Beyond The Maples (The Dusted Crown #1)

Chapter 1

Ihave two options right now, and they are both utterly terrible.

One, I pull my leg harder and rip the last good pair of pants I own, possibly cutting my leg on the wire it's caught on in the process.

Or two, I live up here now on the top of this fence.

Eventually the guards will spot me, and I could try and pretend like I'm not breaking the law, like I am simply here for the view or something.

That second option feels more likely to end in death.

I sigh, my mask muffling it as I swat a strand of unruly hair out of my eyes.

Roughly I yank my leg and it springs free, tearing my pants but thankfully not my leg. Before I can celebrate my top half leans too far over the outside of the fence with the momentum and I fall right over the ledge.

Dust plumes around me after impact and I hold my breath, hoping it disappears quickly enough to avoid detection. It will definitely give me away, if not. There’s faint clanging and indistinct rumblings beyond the fence I just fell from, most likely guards investigating the noise.

"What was that?" grumbles a gritty voice.

"Probably nothing. Let’s go, I’m hungry," someone responds. I don’t recognize either voice; it’s been a while since I was familiar with the people working here.

There are a few more bangs before I hear the footsteps fade into the distance.

I let out a sigh of relief that puffs my mask out, and my ribs ache with the movement.

I press my fingers along the bones under my frayed coat.

There’s no longer any fat there to cushion them, but I determine none are likely broken, despite my awkward fall.

I rise on shaky legs, glaring at the fence.

I woke up this morning cranky, hungover, and in a genuinely foul mood.

Which was made worse when I’d smelt something smouldering from the living room; the air filter I’d rigged up had melted over the fireplace into disuse.

Now I’m here, trying to break into the junkyard to steal more materials so I can piece together another.

A capital offence, if I remember correctly.

I could have waited until Deacon, my best friend, was home. He’s due any day now, and being that it’s his family’s junk yard, I probably should have. Stealing from them feels weird, but when I heard my little sister’s wheezing from across our bedroom, I lost all sense of patience.

As dawn slowly creeps over the yard walls, the sediment I stirred up softly curls away, sticking to everything it comes in contact with.

I peek at the dust clouds above us; it’s rare to see blue skies here anymore, and they are thick enough they probably concealed a lot of what I kicked up.

I’m grateful the guards didn’t notice the fine powder billowing from the ground instead of swirling above us in the ever-taunting winds.

We’ve all become adept at reading the dust, like our ancestors once read tea leaves.

Rolling my lips between my teeth I gauge whether it’s worth my time to try again.

On the one hand, being caught would suck.

I have no doubt they’d take me directly to the authorities.

It’s a real toss-up which way it would go.

However, the officers tend to lean toward a death sentence, and I don’t particularly enjoy the idea of being strung up along the church wall in the name of the Gods for such a petty thing as stealing.

If I’m going to go out, I’d at least prefer it to be for something a little more sensational.

On the other hand- another air filter might prolong the time needed between doses for my little sister’s medication. I don't really need another reason; Willow’s health is always worth every risk.

With that thought, I roll my shoulders and take another run at the wall.

I use the momentum to project myself, pushing with my legs and sling my top half over the concrete edge.

I throw my leg across, keeping my body low, and slink down the other side.

My feet land with a muted thud, which makes me briefly grateful our world is always covered in soft earth.

It does muffle a landing every once in a while.

My eyes dart around the large ochre-soaked yard and a quick thrill shoots through me as I scan the endless aisles of dead technology.

Heaping piles of broken wire and scrap metal tower around me with narrow paths to walk among it all.

I was here often as a child; Deacon and I played for hours running around the compound, hiding from one another.

That was before though, before I had to work day and night just to keep my siblings fed. Before his family saw me as… other.

Bitterness chews my insides as I look around.

The new government regulations are intense.

To "heal our land," they've minimized the use of machinery, and completely halted all new production.

The old factories shut down when my parents were little.

These junkyards contain all the materials we have left to work with, and are only allowed to be repurposed through the strict sanctions.

My eyes catch on something to my left. Bending, I dust off the smooth metal casing.

"No way…" I whisper to myself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these drones in real life, but immediately I recognize it. They are famous throughout New Providence; the drones litter our history textbooks and lore.

