The Park Service: Book One of The Park Service Trilogy

by Ryan Winfield

  CHAPTER 4

  I Love You, Son

  The week passes fast.

  Before the test nobody wanted to talk to me. Now, I can’t leave the house without being stopped and congratulated. But as annoying as their new friendliness is, they’re the only thing saving me from Red.

  I see him lurking everywhere I go, his green face fading by the day but still shocking against his red hair. But every time he approaches me, he’s interrupted by some well-wishing Valley resident clasping my palm and smiling. And I’m glad because I don’t want to go up to the Foundation with a black eye.

  Without a lesson slate now to distract me, and with classes at the education annex over for fifteens, I spend most of the week hiding out in the theater, watching educationals.

  I’m nervous now about going. My father’s work has taken him up to the Transfer Station on Level 2, even once or twice down to the crops and algae refineries on Level 5, but nobody has ever been up to the Foundation headquarters on Level 1. Nobody. At least not from here. Everyone goes up that way to retire, of course, but nobody can come back from Eden.

  Besides managing Eden, the Foundation has the important job of guarding the surface exchange chambers, of making sure that no toxic material makes its way down to Holocene II. Plus, they launch our unmanned exploration craft and analyze the data that returns. And that’s maybe the only thing I am excited about—getting closer to the surface and seeing images of the outer world, no matter how desolate and depressing they are.

  It’s already Sunday again, and I’m back at the beach.

  As I sit on the sand watching the mechanical waves roll in, I see past the illusion for the first time. It’s remarkably real. Or at least it’s how I’d imagine a real beach must be. But when I gaze at the horizon and let my eyes drift, focusing on nothing in particular, I see a line where the pool ends and the projection screen begins. And now I notice the sky is a little too blue, the clouds a little too perfect. Then there are the gulls. They scatter on the shore, making short flights between perfectly bleached pieces of driftwood, but they never fly off into the horizon to join the other gulls forever flapping in the virtual sky.

  “Hey, look—the pride of Holocene II,” Bill calls, jogging over from his guard tower, his bare feet kicking up sand.

  Stopping, he rests his hands on his hips, breathing heavily.

  “I’m getting too old for this job,” he says, smiling. “When I come up to retire in a few years, you better remember me.”

  Retire? It hits me then that I don’t even know how old Bill is. Never asked him. Never asked him anything, really. All these Sundays here and not once did I have the courage to start up a conversation. Maybe because of how everyone’s been treating me this last week, or maybe from desperation because I leave tomorrow, but today I stand up and run to Bill and hug him.

  “Hey, there,” he says. “Okay, kid. We’ll miss you, too.”

  As we walk toward the locker room, I look left to soak up one last view of the familiar fake horizon. It’s hard to believe only a week has passed since Red and his buddies buried me in the sand. It’s even harder to believe that I’ll never see any of them again. When I get to the door, I look up to say goodbye, but Bill didn’t follow me this time and he’s back at the guard tower with his head bent over a flotation device and some impossible lifeguard knot he’s tying. I lift my hand to wave goodbye, but Bill doesn’t look up.

  I step into the shower and close the door.

  Clean and dressed again, I stop on the outlook platform and take in the Valley one last time. All these years I’ve dreamt about leaving, but still, I’m going to miss this view.

  It’s strange to think of the other levels buried beneath us—people living out their lives so close but yet worlds away. Maybe there’s a boy down there just like me, looking up just as I look down. Maybe he’s on his way here to replace me. I wonder if he’s nervous too. I gaze up at the sparkling benitoite and think of five miles of rock and earth pressing down on the cavern ceiling. I wonder just how far up it is to Level 1.

  Back at our housing unit, I say goodbye to my things. My instructions said there’s no need to bring anything, only what I wear. I empty my water-jug weights down the bathroom drain and leave them standing outside the bedroom door. I lay out a clean jumpsuit for the morning. Fresh socks. My newest pair of shoes. Everything else I fold away neat in the drawers. Even my favorite hoodie, too worn and threadbare to wear up to Level 1. Shutting the closet door, I wonder what other boy or girl they’ll assign to my room once my father retires? Will they look out my window, and will they see anyone looking back?

