Dedicated to K-12 teachers and librarians, who pass their love of books and big ideas to the next generation
The Last Tree
By Denise Getson
Copyright © 2016 by Denise Getson.
Cover Images Copyright © Shutterstock/Perfect Lazybones
Splatter Images Copyright © Shutterstock/Milan M
All rights reserved. Except where permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including but not limited to storage in a database or retrieval system or online in any way without the prior written consent of the publisher.
Children’s Brains are Yummy Books
(CBAY Books)
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Dallas, TX 75367
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-944821-04-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-944821-05-0
Kindle ISBN: 978-1-944821-06-7
PDF ISBN: 978-1-944821-07-4
Visit our website at www.cbaybooks.com
The characters and events in this book are purely fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
—Sara Teasdale, “There Will Come Soft Rains”
1
Knowing my face is invisible behind a sand mask and goggles, I keep a close eye on the receding girl and the giant dust plumes heading her way. The howl of roaring winds drowns out every other sound. I’m grateful for the gloves, which give me a solid hold on the stone, helping me resist the strong gusts that threaten to lift me bodily into the air. Having Tuck with us has certainly improved the quality of our supplies.
I motion to J.D. through the orange haze. From his position across the lake, he nods, then drops down for a better view. Like me, he is covered head to toe in desert camouflage, quickly blending in with his surroundings.
Inching my way through high boulders, I squeeze through a crevice and into the sheltered cave where Tamara and Tuck are waiting.
I lift the mask off my face, spitting out dirt and shaking loose any dust or virus spores that might have penetrated the vents.
“That was close,” I tell them, raising my voice to be audible above the storm. Tamara rises to help me, unfastening the back of the desert suit while I rub my head vigorously to dislodge sand in my hair. “The storm will be on top of us any minute, but we should be okay here.”
“Are you sure no one saw you?” she asks.
“The basin was full by the time the girl arrived. I don’t think she took her eyes off the water. Fortunately for us, with the storm coming, she had no choice but to return to the dome.”
“I don’t like it,” says Tuck. His usually cheerful face scowls at the two of us. “We should be gone by now. I don’t like hangin’ around once Kira’s started a fill. You know how people gonna come around, all curious like they are, and we’re trapped here.”
“We’ve discussed this, Tuck. It’s precisely because we’re always long gone by the time the water’s discovered that we can risk changing our pattern of behavior. People will come and investigate like always. But this time, when they return to the biosphere, we’ll go with them. Well,” I send Tamara an apologetic glance, “three of us will.”
J.D. drops through the opening and stamps his feet to shake off the sand. He rips his mask off. “Will what?”
“Did she make it back?”
“Just barely. The girl’s crazy. She had no sand mask, no goggles. Her face is going to be cut to pieces. What was she doing?”
“My impression was some kind of soil testing. Maybe she was trying to gather samples before new sediment was deposited from the storm.”
With J.D. back safely, I finish stripping out of my sand suit. Tamara helps, shaking off the sand, before tossing the garment into the corner.
“She might have been one of the AgTech students,” Tamara says, wiping powdery dust off her hands. “When Eric was performing soil research, he’d pull samples from different areas in order to determine the best location for crop development. He had a code to identify each sector around the dome. Sometimes he’d take fifteen or twenty cores from one sector. He’d check for pesticides, nutrients, soil texture, drainage … anything that might impact the ability to sustain plant life.
“If I remember correctly,” she continues, “the ground around Bio-19 was particularly challenging. Even if we got a crop to sustain until harvest, the nutrients could be completely dissipated after one growing season. This area is rampant with dust storms. Everything depends on the quality of the soil being blown away or the soil being blown into a sector. In some years, the dietary impact could mean the difference between life and death.”
Absently, I wipe at the dust and grit that penetrated the sand suit and now coats my skin. “Tamara, I didn’t consider what the sandstorm might mean for the people who live here. Selfishly, I was simply glad it would keep residents away from the lake until the water had time to fill.”
At that moment, the full force of the storm hits, bringing ground-shaking noise and a blast of heat that penetrates even to this protected place. Without another word, the four of us move as deeply into the cave as we can, away from the hot sand billowing through the narrow opening. We’ve experienced similar storms in the past year. The winds raging outside might last hours before blowing past. There is nothing to do but wait.
Staying close, we make ourselves comfortable along a back wall. I reach for J.D.’s hand and find his reaching for mine. The connection comforts me. As long as J.D. is at my side, I can endure anything, I think, not for the first time. Minutes stretch as we sit. The sound of the wind and sand battering the rocks outside absorbs our attention. When there’s a lull in the racket, I speak up.
“Now that the water’s been spotted, things should move quickly. We’re agreed on the plan?”
“I’ll restock our supplies,” says Tuck.
“I’ll sync our PDAs with the Nets and get updated cache data from the traveler’s underground,” J.D. adds.
“And you’ll investigate if there have been any reports of ….”
