Page 5 of Juniper Unraveling

Smokestacks can be seen rising up toward the clouds from as far as our house, and because we’re told nothing exists out in the Deadlands, I find that an interesting observation.

One that begs for investigation.

‘Restricted’ plasters a bulky sign attached to the barbed wires that surround the entire perimeter of trees beyond. For most, the warning is enough to keep them out.

I’m not most, though.

I’ve been inside a few times before, but never quite made it to the wall toward the back. It’s the only place within the community where trees butt up to the edge—ones I’m guessing are tall enough to climb and see the other side. It’s also the only part that isn’t guarded, which makes it twice a curiosity for me.

The wires are charged with enough volts to scorch my insides, so when I lodge a fork-tipped branch, to lift the top wire just enough to climb through, my hands tremble. It’s only recently that I was given permission to wander beyond Phase Two. However, the north side of the community, and particularly this forest, is a no-no. Papa would kill me himself, if he knew I’ve ventured inside again, but with the sun high in the sky, I can be back before dark falls, and since I managed a head-start on supper, he’ll never suspect a thing.

Out of the eight thousand, or so, acres that make up our gated community, this section accounts for forty acres of manmade forest. An isolated enclosure within the walls, completely off limits.

And I’ve yet to discover why.

Careful not to let any part of me touch the wires, which hum a tune of death as I crawl between them, I set my hand onto the bracken at the other side and hold my breath. The slightest jerk, and I could catch one of the barbs, clinging to the fence as it electrocutes my innards to ash. With one quick push, I roll onto the other side.

Safe.

A strange odor mingles with the scent of damp brush, like burning hair, or meat on an open flame. It crinkles my nose, as I glance around and let the thick copse of trees swallow me beneath a shroud of high branches. Forests like this don’t naturally exist in the desert, brimming with a carefully cultivated assortment of fruit trees—Moringas, or drumstick trees, lots of fig trees, jujubes and pomegranites. Like everything else here, it feels fake and out of place.

An enchanting little fairytale forest, surrounded by miles of infernal drought.

The idea was to use as much of the land as possible to harvest fruit, and a number of groves sit at the south end of the compound that are gathered from more frequently. According to Papa, it began before the bombs, part of the community’s sewage water for afforestation program—a way to keep from depleting the already-scarce water source by irrigating with waste.

Lush greens, tall and short, capture my attention as I make my way deeper into the forest.

A sound catches my ear—low and droning, quiet, but constant. On instinct, I pause, scanning across the tree trunks.

Nothing.

It’s never nothing, though, and the unnatural sound draws my feet deeper into the woods in search of its source.

At my hip is the hunting blade Papa gave me for our excursions, and at my side, the Shepherd’s Sling he made, like the one used to defeat Goliath in the bible. Should I ever find myself on the other side of that wall, Papa says I’ll never run out of ammunition with all the rocks and rubble.

Another thing about me that isn’t very lady-like, I guess.

They say, in times of war, more boys are born, and my generation produced two for every girl. If I happened to be more like the girls my age here, I suppose I’d be hanging out in the common areas with the rest of them, or sneaking off into one of the unoccupied homes with the boys for sex, because that’s what they do for fun, it seems. Twosomes and threesomes with a single girl aren’t unheard of. Can’t say whether, or not, it’s consensual, since they’ve all mastered the art of corking the rumors that might taint someone’s reputation. The competition amongst the males is enough to make a girl want to go nun.

Or maybe that’s just the case with me.

I’m not like them, at all, which is why I avoid them. I don’t wear the clothes they wear, or go to their schools, or care about the trivial things they do.

I’m home-schooled, for the most part, and have read damn near every book in the local library.

As they wade through their history and Latin, I’ve been taught to survive in these harsh lands. I know how to plant a garden from seeds, and find water in the endless miles of dirt and rock.

And while they believe such lessons are frivolous in this place, I think they’re anemically prepared for the realities of life.

It takes about a half hour to reach the other side of the forest, and the tall concrete blocks of the wall surround our compound. The infamous barrier to the Deadlands that keeps out the Ragers, along with anyone else even remotely infected with the Dredge. Though Ragers aren’t often seen this far into the desert, the occasional gunshot heard at night confirms they’re out there.

The droning hum is louder here, and the distinct click click click casts a chill down my spine. It’s the chatter of their teeth when they’ve stumbled upon food. Something of a dinner bell to the others, just before they break into a feeding frenzy. I don’t know how I know it so well, I just do. In nightmares, it often precedes the moment just before a Rager pops out, and I wake in a cold sweat. Even now, the hollow roil inside my stomach tells me that horrific sound has rattled me down to my very bones.

Yet, I still need to see.

I glance around for any sign of a guard post that might be situated in the treetops. At the opposite side of the community where I live, there’s a much smaller line of sycamores that carry the fort-looking platforms, from which guards watch, all hours of the day. I’m guessing I’d have already found myself in their crosshairs if this stretch were properly guarded.

According to Papa, we have two armed branches—The Mediators, which are the men who guard the wall and solar panels, many of whom, are relatively friendly. Then there are the ones I’ve never spoken to, beyond the wall, known as The Legion.