The Moon Dwellers

THE MOON DWELLERS

Book One of

The
Dweller
s
Saga

David Estes

Copyright 2012
David Estes

Nook
Edition, License Notes

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Discover
other exciting titles by David Estes
available through the author’s official website
:

http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com

or through select online retailers.

The Evolution Trilogy by David Estes:

B
ook One
—Angel Evolution

B
ook Two
—
Demon Evolution

Book
Three
—
Archangel Evolution

For Adele. Just for being you.

Prologue

Adele

7 m
onths ago

H
ands grope, men shout,
boots slap the rock floor
.

Clay dishes and pots are
smashe
d to bits as the Enforcers sweep
recklessly through our house.
There
are
more bodies in
the tiny stone box that I call
home than ever before.
The walls seem
to be closing in.

My mother’s face
i
s stricken with anger
, her lips twisted, her eyebrows dark
.
Like a wild animal
, her teeth snap and snarl
.
I’
ve
neve
r seen her fight like this.
I’ve
never seen her fight at all.

It takes
three bulging Enforcers to subdue her kicking legs, her thrashing arms.
For just a moment
I am
scared of her and not the men.
I hate myself for it.

I realize
my sister i
s by my side, watching
, like me
.
I ca
n’
t let her see this—ca
n’
t let this
be her last memory of
the ones who raised us
.
I usher her back into the small room that we share
with my parents
, and close the door, shutting her inside alone.

When I tur
n back to the room, my mother i
s already gone, taken.
Undigested
beans from our measly supper ri
se in my throat.

My father i
s next.

The Enforcers jee
r at him, taunt him, spi
t on him.
As he backs
his shoulders against the cold, stark, stone wall, five men corner him
.
Smart.
They do
n’t underestimate him.

He mak
e
s eye contact with me;
his
emerald-green
eyes
are
hard with concentration.
De
spite the
inherent tension in the room
, his face i
s relaxed, calm
, the exact opposite of his eyes
.
Run
, he mouths
.

My feet a
re frozen to the floor.
My knees lock, stiffen, disobey me
and
my father.
I
am
ashame
d.
After all that
my father has done for me, when it counts the most, I fail
him.

One of the men lifts
an arm and a gun.
I ho
ld my breath when I hear the shot, a dull
thwap!
that does
n’t sound like a normal gun
.
The man moves
backwards slightly from the force, but his l
egs a
re planted firmly
and he maintains
his balance.

My father slumps
to th
e floor.
I feel
my lips trembling, and my h
and moves
unbidden to my mouth.
My frozen feet
melt and I try
to r
un to him, but a big body bars my way.
I do
n’t think—just react.
I kick him hard, like my father taught me.
My heel catches
the Enforcer under
his chin and his head snaps
back.
Lik
e most people, he underestimates
me.

T
he next Enforcer does
n’t.

The T
aser rips
into my neck and
tentacles of electricity slam
my jaw shut.
My teeth nearly snap off my tongue, which
i
s flailing around in my mouth
.
They do
n’t take it easy on me
just
because I
’
m a kid
, or a girl
—not after what I did
to the first guy.
Still stu
nned by the T
aser, I barely feel
the thump of their hard boots as
they kick me repeatedly in the ribs.
My eyes a
re wet, and through my
blurred vision I see
the arcing nightstick.

Strang
ely, it feels
like destiny, like it
wa
s always going to happen.

I hear
my sister’
s screams
just
before I black
out.

Chapter
One

Adele

M
y
heart i
s alive again.
Because
I
see
him
.
I know I should hate him—everyone else around me does
.

“Filthy mutt,” I hear
one guy growl, “he should’ve
stayed
above
.”

“Yeah,” another guy says
, “I’m surprised he’s
gettin’
his shoes dirty down
’
ere with
the rats
.”

But for some reason I cho
o
se not to
hate him.
Not today.
I need
something to change my mood, something to bring me back to life.
And he i
s the only option.
It i
s
the first day since arriving at
the
Pen
that I consider
suicide
a viable option.
Others
think
about
taking their own lives on a daily basis
—I
hear
their screams echo down the empty prison halls at night
.
And some of them h
ave, even in the six months I’ve been
here.

I
am
sitting in the ya
rd when I hear
the bell chime
.
The yard is what we call
the expansive area outside the Pen
’s main building
, although I don’t know who came up with the name
,
because it makes no sense.
There i
s no yard, just barren rock.
Real yards—with grass, bushes, and trees—are magical places that don’t exist in our world.

The high fence surrounding the prison
buzzes
with electricity
and
threatens
us
with
barbed wire.
They mad
e the fence easy
to see through, so
we can
see our town, subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm,
a glimpse of the
freedom
we do
n’t have.
And the non-prisoners can
also see us, the convicted.

A few months earlier I saw a young boy, no more than fourteen, go crazy all of a sudden and rush the fence
, desperate to experience the outside world that
only
his eyes could taste
.
I was sitting right here when it happened.
As soon as his hands touched the metal
his body convulsed
and he
flew
back
wards onto the rock, his arm trapped awkwar
dly be
neath
his body
.
He didn’t die, but
he ca
n’t
lift one of his arm
s above his head an
ymore.
I see
stuff like that happen all the time in t
his
place.

The bell we call
the death toll
—
an awful keening
that shivers
my bones
.
It i
s called the death toll because i
t only r
i
ng
s
when so
meone
dies
, as if to remind us of our only chance of escape
.
Sometimes the death
i
s self-inflicted; other times
,
not.
It isn’t ringing now, and yet I can
hear
it.
When no one else reacts I know it’
s in my head.
Perhaps it’s ringing for me
.
I could pick a fight with a gang, let them kill me, escape this prison the only way I know how.

But suicide i
sn’t me at all.
Not really.
I’m kind of a survivalist by nature.
I think I get that from my dad.
But I’
ve
been sentenced to life in prison.
First
in
the Pen until I turn eighteen, which i
s just a few short months away, and then off to the Max, a maximum security a
dult prison,
which wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t absolutely sure
the food wo
n’t be any better than
that of
the dump I’m
in now.

Yeah,
things in my life are looking pretty bleak.
I feel…I feel
lost.
A
nd alone.
More alone than I’ve
ever felt
, which i
s a hard
thing for me to admit
.
You’
d think that staying six months in one place would be plenty of time t
o make some friends, but I ca
n’t seem to.
Oth
er teenagers in the Pen manage
to make friends—some even seem
to like e
ach other—but I pretty much keep to myself.
I’m not sure if it’
s a ch
oice or not, but I certainly do
n’t make an effort to meet anyone.
And I guess my
stay-away-from-me
-or-get-a-knee-in-the-groin
vibe i
s
strong enough that no one feels like trying
to make friends with me
either
.

For six
months my heart has
withered away, slowly shriveling up and
eventually dying, until I ca
n’t feel anyth
ing.
I mean, if someone pinches me it will
hurt, but I
probably wo
n’t react.
I
fi
nd that the less emotion I put int
o life, the less the past seems
to hurt.
I can’t forget what
happened, but I can
try to not remember it.
A subtle difference
,
I suppose.
So I let each day slip
by
in a
hazy routine; one where I sleep on my hard bed, eat
the crap food they fe
ed us, and perform
the remedial tasks assigned to me, all the while generally avoiding raising my chin high enough to see anyone who I might one day call my friend.