Chapter 1: Hidey-hole at the Top of the World
When Carlita steps out onto the dark rooftop, she doesn’t expect to see someone standing there. Down by the far end of the greenhouse, at the shadowy edge of the flat roof, a hooded figure is leaning over the waist-high railing, peering out into the pre-dawn twilight gloom. Forty stories up, with nobody else awake in this dead city and nothing separating Carlita from the silent stranger other than the whistling icy wind and thick tendrils of silvery mist flowing between them like a river current, she suddenly feels very vulnerable.
She takes a quick, unsure step back into the open stairwell. An orange light glows dimly from the kitchen corridor one flight below, casting a very faint silhouette around Carlita as she pauses in the empty, rusty door frame. She considers retreating back down the stairs, but knows her bad foot would make it impossible to get away quickly enough if the figure follows—she’d foolishly left her walking stick downstairs. Not to mention the thin layer of slippery, icy morning dew that coats everything exposed to the elements, making the top dozen or so stairs treacherous.
She takes a few scraping steps back onto the rooftop. "Who's there?" Carlita picks up a spade and brandishes it before her as a makeshift weapon. "This rooftop is off-limits. Community law."
The figure turns and lowers their hood, long hair whipping out in a puff of wind. "Oh, sorry Carlita," a girl's voice says in an apologetic tone. "You're up early."
Carlita lets out a held breath, a wave of relief and exasperation washing over her. "Garden! What are you doing, skulking in the shadows like that? I thought you were a burglar or something!"
Garden shrugs and walks forward to meet her friend. The low-hanging crescent moon barely illuminates a faint frosty sheen on the vinyl siding of the greenhouse, making it a bit easier for Carlita to see her as she walks in front of it. Close up, she can barely make out the auburn color of Garden's hair starkly framing her white skin.
"I couldn't sleep. Weird dreams again." Garden takes the spade from Carlita's hand. "What are you gonna harvest in this dark? I'll help."
"Potatoes. About the only thing I can dig up without any light." Carlita grabs another spade and a gardening bucket and limps into the greenhouse that covers the greater part of the skyscraper's rooftop. "Your brother's heading out again—gonna need some barter. Maybe he'll find some light bulbs," she adds wistfully.
Garden follows. Inside, dim rows of vertical planters overflow with bushy plant-shapes. It’s terribly dark, but the girls know the potatoes are planted on the room's north side and it’s easy enough to walk around the perimeter, fingertips wicking cold condensation off the inside of the vinyl walls as they go.
"What kind of dreams this time?" Carlita asks, concern creeping into her voice. Despite their age difference, she and Garden have been fast friends since Carlita arrived at this building seven years ago. Now, with Carlita having just turned seventeen and Garden fourteen, the pair are often inseparable, as close as sisters. Or at least they used to be—Garden’s been acting so cold and distant since her strange dreams began that Carlita often forgets when she’s even in the room.
"They don't make any sense. Mostly just random words and images, like before. It never ends." For the past three weeks, Garden’s dreams have been confused by an endless wave of text flowing all around her, scattered here and there with pictures amongst them. But she can’t read anything in her dreams, and the images usually flit by too quickly to remember.
"This time, there were some moving pictures, like small bits of film," Garden says. Their eyes now somewhat adjusted to the dim light, the two girls set to work. "Remember that time Orca raided the Century Theater and we all got to watch movies once a week?"
Carlita nods. Those were good times, before electricity became too precious to waste on frivolities, and non-essentials had been traded away. Nowadays, it’s just months upon months of basic, boring survival.
"I saw something like that, except only a few seconds at a time," Garden continues. “Mostly just a bunch of people saying random stuff. But in this dream, all the words and pictures and everything were flying at me from the fog. Just pouring out toward me like they were being carried by the wind. I'd never seen that before."
"So you came up to the roof to look at the fog?" Carlita asks.
Garden nods, then adds in a soft voice, "Yeah."
"You see anything weird now?"
"No. Not a thing."
"Good! Then it was just a dream!" Carlita forces an airy laugh and plucks another potato out of one of the vertical planter's many shallow beds of soil. The tuber plunks into the bucket.
Garden scowls in the gloom and says no more. An awkward, resentful, fearful silence stretches between the two girls, so that by the time they finish gathering the day's harvest, a faint light filters through the vinyl siding.
