But not this way. Not by being forced.

  The safety of the trees and the mountain fade away behind us.

  After a while, the soldiers stop us, order us to rest and drink, to ready ourselves for the final stage across the desert. They speak with clipped sentences, formal and sharp. Commands, not suggestions. They are our masters, not our allies. I even notice that the curly mustache representative from the Blue District isn’t looking so confident in his decision. His face is red, his clothes are streaked with dust, and he has a crying baby in his arms. Should we call a re-vote? I’m pretty sure the Glassy soldiers won’t go for that. The alliance has been made.

  Abe and Hightower stroll away from us while we’re stopped, pointing at a bright, purple flower on a prickler, gesturing and smiling animatedly at a mouse-like creature that pops out of a hole, sniffs around, and then dives back out of the sun. What are they up to?

  Be alert, he’d said. I’m trying my best, but Jolie’s tugging on my arm, pointing at everything in sight, saying, “Do you see it? Do you?”

  And I’m saying, “Yah, yah, Joles,” even as I’m watching one of the other reps from the Black District march over to one of the soldiers, waving his arms wildly, screaming at him. I can’t make out his words but I can tell they’re laced with obscenities and demands. When the soldier just ignores him, gazing off into the desert like the man doesn’t exist, he gets all up in his face, sort of bumping him with his chest. Still the soldier ignores him, but I see the Glassy’s fingers tightening on his weapon.

  A lot of the other Icers are noticing the commotion now too, gawking and pointing. Murmurs ripple through the crowd like a water country wave, picking up speed and quickly alerting the other Glassy soldiers to the plight of their comrade. They’ve got us surrounded, but now they’re looking at each other, unsure of themselves.

  One of them starts moving around the circle in the direction of the soldier being harassed, but another soldier yells at him to “Hold position!”

  Be alert. I scan my surroundings, looking in all the places the soldiers aren’t. Abe’s up to something—that’s the only thing I’m sure of. Then I see him.

  Outside of the ring of soldiers. Not Hightower, just Abe. Surprisingly, Hightower is nowhere to be found. Although he stands a foot above everyone else from ice country, Abe’s brother is missing, which means he must be crouching or sitting or hiding somewhere.

  Abe’s on the move, staying low to the ground, moving silently behind one of the soldiers, who’s completely oblivious.

  A distraction. That’s all the Black District rep is. He’s pushing the soldier now, and the soldier is finally paying him some attention, pushing back and shouting a warning at him. Now raising his weapon, pointing it at the guy, who finally backs off, his hands in the air…

  Abe grabs the other soldier from behind, around the neck, twisting his head viciously to the side. The Glassy drops and Abe bends down to pick up his weapon.

  No one notices except me, as the Icers and Glassy soldiers are equally distracted by the continuing scene with the man and the soldier. Now the man’s moving forward again, his arms out, as if trying to reason with the soldier. He points to the sky, at the sun, as if trying to say that the heat’s making everyone a little crazy, a little quick-tempered.

  My eyes flick back to Abe, who’s striding around the arc of the human circle that is the entire population of ice country, all three thousand of us. He doesn’t run, just walks calmly, confidently, deadly.

  A large form draws my attention on the other side of the circle. Hightower, having risen up from wherever he was crouching, is walking in the opposite direction, closing in on another soldier, who’s looking the other direction, toward his comrade who’s dealing with the irate villager.

  And then, and then…

  —Tower’s arm is raised, his clenched fist like a club, high above his head, and he

  —drops it like a falling tree, right onto the crown of the soldier’s head.

  The soldier crumples without so much as grunting.

  I whip my head back to the other side, where Abe is swinging the fire stick like an axe at a tree, cracking it off the next soldier’s skull.

  Finally, someone besides me notices. A scream, loud and shrill, pierces the murmurs of the crowd. Heads turn and feet scramble as everyone tries to figure out what’s happening. Who screamed and why? The remaining soldiers are doing the same, turning, realization flashing across their faces, because three of the other soldiers are missing, out of sight below the height of the people.

  And they’re shouting, too, trying to make their voices carry over the rumbles of the village, growing louder and louder and—

  —there’s a CRACK! sharp and like thunder, and right away, even though I’ve never heard it before, I know what it is. The sound of a fire stick being used. One of the soldiers has hurt an Icer, maybe even killed them.

  Everyone’s screaming and running now, leaving everything—their carts and packs and everything—behind as they try to get away. CRACK! CRACK! CRACKCRACKCRACK!

  The noises come fast and furious and provide the perfect, gruesome accompaniment for the fearful screams of the crowd.

