Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (11 page)

he red dress guides my dreams and cushions my sleep. The next morning, I wake on the floor, clutching the soft, luxurious fabric. Before Mom discovers I’ve been dwelling in the past, I tuck everything back into the memory trunk, pausing to gently fold the dress in half before hiding it away.

I rush my morning preparations, leaving the apartment before Mom wakes up. I speed-walk toward the 37
^th
Northwest Street Gym. Thank goodness it’s my day off. I can’t wait to see Plant Production… and Franco. When I reach the last block before the gym, I slow my pace, hoping the sweat across my back dissipates before he arrives. I’m not sure what I’m more curious about: the tour of the Plant Production facilities or the tour guide himself.

Franco’s nowhere to be seen when I reach the steps in front of the gym. I scan the walking and bike paths but can’t find him. Disappointment pinches my gut. Did he forget about me? Or simply change his mind?

He strolls around the corner with his bike, and my shoulders relax. He’s wearing the same jean jacket and boots as yesterday along with what must be his typical green scrub top and cargo shorts. My stomach flip-flops. I hope I don’t embarrass myself too much today.

“You’re on time,” Franco notes. “Good.”

He’s so calm and collected, the complete opposite of me. My heart’s racing, my palms are sweating, and he’s acting like he’s conducting a field trip for little kids.

Oh crap, that “little kid” is me!

I dart over to his side. “I still need to check out a bike.” Why didn’t I do that already? Why did I just stand around like an idiot?

Because part of me thought maybe Franco wouldn’t show up, and I’d be left standing alone, waiting in vain.

“Okay,” he says. “But hurry, so we can catch the next monorail.”

I rush inside the gym, check out a bike, then speed-walk back to Franco.

“Let’s go. I think we can still make it.” He hops on his bike.

I take a deep breath and push off on the pedals. As I follow in Franco’s path, I wobble at first then straighten up after a block or two. At the end of the short trip to the monorail station, I’m pretty confident that I can handle this biking thing.

Even though it’s a Saturday, the station is still busy. We weave through the travelers heading toward the last few cars. We crowd into the train, standing close to each other and holding onto the bikes.

As the train pulls away from the station, Franco turns to me. “Did you look through that book?”

“Yes. Where’d you get that, anyway?”

“I copied it, taking bits from lots of old books and putting them together. Back before the war, people hiked and camped for fun. All sorts of pocket-sized plant guides were written to help identify plants, what was safe or poisonous to eat. There were other books, too, on birds and such. Apparently, staring at birds was a big hobby for some people.”

The train swerves, and Franco’s arm bumps mine. I’m so distracted by the heat rushing to my face that I can’t think of a reply. We both remain silent for what seems like the longest pause in conversation in history.

Eventually, my mind clears enough to say, “Gus, my boss in Mortuary Sciences, has lots of state park maps on the wall of his office. I guess he’d be interested in this type of thing, too.”

Franco glances out the window. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“So… what exactly are you in charge of at Plant Production?”

He smirks. “Are you worried I’m going to bore you?”

Heck, no. Furthest thought from my mind.
I flush. “No. I was just curious.”

“I’m in charge of a very exciting project at the moment: the hyper-production of fruits, vegetables, and alternative protein sources.”

Oh no. It can’t be. “Alternative protein sources? What does that mean, exactly?” I cringe. “You’re not the one who developed those gelatinous protein cubes, are you?”

“No way.” Franco chuckles. “I hate those things.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “For a second there, I worried they’d be your pet project, and then I’d have to pretend I like them.”

“No worries.” He smiles. “I have nothing to do with them. And I won’t make you eat anything unusual, either. I’m not that cruel.”

All too soon, the monorail slows at the last stop. The robotic female voice announces overhead, “Last stop of the line. All Citizens must exit on the left side.”