They leave the greenhouse and return to the railing by the edge of the roof. Standing next to a long row of solar panels, they gaze out at the city together as the dawn reveals the wasteland they call home. All that’s left of the North Bay Autonomous Zone—once downtown San Francisco—are the tops of a few dozen skyscrapers rising out of a heavy blanket of icy white fog, over two hundred feet deep, that settles across land and sea. Tendrils of cool white mist rise up out of the fog, snaking around the buildings and up into the sky like baby dragons flying free as their monstrous mother slumbers far below.
Half of the survivors who remain in the NBAZ live on the top floors of these skyscrapers tending rooftop greenhouses. The other half live underground in the Crypts—the deeper basements and subway tunnels that the fog can't sink down into. But the streets of the empty city are now an icy wasteland haunted by the spirits of the Frozen and a living, frigidly cold fog so vengeful that none can survive in it for long.
"We should all move to the mountains," Garden says, not for the first time. "Ain't nothing worth scavenging down here anymore. Up in the mountains, we'll have more space, more freedom."
"Impossible," Carlita retorts, a deep, bitter sadness creeping over her. Scattered memories of fleeing the mountains of Sausalito Barony when she was nine flit through her mind, lingering on the last time she saw her father as he was dragged down into the sea by ice wraiths on the Golden Gate bridge. She closes her eyes to the fog that destroyed her family, trying to forget though she knows she never can. "The mountains are already claimed," she adds quietly.
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"Not the eastern mountains," Garden insists. She turns and grasps her friend's hands, wringing them tightly in a desperate attempt to squeeze a bit of hope back into her. "I mean, there are the kingdoms, but the Sierra Nevada mountains are too vast to be wholly controlled. We could stake out a claim there and we'd be fine."
Carlita hides her face behind her thick black curls and looks away. Garden knows full well that even if any of them made it through the fog-covered lowlands that stretch between the mountains and the NBAZ sister city of Oakland, Carlita could never be one of them. Not with her bad foot, permanently damaged by frostbite, that forces her to limp around with a cane like an old woman. And once they reach the mountains, how would they claim their new land anyway? Take it from those who already held it?
Such has been the lot of most of the survivors remaining in the bay region for the past thirty years since the Fall. They’re nothing but a bunch of helpless mice cowering in their hidey-holes while the Tech Lords reign in the surrounding hills and the fog rules supreme over all.
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Half an hour later, Garden sits in the kitchen, passing time before she has to go down to the 33rd floor to help her mother at the general store. Carlita’s already busy prepping potatoes and onions for the day’s communal breakfast—she works here in the kitchens, helping to keep the community fed, and it isn't every morning she has the room to herself before the other staff come in and start bossing her around.
Carlita’s just starting to scrub some of the spare potatoes when Garden's brother Dead Boy walks in. He’s a tall young man the same age as Carlita, clad entirely in black and gray and carrying a fireman's axe with the haft wrapped in orange reflective tape. The most imposing aspect of his appearance is his face—below his stubbly, close-shaven blond hair, Dead Boy has two large black X's tattooed across his eyes and six long, dark slashes crisscrossed from forehead to cheek, casting the top half of his face in permanent shadow.
Carlita flushes and raises her chin. "Hello, Del," she says in an offhand tone. "We've got a few pounds of barter for you in that sack over there."
Garden smiles. She and Carlita refuse to call her brother by his new moniker—Del Rey’s his given name, and that’s what they’ll always call him, the Crypts be damned. Carlita’s also quite taken aback by his new tattoos, although Garden has to admit they make him look pretty tough. But he’d also looked perfectly fine without them, before he joined up with Jamar, got inked and became a runner some months ago. Now he’s always heading out to risk his life in the fog for batteries and light bulbs, worrying most of his family sick—and Carlita’s practically family, so she has a right to be annoyed at him, too.
"Thanks," Dead Boy says after an awkward pause, which is followed by further hesitation as he stands dumbly at the door, apparently at a loss for words. Carlita has her back turned to him, the sleeves of her red cardigan rolled up to bare dark brown forearms that disappear in the washbasin. Her massive head of curls hides her face.
Dead Boy shakes his head and joins his sister at the kitchen table, resting his axe against the wall and unslinging the large black rucksack from his shoulders. He digs inside his bag, pulls out a small rag-wrapped bundle and slides it across the table to Garden.
"Dad got this for you. Asked me to deliver it before I head out."
