The Earth Dwellers

by David Estes

  “Don’t worry, I could tell you were a caker from a mile away,” he says.

  I frown. “Caker?” I say, confused.

  “Rich kid. Family with money. Cake eater.”

  Uh oh. This is the moment that always occurs when I try to make friends. It’s happened to me my whole life. I meet new kids, try to be nice to people, but eventually they find out I belong to one of the few wealthy moon dweller families, and then—

  —they hate me.

  Except for Cole. He was never one to act like the other kids. But now, my short acquaintance with this guy is over, because he guessed where I come from. We didn’t even get to the stage where we exchange names. He might even turn me in to the Enfo.

  “I’m Roan,” he says.

  Huh? I just stare at him, waiting for the punch line, waiting for him to spit in my face, maybe even throw stones at me, like kids used to do before Cole put an end to all that.

  He stares back, a goofy smirk resting easily on his face. “This is usually the point where you tell me your name, but if you don’t want to…”

  “My name?”

  “Yeah, you know, like what your mother hollered out when the doc smacked you on the butt after you were born. Or did you want me to guess it?” Before I have a chance to say anything, he continues on, as if we’re not hiding from the Enforcers in a deserted alleyway. “Hmm, I’d say you’re a Violet. No wait, that’s not it. You’re Trudy, right?”

  Is this guy serious? “Umm, Tawni.”

  “That was my next guess,” he says. “So, Tawni, you coming in, or what?”

  I gaze down the alley, expecting to see flashes of red as Enforcer reinforcements charge around the bend. But all I see is gray. Hiding out for a few minutes might not be a bad idea. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes,” I say.

  “Just enough time for breakfast,” he says, sticking a hand in his pocket and pulling out a thin metal stick. “Step aside and make sure you’re wearing your safety glasses—this might get messy.”

  Not having a clue what he’s talking about, I move away from the door. With a couple of deft and experienced twists and turns of his wrist, he jams the stick—which I now realize is a pick—into the door’s lock. I hear a clatter and a click and then the door opens, creaking slightly.

  I just gawk at the door. “That was…” I murmur.

  “Awesome, amazing, fan-freaking-tastic? Any of those will do, take your pick. Get it—pick,” he says, holding up the metal wand.

  I nod excitedly. “All of those things. It was really impressive. But is it legal?”

  “Is whatever you’re doing legal?” he retorts.

  Even though I already know I’ll have to break a number of rules along the way, his question still stings. Breaking the law doesn’t come easily to me. “Fair enough,” I say.

  “After you,” he says with a sweep of his hand. His second gentlemanly act.

  I enter first, instinctively flicking on my flashlight amidst the inky darkness. The beam doesn’t cut very far through the murk, but provides enough light to illuminate a concrete stairway immediately inside.

  “Not much to look at, is it?” Roan says, stepping inside and easing the door shut. He reengages the lock by twisting a latch. “But it’s still home.”

  “Your family lives here?” I ask incredulously.

  “My family sold out to the Enfos a long time ago. I didn’t stay with them after that. They never really liked me anyway.”

  I turn and take in Roan’s shadow-darkened face, searching for a lie. There’s none to be found. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m leaving my family, too.”

  “Follow me,” Roan says, barely brushing against me as he slips by and begins climbing the steps.

  When we get to the top, he reaches back and grasps my hand, tugging me gently into a mostly-bare room off to one side. A thin bed pad and lantern sit on the dusty stone floor against one of the cracked walls. The stones, while mostly gray, have a greenish tint that looks anything but natural. The air smells musty and old and faintly of stale cigarettes. Releasing my hand, he says, “This is it. Home, sweet home.”

  I’m shocked. I’ve seen plenty of poverty in the Moon Realm, but this is beyond poverty. Roan has nothing. He should hate me for all that I have, but he doesn’t seem to. Unless he’s been biding his time, acting nice to get me inside, where no one would ever hear me cry out—

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, an eyebrow raised.