  There’s a tap on the door and then it opens.

  “May I come in?” my father asks, his shadow filling the small doorway. When I nod yes, he steps into the light.

  I’ve never thought of my father as big, but seeing him now in my tiny room, he seems to be a giant. He sits on my bed, the mattress sagging beneath his weight, and he pats the space next to him and I sit, too. We both look at our feet, his stretched out almost touching the wall, mine barely reaching the floor.

  The silence is heavy, and after a few minutes, I can hear the soft whir of the ventilation fans humming in the Valley outside my closed window.

  My father reaches over and rests his hand on my knee. I look up and see his eyes are wet, the same as they get whenever he talks about Mom. I feel a lump in my own throat, then my eyes get wet, too. I look back down at my feet.

  He pats my knee and stands, and then I hear my door shut softly behind him as he leaves.

  The next morning, I eat breakfast alone.

  I know my dad’s no good with things like this, but did he really need to leave for work early? Today? Oh, well, maybe it’s easier if we don’t say goodbye anyway.

  I just hope they have better food on Level 1.

  When I finish, I stand to leave but stop in the doorway and look back at our living quarters one final time. We don’t call them homes because they belong to Holocene II and are often reassigned as people retire and others have children. We were lucky to get to stay here this whole time. It’s small and cramped and lacking anything too personal, but still, I can see imprints of our life here everywhere. Ghosts of my father and me. My height marks notched into the corner wall. Our matching elbow indentations worn into the table’s surface where we sat across from one another and ate five thousand silent breakfasts. My father’s faded tea tin of tobacco sitting on the counter, waiting for his ritual Sunday smoke. I guess this was a home after all.

  Closing my eyes, I picture the room to make sure I have a snapshot memorized. It’s there all right, perfectly preserved in my mind’s eye. In that way, I’ll take it with me wherever I go.

  The metal door bangs shut behind me one final time.

  Unless someone is retiring, the platform usually sits empty and ignored. But today is a very big day: the great exchange of genetics and brains. Today, the platform is crowded.

  They’ve all gathered to say goodbye. Mothers combing hair and pestering departing sons with last-minute instructions on hygiene and manners. Father’s issuing stern and final warnings to departing daughters about lower-level boys lurking in wait to take advantage of them. Promises from scared and embarrassed fifteens that they’ll raise their own kids to study better than they themselves did; promises that the next generation will return the family name to Level 3. Best friends clinging to one another, crying, waiting to be pulled apart, knowing they’ll never see one another again until retirement, when we’re all reunited in Eden.

  It’s all a wild flurry of nervous energy, leading up to those of us who are leaving being herded into the waiting elevators destined for our new levels. And once we’re all gone from here, the waiting will begin—waiting for the arrivals. I know because I’ve been here to see it myself in prior years. I’ve seen the families double-checking the names on their slips and wondering about the new boy or girl assigned to them. I’ve seen lab managers and engineering leaders eagerly expecting
a new crop of capable young apprentices that they can train to replace themselves when they retire. And, of course, I’ve seen the most excited group of the bunch—the lucky fifteens who’ve tested and are staying here at Level 3, the girls and boys now free to date and dying to lay first eyes on any cute newbies stepping off when the elevators arrive from other floors.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around …

  Red is standing over me. The green dye has faded to just a birthmark-like shadow running from his forehead down to his neck. I close my eyes and brace for the blow. It doesn’t come. When, I open my eyes again, Red is turned away, staring down. He kicks an invisible stone and then sighs.

  “Guess this is goodbye,” he says.

  “You mean you’re not gonna hit me?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah … not this time.”

  “I’m sorry about your face,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Sorry about treating you so mean.”

  “Well, why did you?”

  “Maybe I just didn’t think you’d like me,” he says, kicking another invisible stone. “Guess I’m not so smart.”

