The Breeding Tree Read online

  “This man tried to infiltrate our society. He was caught attempting to upload a virus into the latest batch of MIHs. Tried and failed.” Fishgold then withdraws a scalpel from his pocket, letting it glint in the August sun. He snaps rubber gloves around his hands and holds the knife with expert precision.

  “Let this be a warning to any of those who dare to join the rebellion. You will be caught. Treason such as this will not go unpunished.”

  He turns toward the man as the soldiers step forward and grab the rebel by the arms, forcing him to stand.

  “Any last words?” Fishgold asks as a soldier holds the microphone in front of the man.

  “Long live the rebelli—”

  His cry is replaced with a shriek of pain that echoes through the silent multitude as Fishgold presses the scalpel against the man’s neck. In a few swipes, he’s removed the thin layer of skin where the tattoo was. The man tries to pull his head away from the knife, but his chains and the soldiers restrain him. Fishgold makes one more cut, fully removing the tattooed section of the man’s neck.

  From my seat, I see the blood run down the back of his neck, soaking into his shirt. Taryn clenches her eyes shut. I wish I could, but I can’t stop staring. This can only mean one thing. The man is a Natural Born. His tattoo is a fake, and he’ll most likely die for his cause.

  TWO

  FOLLOWED

  BY THE TIME WE leave the parade, it’s nearly dark. My parents stay to make sure Gran gets settled back into her room at the center. Taryn has met up with a few classmates to continue the celebrations after the parade, but I don’t feel like celebrating. I’m still sickened by what’s just happened. The reminders of who is in control linger around every corner, and public displays and checks by the soldiers keep the people frightened. Torture is never easy to stomach.

  Maybe taking a quiet walk through the park will calm my nerves a bit, and I’ll actually be able to sleep tonight.

  The paved walkway leads through the middle of the town park that divides the business district from the residences. It’s lined with hand-planted flowers, and the grass is trimmed into neat rows on either side of the walk. A few trees decorate the grasses, thicker in some areas, creating groves of maples. It’s picture perfect. No fallen leaves, no nuts or branches littering the ground beneath the massive trunks. All cleaned by the arborist students. This path is a shortcut to my house. Tonight, with the warm breeze, it’s a perfect respite to clear my mind.

  My feet scrape the cement as I make my way down the path, avoiding the flowers on either side of the landscaped walkway. The trees, off to the side, wave softly in the breeze. Ahead is a group of huge maples, and I wander off the path and into the cool air of their shadows. I’m almost through the grove when I hear a scraping noise behind me. Not again.

  My muscles tense, and I freeze, listening to the sounds of the evening. The crickets chirp in the distance, and the wind snakes its way through the leaves and brushes against my skin. Goose bumps rise on my arms when I hear footsteps trudging through the dirt. My goose bumps aren’t from the breeze.

  Willing myself to turn around, I pray there isn’t someone there. Please let the pathway be empty. Slowly, I twist my head back, my body following, and peer into the shadows of the trees. When I don’t see anything, I relax. But then a movement a hundred yards off catches my eye.

  It’s nothing, I tell myself. An animal or tree branch. But when the fluttering of a long coat flies out from behind a tree trunk and a pale, bony hand slithers out to control it, I know it’s happening again.

  Someone’s following me. It’s nothing, I tell myself, but that nervous knot in the pit of my gut tells me to be careful, to watch my step, to peer over my shoulder.

  Sure, it could be anyone going for a walk at night, but why would they hide?

  “Hello? Is anyone there?” Maybe they’ll answer. But after a long pause with only the whistling of the wind through the trees, I can draw only one conclusion: whoever it is doesn’t want to be seen.

  I don’t waste any time sticking around. If someone is following me, I’m going to get as far from here as possible. I fly over the patch of land, my feet skidding through the mud-covered lawn. The summer rain made the ground soft, and it nearly swallows my shoe with each nervous step.

  Pumping faster and faster, I force my muscles to work against their will. Come on! Move! Through another grove and over a patch of brush, just a little further until I can round the bend and slip behind a tree. Once I reach the safety of the massive oak, I press my back against the trunk and suck in a deep breath, attempting to calm my tittering heart. The rough bark digs into my shoulder blades with each desperate breath.

  I only have a second to rest. If I wait too long, he’ll find me.

  For weeks, it seems, as I walk home each night, someone has been following me. Eyes peering through leaves. Footsteps tapping on the sidewalk behind me. But every time I turn, I see nothing. Only the night wind whistling its lonely tune, taunting my fear. But tonight is different. Tonight I saw something.

  Someone.

  Tomorrow I’ll avoid the park. Take the long way home through the bustling streets. Even if it takes twice as long. Yes, definitely. My shaking hands confirm this idea.

  Maybe whoever is there has given up by now.

  I’m not taking any chances. Until I’m inside my house, I’m not safe.

  Pushing my hands against the bark of the tree, I shoot off, dodging the branches that scratch at my arms.

  Just up ahead, I see the clearing and the widened path, where the light from the streetlamp casts its dull glow across the sidewalk.

  Another ten steps, and I’ll be safe.

  BAM!