Its sleek metal body looks so at odds with the broken leg dangling off the back, gears missing.

Exploring this place feels like reaching for a memory that isn’t my own; transporting me to a time when magic and technology worked flawlessly together.

Instead of our current bleak reality, where magic no longer exists, and technology is largely outlawed.

I pry open the top and grin. There’s a shallow spot for a leer stone right at the top, where a wielder might have sunk a smooth oval stone the size of my palm to power the machine.

A magical battery. I have fuzzy memories of relentlessly questioning my dad about machines like this when I was little; needing to know how they worked, and were powered if regular humans couldn’t charge the stones. I wish I could remember his answers.

Reluctantly I get up, determined not to get distracted again. Get the items I need, and get out.

Turning a sharp corner, I freeze. At the end of the aisle are two guards.

I assume they are the same ones I heard earlier.

Unfortunately for me, they hadn’t gone far on their patrol.

I fumble backwards, my foot hitting a loose piece of metal that makes a heavy clunk. Both heads snap in my direction.

"Hey! You’re trespassing!" the smaller one hollers. I recognize the second man; he’s worked here for over a decade. I’m thankful I have my mask and hood concealing most of my face. Otherwise he might recognize me and I know he’d happily turn me in.

I continue backing up, putting my hands in the air as if I might surrender. I can outrun these guys, I think. They’re older, and somehow plump despite the food crisis.

The taller man struggles to get a baton off his belt, momentarily distracted, and I take the opportunity to bolt.

I run, pushing myself as fast as I can, lungs already burning.

The guards are faster than I expected; I hear their slapping steps right behind me.

I can’t jump the fence with them on my heels like this.

Panic wraps its way around my insides, sharpening everything around me.

I look desperately around for anything that might change my luck.

"We’re not going to hurt you," the short wheezy one pants. "We just gotta take you to the boss."

I inch backwards, not at all soothed by his words.

His bosses are Deacon’s parents, and they work directly for the government.

Despite my friendship with their son, I can’t risk they’d take pity on me and let me go.

Once again, I scold myself for not just waiting until his return.

Just as I’m about to run again, I spot a long wooden board with its end shoved into a dust pile.

It’s leaning up against an overturned pail like a seesaw, giving me an idea.

I start to turn, as the two men inch towards me at the end of the aisle.

The taller one reaches for his back pocket and I spot the telltale ends of plastic cuffs.

I nod my head, not willing to say anything, in case the one lug somehow recognizes my voice.

Both guards relax slightly, thinking I’m surrendering, yet with every stride forward, I step backwards.

Just when they are at about the right distance, I leap onto a crate beside the board, giving myself enough leverage to slam my foot down on my improvised catapult.

It slings the mound of fine powder all over the place. My own eyes sting a little as it envelops the area, but the column of powder is nothing compared to what the two guards have to deal with. One screeches as the other falls to the ground covering his face, spit flying out of his mouth.

I don’t hesitate.

I bound down the last aisle, hauling myself up broken crates and metal barrels at a section nearest the fence.

I leap, throwing myself over the top. I fall, for the second time today, landing marginally better this time.

Tingling pain shocks the bottoms of my feet, but I bite down a yelp.

I can hear an angry commotion from behind the fence, urging me to move along, even as my knees threaten to lock on me.

I run as far as I can, which is not very long before there’s a distinct metallic taste in my mouth and I’m forced to slow down.

I move past the dried, cracked earth, kicking away the odd tumbleweed that I don’t even have the energy to grab for kindling.

My pace slows as I finally hit the outskirts of the dense residential area of town, zigzagging my way home through the rundown streets.

Just in case someone decides it's worth their time to try and track me down, but it's unlikely.

Everything is quiet as I turn down our little street; the rundown houses piled so close together there’s hardly room to sneak between them. My body relaxes as I see the familiar beat up shack, the rusted tin roof patched and worn. It’s not much, but it works.

It’s home.

I sneak into the house as silently as possible, cursing as the door creaks, old hinges groaning under the weight of the thick wood.

I listen for movement; silence greets me, so I flop down on our old couch in the main room, unwilling to risk waking the tiny tyrant sleeping in our shared bedroom.

I drift off to sleep, thinking of all the things I could have done differently already today.