"Why didn't he just come up and give it to me himself?" Garden eyes the bundle with a pout. "The Crypts aren't exactly miles away or anything. They're just downstairs."
"Ah, he's just busy. Digging out a new tunnel. He promised he'll be up in a few days."
Garden unwraps the bundle, her eyes widening when she sees what’s contained within: a delicate wooden bird, carved from a single piece of yellowish wood.
"It's lovely," she says, now genuinely touched. “Wood is so scarce in the city. How did he get this?”
"Don't show it off," Dead Boy advises, ignoring her question. He shoves the barter sack into his backpack, then takes out a few of the potatoes and places them on the table in front of his sister. "Or these."
Garden smiles. "Make sure you say goodbye to Mother before you leave," she says.
"I already did." Dead Boy stands and picks up his axe, but doesn't move. He gazes pensively at Carlita, who’s still washing vegetables. Finally, he says in a rush, "I'll be out for longer than usual this time. Jamar's still not returned from his run. It's been two weeks. I have to search for him."
Garden opens her mouth in surprise, but before she can say anything Carlita whirls around, water spraying from her hands in a wide arc. "Search for him!" she exclaims, "How is that your job?" She thumps a fist on the countertop, her eyes suddenly wet.
A short silence stretches as Dead Boy struggles for words. Finally, he breaks eye contact and replies, "I gotta."
Carlita wastes no time with her retort. "He could be anywhere! Anywhere! Runners are only supposed to scavenge and trade and … and … not go running off into the fog after some fool boy…" Her tirade feebly trails off, fat wet tears now streaking freely down her brown cheeks as if they have a mind of their own.
"I've heard that exact speech at least ten times," Dead Boy replies, his voice suddenly growing hot. "Nobody else around here cares about anyone but themselves anymore."
"And you think any of them would go out there looking for you?!" With a sudden explosion of uncontrollable emotion, Carlita grabs her walking stick and storms out of the room. She stumbles through the doorway on her weak ankle, but recovers her balance just in time to slam the door shut behind her without missing a step.
Dead Boy stands quietly for a moment, then gives his sister an imploring look. He hadn't been up to visit much over the past year, hadn’t seen Carlita—who’s usually calm and focused—acting so irritable lately.
Garden shrugs. "Don't worry about it. She's just stressed out these days. No idea why…."
Dead Boy hunches his shoulders, then lets out a long breath. "You understand I have to do this, right?" he presses.
"Sure," Garden replies, her voice matter of fact. "Losing Jamar is a big hit for the community—we need all the runners we can get. I understand." After a short pause, she adds, "How'd Mom take the news?"
"Bit worse than Lita." Dead Boy smiles warmly, obviously impressed by his sister’s strength. "You should probably go see her. Walk me down?"
The two siblings leave the kitchens and head to the stairwell at the other end of the hallway, Garden clutching her rag-wrapped bird figurine under her jacket and Dead Boy balancing his axe on one shoulder, his pack slung across the other. As they start down the stairs, Dead Boy speaks again, his voice echoing loudly. "I doubt I will be longer than a few days, and I won't be alone. I'm taking Soda with me."
"Oh!" Garden pipes up loudly in surprise, the entire stairwell returning an airy crescendo loud enough to wake several floors. Her hand flies to her mouth and drops the wooden bird—it lands at her feet and tumbles down a few steps with a clatter. She rushes to scoop it up in the rags again, noting with a pout that one of the legs is snapped off the branch it had been perched on. She bites her lip in frustration and resists the urge to cry. She adds lamely, "Just…I didn't know you'd be back so soon."
Dead Boy frowns. "Shouldn't take long to at least pick up Jamar's trail," he says, his voice hushed. "He couldn't have gone far. His last run was just down past The Castro."
Garden knows, but accepts, that he’s lying—her brother always stays out longer than he says he will. She often thinks he seems to like it out there in the fog. But she knows Soda has never been on a run before, and she fears for him. Not that she would admit it, especially not here in the echoey stairwell.
They walk the rest of the way in silence down to the 33rd floor. Garden pauses with her hand on the door that would lead her to their distressed mother, who’s sure to be sobbing in the shop, then pushes back and gives her brother a warm hug. Dead Boy stands awkwardly, patting her back with one hand and his other arm bent out at an awkward angle to avoid knocking her with the haft of his axe.
"Take care out there, Del," she says.
"I always do. Three days, promise."
And just like that, Dead Boy is off.
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