  “Dazz!” Jolie yells, clutching my leg. I grab her and throw her up onto the cart, where Buff is already corralling any of his
brothers and sisters who clambered off when we stopped. They’ll be safe from the stampede up there.

  People are charging around us, trying to get away, running back toward ice country, and I’m craning my neck to see what’s happening, who’s dying, where Abe and Hightower are.

  The mob parts and there he is: Abe. He’s got the stolen fire stick raised and there’s a soldier lying flat on her back before him, her own weapon discarded to the side, her hands held out in front of her. Abe goes right on up to her, shoves the tip of the fire stick to her head, and

  CRACK!

  I see a spray of crimson liquid from her head and she slumps, unmoving. Dead. Abe killed her with the Glassy weapon. He knows how to use it. Somehow, he knows.

  As the villagers continue to rush past, between them I see the bodies behind Abe. Two more soldiers. As lifeless as sacks of rocks. The cracks I heard weren’t from the Glassy soldiers—or at least not all from the soldiers. They were from Abe’s stolen fire stick, as he killed them.

  Abe marches forward, his weapon raised once more. I follow his aim. There’s one soldier left, the original one, the distraction. The Black District rep is lying motionless in the dust in front of him. The Glassy’s pointing his weapon, but not at Abe, at Hightower, who’s stomping toward him, looking every bit like the giant that he is. Behind him are a few more fallen soldiers.

  CRACK!

  The soldier shoots and Tower’s shoulder twitches back slightly, like he’s been punched, but he keeps on coming, grabbing the Glassy’s fire stick, yanking it out of his hands, and bashing him over the head with it.

  It’s over.

  No, not yet. Abe approaches his brother, gently nudges him aside, points his stick at the head of the final soldier.

  CRACK!

  Now it’s over.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Adele

  The truck lurches forward once more, but I don’t open my eyes. Can’t open my eyes because it’s too soon and I’m afraid they’ll betray me, show the lie.

  The metal truck bed rumbles beneath me, and it’s a welcome distraction from my pounding head and throbbing arm. Tristan didn’t hold back, not one bit, for which I’m glad. The tenacity of his attacks might be the very thing that saves me.

  I feel the truck turn and a wave of nausea fills my throat, either because of Tristan’s blow to the head or the vehicle’s movement—or perhaps a combination of the two. Even as I swallow it down, I wonder whether I should succumb to the urge, whether lifting my mask and vomiting on the soldiers’ feet will add further credibility to my story.

  I hold it in. Is it my first mistake?

  I don’t have time to wonder as the truck shudders to a stop and I feel the scramble of the soldiers as they jump out. “What the hell happened?” a gruff male voice barks.

  “She’s not one of ours,” a female voice answers, stopping my heart. It’s over already. How did they know? “Must be part of another platoon.” My heart continues beating, albeit twice as fast as normal. I force myself to breathe evenly. She just meant I’m not part of her squad.

  “Scan her,” the gruff voice orders. My jaw clenches. I’ve got no chip.

  “Shouldn’t we get her to medical first? She’s hurt pretty badly, looks like a blow to the head. They’ll scan her there.”

  There’s silence for a couple of seconds. “Okay, move her.” My jaw unclenches and I focus on keeping my eyes closed, my body relaxed and rubbery.

  Someone pries off my mask. Hands pull me from either side, sliding me along the truck bed and onto something hard. I’m tempted to tighten my arms to my sides, but instead I let them flop down, hanging lifeless over the edge of the backboard. Someone lifts them up and crosses them over my chest. “Soldier, accompany me with her to medical,” the female voice orders.

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  And then I’m floating, drifting through space, being spirited away. What’s my next move? They don’t know I don’t have a chip—that it’s been cut out of me by the “enemy”. They don’t suspect a damn thing yet. But when I get to medical things will cascade pretty fast. When there’s nothing to scan, they’ll have plenty of questions for me, and I can’t fake unconsciousness forever. Nor is there time to. The Tri-Tribes and Tristan are counting on me to make a difference as soon as possible, maybe immediately.

  I need a new identity. A chip.

  I risk opening my eyes, just slits, seeing only darkness through my eyelashes. Close them again.

  There’s a slight jolt and a quiver as I feel my legs angling higher than my head. We’re going up a ramp or steps. My legs drop back to level, and the heavy black behind my eyelids gives way to a dull yellow glow. Lights. I sneak another peek and see fluorescent lights above me, stark white walls on both sides, and the green-brown back of a dark-haired soldier in front of me. The woman who temporarily saved me, her hair falling halfway down her spine.