The brakes squeal, I pitch forward, and the train comes to a stop. We wheel our bikes into the warm sunshine. There’s no Citizen Housing out this far. Only large, windowless buildings covered with large solar panels and construction sites as far as the eyes can see.

“What are all these buildings?” I ask Franco, but he’s already jumped on his bike and taken off down the road.

“Ten more miles to go,” he calls out over his shoulder. His wheels spin at high speed, leaving me in the dust.

You wanted to see the edge of the city, lady,
I remind myself.
So suck it up and go for it.

I pedal as hard as I can. Ten minutes in, my thighs are on fire, but I still haven’t caught up with Franco. Plus, I’m so busy dodging potholes that I can’t work up any real speed. Although this doesn’t appear to be an issue for Franco. Very soon he turns into a small dot far down the road ahead of me. I guess this explains his well-developed gastrocnemius muscles, biking twenty miles each workday. I start to worry that I’ll lose track of him on this bumpy road. But he eventually glances back to discover what a bike-wimp I am and hits the brakes. I pretend to be focused on the potholes as he approaches. He slows as he reaches my side then turns around, so we’re both facing the same direction.

“I guess cross-training isn’t your thing?” he asks with an unexpected grin.

I return the smile, suddenly worried what my hair looks like. “Not really. And I haven’t ridden anything but a stationary bike in at least five years, so I’m not very good at this.”

“No need for
you
to apologize. I’m sorry I lapsed into autopilot back there. I don’t usually have company on this part of the route, but we’ve got time; don’t worry. Look, there’s the start of Plant Production.”

We pass by row after row of greenhouses. I can’t believe how many there are. Thousands of people must work in Plant Production. It really shouldn’t be that difficult to get in—except for me, that is. As we finally near the end of road, the Incinerator unloading dock comes into view.

“Where do we park our bikes?” I ask, relieved to be done with the ride. My butt has fallen asleep.

“Why don’t you hang out here, by the entrance in the fence? We’ll walk our bikes down to my greenhouse in a minute.” Franco frowns. “I need to talk to these guys first.”

Grateful for a break, I stop the bike and lean it against the barrier, halfway between the Incinerator and the last greenhouse. Feeling a bit stiff, I do a few stretches as Franco crosses the dusty lot and approaches the Incinerator workers.

“You again?” One of the workers raises his gloved hands. “What’s wrong now?”

“I’ve told you a million times: your filters aren’t good enough,” Franco yells. “You’re polluting the air over my crops. I can prove it. You’re lowering my yield on corn and blueberries and—”

“Yeah, yeah. Take it up with The New Order.” A worker waves him away. “Don’t complain to us. We’re not the ones who installed the equipment. We just run it.”

“Have you no respect for the Citizens of Panopticus?” Franco gestures toward the smoke trailing out of the Incinerator tower. “Don’t you care about the health of your family? Everyone eats what I grow. Do you want to give them cancer?”

The Incinerator workers walk away, shaking their heads and ignoring him.

I back into the fence, worried Franco’s going to scream at me next for helping incinerate the bodies with Gus. But I told him that yesterday, and he didn’t say a thing. Why is he giving these guys such a hard time, then?

Franco continues to rant. “Do you want your wife, your sister, or your daughter to get sick from the chemicals you’re spreading through the air?”

When the workers continue to ignore him, he swings back toward the greenhouses, covers the dirt lot in a few steps, and greets me with a warm smile. “Ready for your tour?”

I fight the urge to jump back on the bike and pedal away. “Okay.” I follow him, wondering when Franco will turn into Mr. Hyde again. Is it possible he’s even crazier than I am?

Franco leads me to his office, which is just a table piled with both old and new books. He gestures toward a few hooks on the closest wall. “You can hang up your stuff over there.” He takes down a long white lab coat and hangs his jean jacket on one of the hooks. On the collar of his jacket, someone has scrawled:
Property of Franco Harman.

Talk about multiple personalities. Now, he’s a third grader, and his mom put that label on his clothes. Or else he’s afraid someone will take it. What a weirdo.