  Did he just read my mind? “How did you—”

  “You look like someone just punched you in the gut. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right not to trust people…like me. But I’m not like that. I just wanted to help you escape, to talk to you. I don’t get the chance to make a lot of friends.”

  Oh. I feel rotten for having the thoughts I did. I can understand why Roan would be lonely in this place. It almost feels like a prison, only without bars on the windows and doors.

  I want to change the subject. “Hey, can you teach me that lock-picking trick?”

  His eyes light up. I’ve hit a happy topic. “Sure! It’ll come in handy on the streets.”

  The streets. The phrase sounds so ugly, because…well, because it’s true. The streets are my home now. I shrug it off. “Great,” I say, trying to sound excited.

  Grabbing my hand again, he pulls me outside the room and closes the door behind him. Looking so seriously into my eyes that it makes me blink faster, he says, “See, most locks have metal pins inside, the trick is to get them to all line up, as if there’s a key in there…”

  For the next twenty minutes—or is it an hour?—he teaches me, showing me sometimes, holding my hand to help me other times, and finally, letting me practice on my own. Just when I think I’ll never get it, the lock clicks open!

  “I did it!” I exclaim.

  “Well done,” he says. “You’re a good student.”

  “You’re a great teacher,” I reply.

  There’s an awkward silence when he ducks his head sheepishly, as if not accustomed to being complimented.

  “Well, I…” I start to say.

  “Do you want some breakfast?” he asks suddenly.

  “I should really be going…” I say.

  “Another time then,” he says, “do you know where you’re going to live?”

  “I have to leave subchapter 14,” I say, realizing too late how stupid it is to share my plans with anyone else.

  “Leaving? But why?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say, not wanting to reveal any more than I have to. “I need to catch a train.”

  His dark eyes slowly brighten as he cocks his head to the side into the beam of his flashlight. After a few seconds chewing on his lip, he nods, as if he’s made up his mind about something. “I’ll take you to the station,” he says. “You know, for safety,” he adds.

  “You really don’t have to…”

  “I want to,” Roan says, shrugging.

  Well, if he wants to… “Sounds great.”

  Although I’ve lingered far too long at Roan’s place, we make up a lot of time on the way to the train station. Roan takes me on a crazy and convoluted route that I could never repeat on my own. Although we get within eyeshot of Enforcers several times, we never get close enough to feel threatened. By Roan’s side, I feel safer than I thought I could possibly feel away from home. Even though I don’t really know him, I feel like I trust him. If he wanted to hurt me, he already could have. It feels good being with someone, and I’m dreading reaching our destination. It’s weird: I’m actually sort of enjoying running away while I’m with him.

  But all good things have to come to an end.

  Standing on crumbles of broken glass, we can see the entrance to the train station from our vantage point at the end of a shadowy alley. I’ve missed the beginning portion of the morning rush from our subchapter, but there are still plenty of late arrivers to keep things busy and hectic, which is exactly what I need.

  Here goes nothing
.

  “Thank you, Roan,” I say, meaning it. His kindness was an unexpected—and life-saving—part of my journey to this point.

  He shrugs as if it’s the kind of thing he does every day. “Sure. So there’s nothing I can do to change your mind about going?” The smile that accompanies his words generates a burst of heat on my cheeks. I certainly wouldn’t mind looking at his face a little while longer, but I’ve already delayed this too long and I’m afraid if I don’t take the first step now, I never will.

  “This is something I have to do,” I say, trying to make my voice as deep and bold-sounding as I can.

  He nods, like he already guessed my response. “Be careful, Tawni. If I’m lucky we’ll meet again.”

  “I hope we do,” I say, wishing I could drag the moment out a little longer. I’ve never liked goodbyes, even ones from people I don’t know very well—or in this case, at all. But I manage to square my shoulders, face the train station, and find a tiny splinter of courage somewhere in my bones. I’m doing this to atone for the sins of my parents. If I can find Adele Rose, I’ll tell her the truth about what they did to her family, and I’ll do everything in my power to make things right.