“ … People with unusual abilities,” he says, nodding. “Although you and I both know those mutation reports rarely make it onto the Net these days. Every hint of something out of the ordinary about a person disappears—along with the person—before we get a chance to check it out.”
“It can’t be helped. The Territory has more resources to monitor that information. But keep your eyes and ears peeled once you’re inside the dome. Our best chance may be to catch someone off guard, revealing his or her mutation without realizing it and before the Territory’s aware.”
“I wish there was something I could do,” Tamara says, a hint of a pout in her voice.
I reach over with my free hand and give her arm a reassuring squeeze. Older than me, smarter than me if I’m being honest, Tamara finds our situation challenging. I know that. Traveling together over the past year has made us closer in some ways but more impatient with each other in other ways. Frequently, we get on each other’s nerves. And it’s not like I’m the one who always calls the shots. That’s not how our little group works. All of us agreed Tamara should be kept out of what comes next. We even took a vote. “Your knowledge got us here,” I remind her softly. “But AgTech was your home. We can’t risk you being recognized. It could endanger all of us.”
She’s quiet for a long time. “You’re right, Kira,” she says finally.
“Tell me again where you hid Eric’s data drive?”
Her snort of laughter catches me by surprise. “You know exactly where it is. Now you’re just humoring me.”
“No.
I’m being thorough. I want to make sure there’s no detail you’ve forgotten to mention, nothing that could trip me up once I’ve entered the laboratory.”
It’s subtle, but because I’ve come to know Tamara well, I don’t miss the micro expression of sadness that crosses her face as she gazes back into memories of her previous life. She had loved her husband, Eric. Together they had produced a precious daughter, Shay. Now both are dead—Eric to an unidentified illness possibly connected to his soil research and Shay due to damage caused by a Territory interrogation, an interrogation to uncover information about me. I will always carry the weight of that. I never knew Eric. He was before my time. But I loved Shay. Love her still. I cannot imagine the depths of Tamara’s grief. I know she struggles with periods of depression that she tries to hide from the rest of us. Now, patiently, I wait for my friend to share her knowledge, hoping it will help her accept that she’s an essential part of our success. We need her. I need her.
“The labs are located on sublevel two,” she says, her eyes closed in memory. “They’re organized along a corridor with soil monitoring first, followed by seed development, crop maintenance, and irrigation. Human nutrition and other research areas are in a separate area of the facility. Assuming the soil analysis area hasn’t changed since Eric worked there, the data storage device should be hidden beneath a tile in the floor—the far north corner. There’s a chip in the corner of the tile next to it. I chose Dr. Gallagher’s lab because I figured she’d be above suspicion. She has friends in high places. No one would dare to investigate her lab.” She opens her eyes. “In fact, before you go, I’ll draw you a map.”
“Perfect.”
I sense J.D.’s glance. He’s grown taller in the last year. When we met, we were the same height—our strides the same length, our eyes at the same level. It’s unsettling, this growth spurt of his. It feels as though it’s shifted our relationship in some way I’m unready to examine. Feeling his scrutiny, I struggle not to squirm. I know how I must look to him, covered head-to-toe in dust. Even with the sand suits Tuck got for us, it’s impossible to completely filter the thick particulates saturating the air.
“Kira, even when you’re covered in sand, your hair stands out. You’re like a torch. You’re going to need the disguise,” J.D. says.
I wrinkle my nose with distaste. I hate the disguise, though I grudgingly accept that it’s necessary. There are only a handful of ginger-haired individuals in the world. For years, red-headed children disappeared completely from birth records due to the recessiveness of the required gene combination. Recently, the mutation in the MC1R protein that controls hair color reasserted itself. So while my coloring is rare, it’s not unheard of. Since we’re on the run from the Territory though, being easily identified is a disadvantage.
J.D. and I both have Wanted Posters published on the Nets. My photos are mostly video stills extracted from black and white security footage. They’re grainy and lacking detail. But even when they can’t show color, the data fields list my hair color as red. Six months ago, Tuck found me a dark wig to wear for those rare occasions when I have to enter a populated area. The wig is hot and scratchy, but it helps me to blend.
Thinking about it now, I scratch my head, feeling the grit beneath my fingers. As soon as the storm passes, I’ll give myself a dunk in the lake before the curious residents of Bio-19 start to arrive. My skin tingles in anticipation. I love going into the water and rarely get to do so.
For months, I’ve been careful to create water only in very large lake beds. As soon as I call water to a basin, my friends and I evacuate immediately. It can take days for the large basins to fill. And that gives us time to be far away before local residents realize that where there had been only emptiness, there is now abundance. We never know how long the water lasts, but I have to believe it improves the quality of life for the area residents, even if the Territory ultimately takes control of the resource.
This thing I can do, placing my hands on the ground to call forth water—it no longer feels strange to me. I’m grateful to have discovered my gift, the thing I can do to make the world better. But time is running out. I’m afraid I won’t be able to call forth the water quickly enough, or in the most critical locations, to undo the damaging drought that is devastating our planet. I’m also afraid of being caught, forced to bend to the will of the Territory Council who would control the last trickles of moisture for their own ends.
