The Park Service: Book One of The Park Service Trilogy by Ryan Winfield Page A
Authors: Ryan Winfield
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high on the bluff, burning white-hot in the breeze, like some lighthouse warning to any lonely traveler lost on the dark and starless seas. With no Eden here, it must be sad to say goodbye forever. I expect a prayer of some kind, or maybe a eulogy like I’ve read about in lessons, but nobody says a word, and the only sound besides the flames crackling in the breeze is the stifled sobbing of Uncle John’s pregnant wife.
In the morning, we use turtle shells to scoop the ashes and toss them into the wind.
CHAPTER 12
Idols from the Past
John Jr. is born three weeks later.
The night before a full moon.
In the morning, Jimmy leads me along the bluff south out of the cove. He’s hardly asked me anything about my people, so today it catches me by surprise when he says:
“Tell me about where you’s from.”
I watch him for a moment, trying to guess why the sudden curiosity, but he seems preoccupied, staring ahead as we walk, swaggering loose and easy the way he does. It hits me how he’s perfectly adapted to his environment, surviving off the land.
“Please tell me,” he says.
“Well, we don’t have anything to do with the Park Service, if that’s why you’re asking.”
“I ain’t sayin’ they’s did.”
“Good,” I say, relieved. “I don’t know what to say, really. My people are just people. No different than yours. Except we live underground and we didn’t even know this was up here.”
“What’s it like down there?”
So I tell him about Holocene II. About my mother dying when I was born, about my father raising me. I tell him about turning fifteen and taking the test. About being called up and getting on the train and the train crashing and my climbing out. I tell him how we’re taught that the surface is uninhabitable and has been for nearly a thousand years.
He nods, listening without interrupting me once. The only sound he makes is a kind of grunt when I tell him about retiring at thirty-five and living forever in Eden.
“Who’d wanna live forever?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t you?”
He shakes his head and spits in the dirt.
“We return to the Earth when we’s gone.”
“You mean from ashes to ashes, and all that?”
“Where’d ya hear that?” he asks.
“Hear what?”
“Ashes to ashes.”
“I don’t know—I probably read it. Why?”
“I like it,” he says.
We walk in silence for a while, our feet kicking loose rocks, our eyes trained on the coastline ahead.
“Now you tell me about your people.”
“You already know ’em,” he says.
“No,” I say, “I mean tell me about how you got here.”
“We’ve jus’ always been here.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, we’s Americans.”
“Native Americans?”
“I dunno. Jus’ Americans, I guess.”
“Well, tell me about the Park Service then.”
He sighs. “All I know is stories they pass down.”
“Okay. Tell me those then.”
So he tells me about his people surviving a great war and migrating to the coast in search of food. He tells me they came to vast cities, destroyed and empty. He says they settled there and began to rebuild. And then the Park Service came.
“There was no safety,” he says. “No place for us to hide. Machines, ships, flyers. Even the stars was shadowed by drones killin’ our people. Least that’s what they tells me.”
“What did they do?”
“Went on the run,” he says. “Hunting and hunted.”
“Who are they?”
“The Park Service?”
“Yeah, the Park Service.”
“I dunno. Nobody knows.”
“Well, why’d you think I was one of them?”
He points to the faded Foundation crest on my jumpsuit.
“It’s no connection to them,” I say.
He shrugs. “What’s it matter fer anyhow?”
“Don’t you want to fight back? Change things?”
“Change things? It’s how things is. It’s how they’s always been far back as stories tell. Many, many moons now,” he says, “and will be fer many more to come.”
Then he stops and turns to
In the morning, we use turtle shells to scoop the ashes and toss them into the wind.
CHAPTER 12
Idols from the Past
John Jr. is born three weeks later.
The night before a full moon.
In the morning, Jimmy leads me along the bluff south out of the cove. He’s hardly asked me anything about my people, so today it catches me by surprise when he says:
“Tell me about where you’s from.”
I watch him for a moment, trying to guess why the sudden curiosity, but he seems preoccupied, staring ahead as we walk, swaggering loose and easy the way he does. It hits me how he’s perfectly adapted to his environment, surviving off the land.
“Please tell me,” he says.
“Well, we don’t have anything to do with the Park Service, if that’s why you’re asking.”
“I ain’t sayin’ they’s did.”
“Good,” I say, relieved. “I don’t know what to say, really. My people are just people. No different than yours. Except we live underground and we didn’t even know this was up here.”
“What’s it like down there?”
So I tell him about Holocene II. About my mother dying when I was born, about my father raising me. I tell him about turning fifteen and taking the test. About being called up and getting on the train and the train crashing and my climbing out. I tell him how we’re taught that the surface is uninhabitable and has been for nearly a thousand years.
He nods, listening without interrupting me once. The only sound he makes is a kind of grunt when I tell him about retiring at thirty-five and living forever in Eden.
“Who’d wanna live forever?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t you?”
He shakes his head and spits in the dirt.
“We return to the Earth when we’s gone.”
“You mean from ashes to ashes, and all that?”
“Where’d ya hear that?” he asks.
“Hear what?”
“Ashes to ashes.”
“I don’t know—I probably read it. Why?”
“I like it,” he says.
We walk in silence for a while, our feet kicking loose rocks, our eyes trained on the coastline ahead.
“Now you tell me about your people.”
“You already know ’em,” he says.
“No,” I say, “I mean tell me about how you got here.”
“We’ve jus’ always been here.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, we’s Americans.”
“Native Americans?”
“I dunno. Jus’ Americans, I guess.”
“Well, tell me about the Park Service then.”
He sighs. “All I know is stories they pass down.”
“Okay. Tell me those then.”
So he tells me about his people surviving a great war and migrating to the coast in search of food. He tells me they came to vast cities, destroyed and empty. He says they settled there and began to rebuild. And then the Park Service came.
“There was no safety,” he says. “No place for us to hide. Machines, ships, flyers. Even the stars was shadowed by drones killin’ our people. Least that’s what they tells me.”
“What did they do?”
“Went on the run,” he says. “Hunting and hunted.”
“Who are they?”
“The Park Service?”
“Yeah, the Park Service.”
“I dunno. Nobody knows.”
“Well, why’d you think I was one of them?”
He points to the faded Foundation crest on my jumpsuit.
“It’s no connection to them,” I say.
He shrugs. “What’s it matter fer anyhow?”
“Don’t you want to fight back? Change things?”
“Change things? It’s how things is. It’s how they’s always been far back as stories tell. Many, many moons now,” he says, “and will be fer many more to come.”
Then he stops and turns to
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