  My legs are suddenly like lead, but even that can’t stop me. I lift one foot and force it forward, following it with the other foot. With each step I feel lighter, as if bits and pieces of a heavy burden are crumbling down from my shoulders. I feel alive.

  I slink into a stream of adults making their way to the train station. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I avoid looking at them for fear that “Alert! Delinquent!” might be written all over my face. But no one seems interested in me. They all have their own problems, which they face by trudging to the train every day, zombie-like expressions on their blank faces, hoping that they’ll earn enough today to feed their families. Yeah, they’ve got bigger concerns than a sixteen-year-old girl who should be getting ready for school.

  And then I’m inside the train station, so quickly that it almost feels like I blinked out of existence and back into it, not even passing through the arched entrance. I nearly forget to prepare my ticket and travel pass until I notice a woman who’s scrambling for hers. Swinging my pack around, I locate the ticket and forged intra-Realm travel authorization card under a sachet of rice.

  The automated turnstiles loom ahead, spinning as each rider scans their ticket and, depending on where they’re going, their travel authorization. I’ve never ridden a train before, never left my subchapter, so I watch each traveler, memorizing the order of things. Ticket first, then pass, green light, push through the gate. Not so hard.

  There are only five people in front of me, no more than ten seconds. The moment of truth. Will there be flashing lights and blaring alarms? Or will the green light blink, beckoning me through to a new life?

  Four people. No wait, three people—two passed through while I was worrying.

  Green light. Two people.

  I realize I’m sweating profusely from my forehead. Make that my armpits. And kneepits, if there is such a thing. Everywhere, really. I’m a sweaty mess.

  Green light. One person—the woman who was as unprepared as I, who now has her ticket ready, just like me.

  My heart’s pounding, both in my chest and my head. My knees feel rubbery, as if my bones have melted under me, congealing into a moldable substance that wobbles and totters like a two-year-old who still can’t walk properly.

  Green light. The woman passes through the turnstiles and for a moment the metal rungs look like scythes, cutting her to ribbons, severing her limbs like scissors against the arms of paper cutout dolls. I blink away the thought.

  My turn.

  I just stare at the ticket scanner, wondering what fate it holds for me. My mind goes blank. What goes first again? Pass or ticket? I know the answer should be obvious, but I just can’t seem to remember. My mind is more muddled than bean stew.

  “Move it,” a gruff voice says from behind me.

  If I don’t hurry I’m going to draw a lot more attention to myself than I want. Ticket first, I remember. I scan my ticket, which I already know is valid. A dull beep sounds and a robotic voice says, “Please scan your travel authorization now.”

  I’m dead. I know it. I should just turn and leave now, before it’s too late. Forget the strange and annoyed stares I’ll get from the other passengers. Forget the shame I’ll feel inside for having chickened out. Go back to Roan’s place and let him teach me the ways of the street.

  “Hurry up, kid!” A different voice this time, angrier than the first, and identifying me as a “kid,” which is exactly the sort of tag I don’t want. The instinct to run grows stronger and I start to turn, but then something pops into my head that stops me.

  A face from the news. I watched it with my parents on the telebox, knowing full well it was them that had created this news story. The face of a young girl—my age. Adele Rose. Black, obsidian hair. Pale skin, like mine. Fierce, emerald-green eyes. Full lips. Pretty. A look on her face that could only be described as ugly. It was a face that told a tale of betrayal, of having her parents sold to the world as traitors, of being ripped from her family and sent to the Pen until she turns eighteen, and then to an adult prison, the Max, until the day she dies. All because of the actions of my parents. Not me—my parents. And yet I feel responsible.

  The memory of her face stops me. Only I can turn her expression pretty again.

  I turn and scan my fake travel pass, ready to be arrested if that is my fate.

  The light turns green.

  I can’t help the smile that lights up my face as I stride forward, placing my hands on the push bar, which is cold and hard, but with rounded edges, not like the razor-sharp blade of a scythe at all. I did it—I’m leaving the subchapter at long last! I’m so full of elation that I literally feel bubbles of air rising in my chest, lifting my posture higher, buoying my spirits. I start to push the bar forward.