  All this time he’s been knocking me down, pushing me around, burying me in sand, and he’s been doing it because he didn’t think I’d like him? People are funny.

  “Is that why you were trying to corner me alone all week?” I ask. “Not to beat me up, but to tell me you were sorry?”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  I’m not sure what to say. I stick out my hand: “Friends?”

  He reaches over and clasps my hand in his and we shake. My first real friend, I think. Releasing my hand, he walks away and joins the small crowd of fifteens waiting by the elevator that will take them down to Level 5.

  All the elevator doors open at once …

  No warning, no fanfare—they just slide open, revealing sterile, empty cars big enough to transport an entire class of fifteens if necessary. The sobbing begins. Quiet here, hushed there, but with a sort of repressed dignity. Then, as if being counted down by an invisible clock, the fifteens hurry onto the elevators despite their obvious desires to linger with their loved ones in farewell. The few low-testing fifteens going down to Level 6 step boldly into their car, not smart enough to understand what lies ahead. I see the back of Red’s head, tall above the others, as the fifteens going to Level 5 crowd into their waiting car. Then the elevator to Level 4 fills with a handful of fifteens heading down to work as welders and riveters in the plants that build parts for the exploration drones. And because Level 2 above is not a full living level, but just a Transfer Station worked by the shipping and receiving teams moving supplies, I step alone into the only car going up.

  Inside, I turn and look out—

  The elevator is big and empty and its steel walls and LED lights create the illusion of me floating in empty space. The open door in front of me looks like a disappearing window into an already distant Level 3. Waiting for the doors to seal, I scan the crowded platform. Last week I was the talk of the Valley, but now everyone’s attention is on their own family and friends, loaded into the other cars and about to leave forever.

  I hear him before I see him.

  “Aubrey!” he calls out, his voice strained and breathless.

  Then he bursts from the crowd onto the platform and rushes toward the elevator. I step forward to meet him just as the door begins to slide shut between us. He reaches into the shrinking opening and presses his pipe into my hand. He pulls his arm back out, and as the door seals shut, I swear I hear him say it for the very first time—

  “I love you, son.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I’ve Died and Gone to Eden

  Closed inside, the elevator is quiet.

  Too quiet.

  I’m used to the constant hum of Level 3 ventilation fans. My ears search for something to ground me, to set my balance. Any sound. Nope—complete silence. With nothing to listen to, my ear goes inward and I hear my heart beating, my pulse throbbing in my head, and the echo of my father’s last words—

  “I love you, son.”

  I wish I’d had time to say it back.

  Wiping my eyes with my sleeve, I slip my father’s pipe in my pocket and stand in the center of the elevator and brace for the ride. My stomach drops and I know the ascent has begun. After my guts settle, the silent elevator moves without vibration or sound and there is no way to gauge how quickly I’m rising or how far. A minute goes by. Two, maybe three. And just when I’m sure the I’m not moving after all, my stomach bounces and settles again—the elevator has stopped.

  I wait for the door to open. Nothing happens. Maybe it’s stuck? There’s no call button, no floor indicator.

  Hearing a metallic sound, I look up. A ceiling vent slides open and a cloud of gas blasts into the elevator. I drop to the floor and crawl away from the gas, crouching in the corner and managing one last clear breath as the gas covers the floor and covers me. Why are they doing this, I wonder, my breath held, my heart racing. Why? I panic and crawl to the door, pounding against the metal, but nothing gives. Air. Please. Now. I gasp out my expired breath and suck the gas into my lungs …

  The door slides open and I fall out onto the ground.

  “Sorry about that,” a deep voice says above me, its owner hidden in the cloud of gas billowing from the open elevator. “First time’s never fun.”

  The gas clears and I see his face. Thick dark hair, blue eyes, maybe 30. He reaches out a hand to help me up. I take it and scramble to my feet, coughing to clear my lungs.