  Out of nowhere a blunt force knocks me sideways.

  “Whoa!” a deep voice echoes.

  Large, pale hands grab my shoulders and pull me upright.

  “No!” I cry, flinging my arms out. I’ll hit anything that comes close. “Stay away!”

  When I right myself, I peer into the face of a boy a little older than me. Eighteen, maybe twenty. He looks familiar.

  “It’s okay.” He pulls his hands back in mock surrender. His soft, gray eyes gaze at me with concern through a mess of black hair. I peer nervously over his shoulder. He must notice my fear. “You okay?” he asks. Then he tries to lighten the mood. “In a hurry?”

  I’m not amused. “Um, yeah … heading home.” I toss another look over my shoulder to the darkened path behind me. “Just wasn’t paying attention … Sorry.” My breathing is shaky as I try to calm myself.

  Someone is still back there.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  “Okay, well, be careful.” The boy looks across the street toward my house.

  He looks so familiar, but I still can’t place his face. I know I’ve seen him before; I just can’t think where …

  “Thanks.” I point to the lighted windows. “I’m almost there.” I glance once more behind me.

  Nothing. No long jackets quivering in the breeze. No snake-like fingers reaching through the brush.

  Stepping onto the street, I march to my home. My trembling hands reach for the doorknob, but thankfully, within seconds, I push myself safely inside and latch the deadbolt behind me. With my back to the door, my breathing steadies, and when my heart slows, I draw back the curtain and peer outside.

  The boy is still standing there.

  Staring.

  Our eyes meet across the distance.

  Then he disappears down the path.

  THREE

  GRAN

  The Code of Conduct and Ethics—The Institute—Sector 4, USA Section 3 Article 5.4: All citizens must conduct themselves in a manner worthy of The Institute. Misconduct is closely monitored and will be dealt with swiftly.

  EVEN AFTER MOM AND Dad arrive safely home and settle into their evening routine of tea and reading on the couch, I still feel agitated. Sleep eludes me most of the night, and what little
rest I do get is filled with dreams of pale fingers clenching my neck.

  When I wake the next morning, still groggy from the restless night, I determine to see Gran later, to tell her what’s going on. But after a day of studies, I decide not to bother her with one more thing to worry about. Instead, I’ll just visit. Gran has a way of lifting my spirits even if she’s not purposely trying to take my mind off something scary.

  “Afternoon, Gran!” I say as I stride into her room at the retirement center.

  Her bed, bolted to the floor, is covered with thin white sheets. Gran’s deteriorated legs lay like twigs under the threadbare blanket. She stares at the far wall, the one with the only splash of color in the sanitary, white-washed room. It’s a Van Gogh print. Starry Night. The swirls hypnotize me whenever I look at it for too long, but she seems to like it. Stares at it for hours.

  I take a small rag out of my back pocket. It used to be hers. The initials E. L. D. are embroidered in purple thread on the corner of the handkerchief. Emma Lin Dennard.

  I try to envision what she was like when this scrap belonged to her. Young. Vibrant. Feisty.

  A fighter.

  She still is. Only they don’t know it.

  I wipe the pool of saliva gathered at the corner of her mouth with the hankie. “Wanna go for a walk today?”

  She answers with a groan, and her tiny body rocks gently back and forth.

  I glance at the video camera in the corner. It’s recording.

  Always paying attention.

  “Hang on, Gran. I have to get someone to help me.”

  I find a young worker at the check-in desk, and he helps me move Gran’s fragile body into a wheelchair. I fold the thin quilt and place it over her legs and wrap a sweater around her bony shoulders.

  “There, much better.” I turn to the young man. “Thanks. I can take it from here.”

  He nods and heads back to his station.

  “All right, M’lady. To our usual spot?”

  Her soft grunt is confirmation, so I pull the chair toward me and spin it around. Halfway down the hallway, I stop and sign the appropriate papers.

  “Afternoon, Kate,” Nurse Peterson calls. “Taking your great-grandmother for a spin?”

  “Yes, don’t worry,” I say, as I sign my name. “I’ll have her back by dinner time.” I push the clipboard back toward the nurse and grab the handles of Gran’s wheelchair.

  “Sounds good,” she says as I head past the security guards and out the door. The workers are used to seeing me. I’ve visited since I was little, first with my parents, then, when I was old enough, on my own.

  Gran loves the outdoors. She relaxes as soon as the sun hits her face. No one else would be able to tell, but the corner of her eye hides a twinkle, and the way the corners of her mouth pull up ever so slightly tells me she likes it.

  We’ve learned to communicate without words.

  The wheels of the chair bounce along the walkway as I cross the paved path. Nearby, soldiers in training are practicing attack drills. Must be the newest recruits to The Institute’s militia. Soon they’ll be out on the streets practicing their newly learned techniques on the people, who by some chance, forgot to follow some minute rule. The new recruits tend to be overly ambitious. In front of the neat rows of soldiers stand two men. They’re rather young, from the looks of it, but their straight backs, stiff gaits, and scowls boast their power. The one, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with short-cropped hair, glares at me from across the grass, eyes following as I push my grandmother up the path. Then suddenly, his glower morphs into a tight-lipped line. Almost a smirk, but not quite. I look away.