  “Wait just a minute, kid!” I hear from behind.

  When I turn I see red: a uniform, clean and bright; an Enforcer, his Taser raised, aimed directly at my chest; his face, a duplicate of the man I saw smoking a cigarette on a moon dweller stoop earlier this very morning.

  “I told you I’d catch you,” he snarls, pressing a button on his Taser.

  Just before the snake of electricity pulls me into unconsciousness, I think, I’m coming, Cole.

  ~THE END~

  The Life Lottery

  A Story from Year Zero

  Originally posted in Furthermore: an Anthology.

  Today is The Lottery. It’s been the only thing anyone’s talked about for the last week.

  My mom said it would never happen, that the government would come to their senses, come up with a new plan. My dad said the whole world’s gone crazy. Now that the day is here, it looks like my dad was right.

  The guy on the news says that the countries aren’t speaking to each other anymore, that it’s every country for itself. That just seems sad to me. I once had a pen pal named Sophia from France. I worry about her. I wonder if France has a Lottery too.

  The Lottery in the U.S. is “a bag of baloney,” my dad says. By that I think he just means it’s not a good system. I pretty much agree with him, because I don’t want to be split up with my family. The way it works is that every person of every age has the same chance of getting picked. The government says that’s the only way it can be equal, because if they did it by family, the smaller families would have an equal chance of being selected as a larger family, and it might mess up the number of people who are allowed to go underground. Only three million can fit in the caves, they say. No exceptions! I can still see the President’s finger pointing at the camera, as if he’s yelling at me personally.

  I might be only twelve years old, but even I don’t think it feels like the right rules. I mean, what if my dad gets picked and not my mom? Or my sister, Tina, and not me? Or what if everyone except me gets picked? What would I do then? Who will I live with un
til the meteor comes?

  But there’s no arguing with the government people. Once they decide something, that’s it. End of story. Only for the rest of us, it’s not the end of the story—it’s only the beginning.

  My mom gave me this diary this morning so I could “share my experiences and pass them down to my children.” I think she’s being rather optimistic, but I didn’t tell her that. I’m scared I’m not doing a very good job with it so far; I mean, I haven’t even told you my name. Anna Lucinda Smith. There—I guess that covers that.

  At school I have lots of friends, but it’s not like I’m stuck up about it or anything. I just get along with most people, I guess. Not that we have school anymore. Ever since the announcement, pretty much everything’s been cancelled. My parents won’t even let me go outside, because everyone’s going crazy and breaking into stores and stealing stuff and all that nonsense. I’ve seen all that on the news, but not in person. My neighborhood has mostly been quiet, with people just staying inside, spending time with their families. It would actually be kind of cool getting out of school for a few days if it weren’t for the whole world-ending thing.

  It’s been a little boring, too, so I started playing this game I made up. I cut up a hundred strips of paper. On four of them I wrote “Anna”, “Tina”, “Mom” and “Dad”. Then I put them in a bowl and mixed them all around. With my eyes closed, I take turns picking out a name. After reading it and marking it on a score sheet, I stick the name back in the bowl and try again. Most of the time I just get a blank piece of paper, which means some random stranger was selected to go underground. But every once in a while I get a hit. So far I’ve picked random strangers eighty six times, my mom twice (she’s always been the lucky one in the family), my dad once—and even I got picked once. Only Tina hasn’t come up yet, but I think that’s because she’ll be the one to get chosen in the real Lottery. Anyway, the game passes the time.

  My parents are out for some registration thing they had to do in advance of The Lottery tonight, and my sister is in her room listening to her iPod and obsessing over some guy that she hopes will get chosen with her. She thinks it would be so romantic to go underground with this guy, like something out of a movie. Although I’ve seen the guy, and he is cute, this isn’t a movie. In any case, I’m alone again so I play my game for another two hours. I pick out one hundred and thirty three strips of paper.