  “We do it too, if it helps to hear,” he says. “Disinfect, I mean. Every time we move between levels. Clothes, skin … lungs, too. Hope I didn’t scare you too bad. Gotta make sure you take a breath. Average man panics his first time—holds it about 55 seconds. Second time they hold it longer. Us pros, we just suck it right in and take our medicine. I’m Dorian.”

  Dorian waves his electronic clipboard, indicating for me to follow, and then he heads off into the Transfer Station.

  It’s a large warehouse with concrete ceilings supported by steel girders, and we weave our way through stacks of metal crates, dodging busy electric lifts carrying supplies.

  Dorian walks through the machines as if anticipating their movement, following a path visible only to him. I stay close on his heels and out of harm’s way. As he walks, he marks things off on his clipboard and talks, half to himself: “Finally, some iron ore. You’d think those damn tunnel rats could dig a little quicker. Don’t see my soybeans yet. Haveta send another ton of damn algaecrisps.” Then he points his clipboard in the air, raising his voice. “You know what that is there, young man? That’s a brand new fuselage for a PZ-51 Ranger drone. I’d give my retirement to see one actually fly.”

  I do recognize the drone body because they’re designed by our engineers on Level 3, but they’re built on Level 4, so it’s amazing to see one in person. Long and black and angled, its wings detached, the Foundation’s interlocking Valknut shield on its nose as it hangs from a crane being loaded on the back of a waiting train … train?

  “I didn’t know we had a rail system,” I say, surprised.

  Dorian laughs. “No rails, youngster. This sexy beast here slides along on magnetic fields,” he says with a level of pride as if he’d built it himself.

  “Well, where does it go?”

  “Mostly services the deep mines down south. But don’t worry,” he adds, seeing my confused look, “we don’t send fifteens there. Tunnel rats is tunnel rats and they always will be. You see, Levels 2 through 6 are stacked like one big algaecrisp layer cake, but the mines are spread out south. Anyway, today she’s going up, up, up. And so, my young man, are you.”

  Having arrived at the end of the train, he stops beside a steel-walled windowless passenger car.

  “I’m getting on the train?”

  “Unless you want to stay here and load supplies with me.”

  “But isn’t Level 1 above us?” I ask.

  “Above us? And her
e I thought you scientists down there knew everything. Level 1’s closer to the surface, sure. But it’s north, young man, north. Sweet, sweet north.”

  “I’m going north?”

  “Sure are. And every man in Holocene II would give his left nut to be getting on this train today and going north. Eden, my man. Eden! Of course, in a way, you’re being taunted more than treated. You’ll be near enough to taste it, I tell you. Sweet Eden. Those lucky folks there get to go.”

  He nods toward another car hitched several ahead where a guide who could be Dorian’s twin, with a matching clipboard too, ushers two smiling women and one anxious man through the open car door. Before stepping in, one of the retiring women looks back, and for a moment we lock eyes. Then the door shuts and seals and the guide walks off with his clipboard.

  “In you go,” Dorian says, sliding the door open.

  I hesitate, remembering the elevator. “No windows?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing to see.”

  Grabbing the handrail, I step up into the car.

  I turn, but before I can thank him, he shuts the door.

  The car is dim, a rail of pale LED lights running along the ceiling. Down the center, an aisle cuts through rows of metal seats facing forward and pointing toward a projector screen at the front of the car. Sitting on a seat in the front row is a water and lunch ration. I scoop them up and sit. It’s quiet, but at least I can hear a soft clanging as the lifts do their work outside.

  I glance around nervously, looking for more gas vents. The empty car makes me uneasy, so I keep looking behind me at the vacant seats. Finally, I get up and carry my lunch ration down the aisle and plunk into the farthest seat in the last row.

  I’m bored so I open my lunch—soy crackers, tofu paste, and, of course, algaecrisps. I open the crackers and snack on a few. Taking a sip of water, I realize I have to pee already. I go to the door to ask about a bathroom, but the door’s locked. No handle on the inside, no call button.