  Is she the one who has to die so I can live?

  I grit my teeth and silently promise myself I’ll do whatever I have to do to stop Lecter. After all, could any of his followers really be innocent? Surely many of the citizens are, but the soldiers?

  But the first thing I have to do is ditch my escort. We turn a corner, head down another bright hallway, lined with doors on either side. They have signs on them. X-Rays, Exam Room C, Administration, Maintenance, Electrical Room, Exam Room D, etc. It’s the middle of the night and this place is empty, save for us, the hollow footsteps of the soldiers at my front and back echoing away. Do I make my move?

  I wait, like a spider, watching my web for the perfect moment to pounce on my prey.

  We pass through a doorway, into a large room, sparkling clean and smelling sterile with antiseptic. “Where is everyone?” the male soldier behind me says.

  “At night they’re on call, and since there hasn’t been much action lately…” the senior officer says. “We’ll get her to a bed and then call someone.”

  No one’s here. Not a single person except us. This might be my only shot. The doctor will have questions. Hard questions. I have to act now. Now. NOW!

  I snap my eyes open and kick my legs back, clamping them to the head of the soldier behind me. Then I whip my ankles forward, pulling him over my head and onto the gurney with me. He cries out as our combined body weight brings the board down on top of the woman soldier, who stumbles.

  His head’s in my lap, and I don’t waste any time. Two hard punches to the head and his tongue lolls out, his eyes rolling back in his skull.

  The woman scrambles, tries to roll, to kick and fight her way out from underneath us, where her legs are pinned. I easily twist away first, push to my feet, and shake my whirling head to try to center myself. Then I kick her solidly in the face and she stops struggling.

  My mind is cycling through my options. If I don’t kill them, it could really come back to bite me. But what if they’re like the sun dwellers, mindless drones operating under a system where the only thing they know is their little world, following orders without question. Do they deserve to die the same way that President Nailin did? The way Lecter does?

  Time’s running away through my fingers as I comb a hand through my hair. Think, think, think. I need a chip. Should I take hers? Will she be missed right away? If I don’t kill them, will someone find them?

  First, I take the backboard and lay it in a stack against the wall, trying to buy time, my mind racing.

  I withdraw my knife, approach the woman. Hold it close to her neck. Take a deep breath. Lower it to her right arm, where Tristan sliced me open. Withdraw the blade.

  No. She’s the leader of her platoon. People will know who she is. Her soldiers. Her superiors. I’ll be discovered too soon.

  I should probably kill them, and I may be making my second mistake, like when I chose not to throw up in the truck, but I can’t. Not with them lying here, defenseless, when all they were trying to do was get me medical attention. I scan the room, locate a locker with a large cross on it. Supplies. Medical supp
lies. I rush over and thrust it open, quickly reading the labels. I recognize some of them. For pain. For fevers. Ah! Anesthesia. Needles with plungers, full of the stuff. Perfect.

  I don’t know where to inject the fluid, so I roll up their sleeves and pick out the largest vein I can find in each of their arms, jam the needles into them, and press down hard on the plungers. Then, for good measure, I give them each a second dose. I hope it won’t kill them, but I need them out as long as possible—it’s a risk I have to take.

  Next I rip the sheets off one of the beds and use my knife to methodically cut it into strips. Bind their hands and feet, tie them together. Gag their mouths. Remove their weapons: guns and knives and grenades.

  Now where to stash them? There are plenty of closets around, but surely those are used on an almost daily basis. Not a good spot. The other rooms in the hall we came from? Probably used regularly, too, except for maybe…Electrical Room. Unless there’s a problem with the electricity, no one would go in there.

  Feet first, I drag the guy to the doorway, peek to my right and then to my left, up and down the hall. Quiet. Empty. I slide him out, across the bare, white tile. There! Electrical Room. I jiggle the handle but it doesn’t open, feels locked. In frustration, I twist it again and shove with my shoulder.

  It gives way and I barge through into darkness. Except for…a green, blinking light with shining letters above it: Effective.

  We’re in business.

  I drag the soldier inside, stop, feel around with my hands. The equipment with the green light has plenty of space behind it. I stuff him back there and return for his superior officer, doing the same with her. When I close the door behind me, I take a deep breath, steady myself against the wall, close my eyes for just a second.

  I can do this.

  Next step: get a chip. It has to be one from someone who won’t be missed, who won’t be able to rat me out.

  I stride off down the hall, as if I belong, stopping only briefly to collect the weapons left behind by the unconscious soldiers.