  For a few moments, we walk in silence except for my heavy breathing. Pushing the chair is my workout for the day. It’s too hard to make small talk; besides, what I really want to talk about can’t be said where listening ears can hear.

  “Almost there, Gran. I thought we’d go near the waterfall today.”

  Her body lurches forward. She wants me to hurry.

  I scan the yard. A groundskeeper digs through the landscaping near the building. Another worker has three residents outside enjoying the sun, and a few soldiers patrol the far edges of the main field. But there are more eyes watching us that I can’t see.

  “I know, but I can only go so fast without attracting looks. Be patient,” I whisper.

  Gran’s facility lies at the edge of town near the river. Well, more of a creek. Most people follow the paved pathway downstream where they can sit on benches overlooking the water. Gran and I like to travel in the other direction. Not all the way to the fenced border, but enough to feel like we aren’t being watched. But it means I have to push her and her wheelchair along a dirt path and over the grass.

  The walkway ends, and I lean closer to her chair to allow my legs better traction.

  Leaning forward, I whisper in her ear, “We need to find a new place to talk. This trek is killing me!”

  She lets out a muffled hoot, and I know she understands.

  I struggle through the soft grass as I press further upstream, glancing every once in a while over my shoulder to see if anyone notices us. No heads are turned our way. Soon, I see the clearing.

  We reach the spot where the tree-lined path thins, and I drag the wheelchair up close to the jutting rocks. It’s there I sit, staring across at the Outer Lands. Behind us is civilization. It’s never far.

  Always watching.

  But here, as I look out over the river, past the fence that runs its length on the far side, the land seems freer. Like uncharted territory. Safe.

  “How was your workout?” her tiny voice whispers above the rush of the water. I can barely hear her, but that’s how it has to be. No one can know.

  I smile.

  “Fine. Seems like you’ve lost a bit more weight,” I say. “You need to eat.”

  “They serve crap down at that place. I can barely choke it down. Nothing like when I used to cook. They don’t even know what ‘from scratch’ means. I can’t remember the last time I had real potatoes. With gravy. Lots of gravy. I miss that.”

  I try to picture my great grandmother bustling around a kitchen, complete with a checkered apron tied snugly around her tiny waist, her brothers and sisters of all different sizes and shapes gathered around her. It’s a description she’s told me a thousand times, but I still can’t quite picture it.

  I turn my attention to her. To look at her, you wouldn’t be able to tell she isn’t sick. She still stares over the river—always careful—but the look in her eye is different. And she sits a little taller, but not much. Because if anyone came this way, they’d have to see the Gran everyone else sees. The one they believe is failing mentally and physically.

  I know otherwise.

  She turns her head toward me the slightest bit, her blue eyes blazing. “Are you still being followed?”

  Darn it! I wasn’t going to talk about that with her, but she has an uncanny way of reading my mind.

  I nod. “Don’t worry, Gran. I’m safe. It’s probably just someone from school trying to pull a prank.”

  It’s a lie, but there’s no need to worry her. I don’t tell her about the rustling and footsteps I hear behind me whenever I’m in the park. The ones that I can never attach to a specific person. Nor do I tell her about the glimpse of a coat I saw the night before. It could have been anyone walking home from the parade. Yes. That’s it. But I can’t ignore that feeling in my gut that tells me otherwise.

  “Katie-Did,” Gran uses the nickname she came up with when I was an infant, “they know something. You can’t bring me out here anymore. We can’t talk like this. I’m not going to be the one who causes them to put a tail on you.”

  If only it were that easy. But I’ll admit, I need to be more careful.

  “Gran, I can’t give this up. You’re the only one who understands. Even Mom and Da
d have no clue what’s going on.”

  Gran flashes me a quick look.

  “Well, Dad knows some things. Suspects stuff.” Of course he would. He’s her grandson, and there’s no way he could have gone his entire life not knowing about his own grandmother, especially after what happened to his parents.

  Gran understands my predicament. It was her generation that began our way of life. Some of her friends discovered the genetics that brought us where we are today, that decided to separate the races and improve our bodies in the first place.

  They had good intentions, really. Less disease. Longer life, better life. And once all these things were accomplished, they intended to gather everyone together again, to blend the human race once more, this time with superior beings. But in the process of the improvements, the restrictions came. And Gran was sent to that facility, kept like a rat in a cage, only to be let out to make a statement about how the Natural Born are so inferior. For the good of everyone, she has to play along with the ruse, but it’s exhausting. It’s why we come to the river to take a break from it all.

  “You haven’t told your folks about the park and the footsteps?” she whispers.

  “No.”

  “Probably for the best. They’d pitch a hissy fit and hire someone to look after you. If they did that, it’d be the end of our little chats in an instant.”

  “Maybe it would save The Institute from having to put a tail on me since Mom would follow me everywhere.” I laugh, but it’s not funny. Not when it’s entirely plausible that I could be tailed right now.

  “Be careful, okay sweetie?”

  “I will, Gran. I promise. And I’ll stay out of the park tonight.” I press my back against the mossy rock wall. “So, what’s the news with you?”