As the howling wind picks up speed and volume, I close my eyes and relax my defenses. No one will be out in a storm like this one, not even the most ardent bounty hunter. For a few hours, until word about the water makes its way among the biosphere residents, I can rest.
2
It looks like the entire population of Bio-19 came to see the water. There is a festival quality in the air. Even though people don’t want to be outside the dome for long—a nearly non-existent ozone layer makes that hazardous—they are enjoying a moment of celebration around the filled lake. Children’s laughter spins out across the desert breeze and even their parents have looks of wonder and delight on their faces when they catch sight of the water.
I’m not usually around for this part, for the discovery of the water and the joy it creates. I don’t allow myself to linger in one place. But to be here, among such infectious happiness—I can’t hold back a smile that stretches my face so tightly it hurts.
Quietly, and with practiced stealth, I return underground to where our small group remains hidden from the festivities. I turn slowly. “What do you think? Am I ready?”
“You look like an AgTech student,” Tamara says, coming over to adjust my wig. I glance at Tuck and J.D. Tamara has trimmed their shaggy hair to a length common among students and given each of them a long-billed cap to hide their faces from close scrutiny. Desert suits have been traded for temperature-control outerwear standard in the biospheres. “As long as you act like you belong, I don’t think any of you will receive a second glance.”
I give her a hug, then turn to the others. “Ready?” With a wave to Tamara, Tuck and J.D. follow me outside and past the surrounding boulders, where we blend with the crowd. The two guys each attach themselves to a group of residents returning to the biosphere, and I follow at a safe distance.
As soon they’re beneath the dome, J.D. and Tuck peel themselves apart from their groups and head off in pursuit of their individual assignments. I’ve committed Tamara’s map to memory, and I quickly head for the entrance to AgTech, taking the shortest path that will lead me below the surface to the science labs.
The corridors are spacious and well lit, which helps me find my way. It also makes me nervous. I can’t remember the last time I felt this exposed. It would be so easy for someone to recognize my face. In the past year, I’ve developed a sixth sense about video cameras when we’re in populated areas. I know to keep my head down so no defining features are visible to trigger alarms from a facial-matching system or an overly alert security guard.
Head down, I make my way through the first level of AgTech labs. I discover the health clinics on this level are crowded with students complaining of respiratory problems. Yesterday’s sandstorm has aggravated physical frailties. It’s a genuine danger. Toxic spores carried by storms have been known to kill anyone with a weak immune system. I ignore the coughing sounds following me down the hallway. Trying to act casual, I scan side corridors looking for the stairwell that will take me to the soil analysis area.
I take my first pass by Dr. Claire Gallagher’s lab at a brisk walk, casting a glance into the security window of the heavy door to see if anyone’s in the room. I continue down the hall, determining who’s around at this time of the day. It appears most people are either in the health clinics or outside enjoying the lake. Rooms are quiet, empty.
I circle the area and cautiously approach the lab door, glancing in each direction to confirm the place is deserted. I have an electronic passkey Tamara kept in her possession, and I use it now to disengage the door. Releas
ing a sigh of relief, I ease the door open and peek inside, trying to look like a student showing up early for an appointment. All clear. I slip through the door and shut it quietly behind me, re-engaging the lock.
I’m startled to discover half-full packing boxes strewn throughout the lab. A hallway leading into a back area reveals additional trunks and moving cartons. Someone is either just moving in or just moving out of this space. This could be bad. Moving day often goes hand-in-hand with housekeeping efforts and investigation of places typically ignored. Aware the room’s occupant could return at any time, I head to the back corner. Following Tamara’s instructions, I find the tile with the chip and gently pry loose the adjacent tile.
My heart sinks, then begins to race. The space is empty. I reach my fingers into the recess to check if the drive has slipped into a crack. Nothing. Desperate, I check the surrounding tiles to see if any are loose. Maybe Tamara’s memory was playing tricks on her. Maybe the data drive is beneath a different tile. I tap all the tiles in this corner and find another that feels loose and ease it up. Empty also. Digging into the grout, I pull out the tile with the chip—still nothing.
Suddenly, I hear voices coming down the corridor. Quickly, I return each tile to its previous position. I glance around the room to see if there’s a place to hide. Spotting ground-level cabinet doors, I crab-walk across the floor. Thank goodness the cabinet’s empty. Evidently, its contents have already been packed. If I pull my knees to my chest, I have just enough room to fit, hidden, inside the small space.
I hear the lock disengage and hold my breath as two people enter the room. A woman speaks.
“Miranda’s saying good-bye to her friends now. Her things are packed. We’ll be ready to leave with the shuttle on time.”
“Good.”
It’s one word—just one word. It’s enough. I clamp my hands over my mouth to keep from gasping out loud. I’d know that voice anywhere. What was Lukas Thorne doing in Dr. Claire Gallagher’s soil lab? Was there any chance he could be onto our plans? Had he finally found a way to track us? Mutely, I shake my head. Not possible.
The Last Tree Page 1