The Sun Dwellers

“Okay. Can you wait until then, Tristan?” Adele asks, her voice comforting in the dark.

“I can do that,” I say.

“Damn. I was hoping for story time in the hot, stinky pile of garbage,” Trevor says. “Whatever you’re keeping from us, it had better be good after all this talk about it.”

“Trust me,” I say, “it’s good.”

Chapter Fifteen

Adele

When the door opens we’re ready, Tristan on one side, me on the other, and Trevor, who volunteered for the job, right in the middle. Drums beat and cymbals clang in the distance. Curious, I think.

“What the—” we hear a deep voice say when light floods the inside of the garbage truck.

Trevor’s voice is i

What “the Laguna Club” is, or whether it even exists, I don’t know. What I do know: Tristan’s giving me the signal, one finger up, meaning it’s time for action.

I swing out from my hiding spot behind the edge of the truck, whipping my boot around like a club, changing my direction slightly when I see the exact position of the big-eyed, wide-mouthed guy. Tristan’s moving, too, lunging like a battering ram headfirst, his body a blur. My foot hits the guy’s jaw about the same time Tristan’s plows into his chest. Close enough anyway.

I follow through, landing on two feet and one balancing palm, swiveling my head to scan the area around us, which is full of trucks but empty of humans. There’s a punching sound, because, well, Tristan’s punching the guy in the head, either knocking him senseless, or knocking some sense into him, I’m not sure which. When he gets to his feet the guy’s not moving.

A door slams, echoing through the aluminum garage, vibrating off the steel support girders and piping that run along the ceiling. “The driver,” I whisper, as the clop of feet on concrete approach.

Trevor hops off the truck bed, his lips curled into a grin. “I’m not letting you have all the fun,” he says, accelerating around the corner. As I start to chase him, a man says, “Who the he—” and then the hollow ring of flesh meeting the thin metal side of the truck.

By the time I catch up, the guy’s flat on his back, his head lolled to the side, his tongue bleeding and hanging partway from his mouth. “I think he bit his tongue when he accidentally ran face first into the truck,” Trevor says.

“Nice work,” I say.

“Why thank you.”

“Is there anyone else here?” Tristan asks, striding up.

“They’d be all over us if there was,” I say. “Trevor’s method of subduing this guy wasn’t exactly discreet.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Trevor says.

“We should do some quick reco

Roc hops down and offers Tawni a hand, which she takes, stepping gracefully from the truck. “I think my feet squished in goo,” she says.

“Roc—there’s something on your tunic,” Tristan says, pointing.

“Blech,” Roc says, prying a strip of something black from his shirt. “I don’t know what that is, but its presence in that truck alone means I desperately need a shower.”

“Can you wait like two, three hours until we get to subchapter one and kill our father?” Tristan says. “Then we can all use the nice palace showers.”

“Ooh, hot water,” Roc says, his face lighting up.

“You’ve got hot water?” I say, unable to hide the look of disgust from ambushing my expression.

“Uh, yeah,” Tristan says, chewing on the side of his lip.

I shake my head. The wonders of the Sun Realm never cease to amaze and anger me.

Changing the subject, Tristan says, “Let’s split up and check the rest of the garage. Trevor and I will dispose of the bodies.”

“We will?” Trevor says.

“Yes.”

“Are they…dead?” Tawni asks.

“No, but I want to tie them up and hide them away so they won’t be found for at least a day. Hopefully by then this will all be over.”

Translation: the President dead. Us maybe dead, too. Hopefully all resulting in a ceasefire, which might just give the Resistance enough time to get their legs under them.

The garage is small, but is still able to fit almost ten trucks, each of which is sealed up and standing idle against one edge. Like the prongs of a fork, me, Tawni, and Roc branch out, each of us walking between a different set of trucks. Seeing nothing, we meet on the other side and then walk back by different routes, thus ensuring we hit every nook and cra

We finish by hauling each of the truck tailgates up to look inside. Every truck, except for ours, is empty, the garbage having already been hauled off to wherever the incinerator is. Like the garbage, the truck drivers are gone, too.

“Where do you think they went?” Tawni asks.

“They’re probably done for the day and have joined in the festivities,” Roc says. “Subchapter four has one of the biggest Sun Festival parades.”

That explains the drums and cymbals. A parade. Which means: lots of people. Here we go again.

When we return to our truck, Tristan and Trevor are finished with the two unconscious guys. They’ve used small swatches of rope to tie their hands and feet together, and used strips of cloth cut from the guys’ tunics to blindfold and gag them.

“We should put them in one of the empty trucks,” I say.

“They’ll find them too easily,” Tristan says.

“No, they won’t find them until the truck returns to one of the other subchapters to get more garbage. They have no reason to open the ones that are already unloaded. They’ll probably just think the other workers didn’t finish with the last truck so they could join the parade early.”

“Brilliant,” Roc says. “By the time they realize what’s happened, it will likely be tomorrow.”

“Good call,” Tristan says, his blue eyes bright.

While Tawni closes the gates on all of the trucks except two, Roc and Trevor haul the driver’s body into the back of one of the remaining vehicles, and Tristan and I lug the other one. When we slam the final gate it clicks and latches into place with a final ring that sounds eerie in the mostly empty garage.

“You should put your heels on,” Tristan says to Tawni when we’re finished.

“Ugh. I’ll ruin them,” she says.

“People don’t walk barefoot here very often.”

Her nose curls up, as she slips her filthy feet into her shoes, clasping them. “Satisfied?” she says, one hand on her hip.

“Now you look like a sun dweller,” Roc says. “But we all really need to get cleaned up before we move on. We’ll turn heads for all the wrong reasons looking like this.”

Luckily, there’s a wash basin for the truckers, full of soapy water, which we use to get most of the grime off our skin and clothes.

Finished, I say, “Let’s go,” feeling the light thrill of anticipation in my stomach. We’re almost to our destination, a place that seemed impossibly distant when we first began our trek through the Sun Realm. Despite the shortness of our journey in terms of hours, it feels like we’ve been seeking our quarry for weeks, if not months. I suddenly feel the strain of the miles and the violence in my bones, my muscles, my very being, as if it’s all become a part of me, just caked on and patted down like a lump of clay, weighing me down.

I shake my arms and legs as we walk toward the lone door that exits the garage.

“What?” Tristan says, looking at me strangely.

“I’m just cramping up from the truck ride,” I say.

Nodding, Tristan raises a hand to a push bar halfway up the door. “Remember?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“Blend in,” I chime. “We got it.”

His eyes meet mine for a too-short moment before he pushes outward, striding through the door as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.