I hang up my windbreaker and trail after Franco’s quick steps into the bright lights of the greenhouse. The walls are made of a light green, glassy material, and the air smells sweet and earthy, like flowers mixed with soil. Like home. The ceiling is formed of clear rectangles connected with metal brackets. Ceiling fans hang down every few feet, twirling lazily in the humid air. A million different plants surround me, and my spirits soar. I can’t even identify most of them. My Dad would’ve loved to see this
.

The humidity hits me, and I push up my sleeves, but when Franco glances back at me, I force them back down. I don’t want him to see my scars.

He leads me to a table surrounded by interns. In front of each intern is a tray of biodegradable planting pots, organic soil mixed with worm compost, and seedlings.

Franco turns to me with a question in his eyes. “Have at it.”

No need to ask me twice. Dad taught me everything I needed to know about writing, reading, and repotting plants. I slip on gloves and dig in, putting just the right amount of each soil product in each pot, gently transplanting the seedlings and then watering to encourage growth.

Someone whispers, “Isn’t she going to wait for instructions?”

Franco watches me with arms crossed. “I don’t think she needs them.”

I don’t look up until after I’ve finished the entire tray. My eyes widen when I realize none of the other students have even started. They all stare at me. Except for one. A skinny girl at the far end struggles to straighten a freshly potted seedling. With one wrong move, her whole tray goes crashing to the ground.

I flinch, expecting Franco to scream at her. Instead, he gently pats her shoulder as her eyes glisten with tears of humiliation.

“I’m so s-sorry…” she wails.

“There’s no need to cry.” Franco helps her clean up. “You’ll get the hang of it in time.”

A gangly guy next to me stifles a laugh as I puzzle over how Franco can be screaming one second and gentle the next.

“And for the rest of you,” Franco’s voice carries over the table, “Ask Silvia what to do. She appears to have the exercise down pat.”

I flush and clear my throat then begin to teach the others. As we finish, I feel Franco watching me again. When I glance up, our eyes lock. He’s studying me, but I can’t figure out why. His gaze travels down my arms and pauses on my partially exposed wrists. Automatically, I cover my scars and back away from the table.

He comes to my side. “They’ll be busy for awhile. Let me show you around.”

Again, I play follow the leader with Franco, trailing along the tables heavy with growing foodstuffs. Raspberries hang on vines that climb on metal racks to the ceiling, see-through glass tanks reveal carrots and potatoes pushing through the dirt, and proud sunflowers tower as tall as the greenhouse.

“How did you know how to do that?” He gestures at the other students.

“We used to have a really sunny apartment… back when Dad was still alive. He taught me all about plants. Ever since I was four or five, he’d drag me to any place that handed out cuttings. He showed me how to sprout them, what size pot to use, how much to water… everything.”

Franco fusses with a blueberry bush, his eyes averted.

“But all the windows in the apartment where Mom and I live now face north, so we don’t get much sun at all, and most of the plants died. I tried to find homes for them, but a lot of them ended up in the community compost pile. It broke my heart to dump them, but what else could I do?”

“I don’t understand why you’re not here,” he says, turning to me. “You’re so talented. Why are you in Mortuary Science when you should be here?”

“That’s funny. Gus says I should be in Medical School instead of Mortuary Science. You say I should be here. I guess the Occupation Exams aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

He nods, his lips pressed tightly together like he’s holding back words. A few stray hairs fall into my face, and I swipe them away. Franco stares at my suddenly-exposed wrist. I yank down my shirtsleeve, but it’s too late. He steps closer and takes my hand then traces my scar with his finger.

I yank my arm away, my heart racing. “Don’t touch me!” It’s bad enough the New Order thinks I’m crazy. That Mom is embarrassed by me. I don’t need Franco judging me, too.

“Why’d you do it?” Franco stares at me so intensely that I can’t look away.