The Hanging Tree

Chapter 1: Gizmo

I awoke to the light of a misty, dismal morning just beginning. The horizon filled with the kind of orange that lets you know early on that the weather is not in your favor. The dark grey clouds hung low and it was almost as if I could feel the air thickening through the glass of my window.

The weather had been so unusual for years. As I peeked out my bedroom window at the chilly new day, I shuddered at its abnormality.

You'd expect a mid-August day to be much warmer than this one was proving to be. To look out and see bright, golden, summer sunlight, not dreary, overcast, wintry skies. You'd expect to see plants stretching out to catch their last few rays of sun before closing up for the winter, not flower petals shut tight against the layer of frost that seemed to cover everything in sight.

But those are the strange things I did see, so I closed my curtain firmly and tried not to think of the terrible things that this odd weather had caused all across the world. But I couldn't help myself, the terrifying images come to the forefront of mind just as soon as I decided I'd rather not think of them. The massive tsunamis, hurricanes the size of what was once South America, ice-cap deterioration so extensive that it caused a whole other string of chain reactions, such as most of North America being swallowed by water as if it never existed.

I was distracted only by the sounds of my parents waking in their room next door, the sounds of my father standing and stretching, my mother groaning and saying, "Just five more minutes," and my father's laugh and reply, "Come on now, up up up." I heard their door slide open and my mothers footsteps coming towards my own door. She popped her head into my room as she said, "Gizmo, why aren't you getting ready? You have to be at the factory in 20 minutes." "I only just woke up," I said with a chuckle. But I frowned as she walked away and my door slid shut. I had always detested my name.

Traditionally, you're supposed to name your child after the career field that you wish them to join at the age of 17, but, fortunately, my parents were a little more creative in choosing my identity. Although I am still labeled to be the mechanic that my father wishes me to be, it's better than some of the 'Auto' or 'Tailor's that I knew, and there are quite a few of them...

My little sister, who was not so lucky, was simply named "Farmer". As much as I hated my own name, and the stupid traditions that brought it about, at least it's more original than Farmer.

The naming thing can sometimes backfire because you don't have to enter the field for which you are named, it's just a way of your parents trying to impress their dreams upon you. For example, my father's name is Soldier but, ever since he was little, all he wanted to be was an engineer, so he is one of the few people who stray outside their name. He loves to talk about his work, so people are more often than not surprised when he tells them he is an engineer and not a military man.

I dressed quickly thinking of how odd my own job is. Usually it is quite hard for, say, a butcher to hire you if your name is Baker, but I was one of the lucky ones. I got hired on as a part-time harvester down at a factory a few blocks down from my house.

Since there is so little land that isn't covered in concrete, asphalt, or buildings whatever land there is to be spared is dedicated to raising livestock. So, I work in a factory where things like vegetables, fruits, and grain are grown under artificial sunlight, in an artificial atmosphere. I doubt, even if the space could be spared, that anything healthy enough to ingest could be grown on the outside anyways. I secretly longed for the times I had heard of in the Education Center when crops were grown out in the sun and air, as it was quite depressing working long hours inside, especially doing things as monotonous as harvesting.

Now clothed in my grey uniform, standard to any job no matter the occupation, I headed out of my room and into the hall where I smelled the usual large breakfast in the making. I walked into our small kitchen where my mother, father, and sister were already occupying 3 of 4 chairs at our square, wooden table. I looked over at the stove and see our avox - a person who has had their tongue cut out, usually for crimes against the government - making the savory smelling meal.

I smiled at Builder when she looked my way. We have a special bond that is so rare, for you are really not supposed to pay much attention or give respect to avoxes. She has always been very kind to me, even without words, and has helped me out of a few tight spots, which is beyond her job description. So, in return, I try to help her keep the house clean and little things like that, but only when my family isn't watching. They believe that anyone who has been made into an avox deserves to be ignored and mistreated.

Avoxes are not a recent development in our society, but they haven't exactly been around for a long time either.

When breakfast is finally served I ate as much as I could hold because I knew I would need the extra calories to get me to lunch. Harvesting isn't as easy as it sounds and requires a lot of physical labor. I got about halfway through my second plate when I decided that I couldn't hold another bite, so I stood to tell my family good-bye, knowing that Builder will know that I was including her without speaking to her directly. I kissed the top of my mother's head, waved to my father, and clapped Farmer on the shoulder. She tried to hit me back but I was out of reach too quickly and she missed. She had swung so hard that she nearly fell out of her chair so I was laughing heartily on my way out the door.

As I made my way down the narrow sidewalk I became depressed by the scene that surrounded me. Average-sized square homes, the same shade of pewter grey as my uniform and nearly everything else in our world. The same scrawny birch trees settled in the left front corner of every perfectly manicured lawn that I pass. No lawn ornaments, no decoration or any signs of individualization anywhere. I could only remember seeing decorations on old television programs, never in person.

After a couple of blocks the scenery changes, but only slightly. The houses are getting smaller and are starting to become interspersed with businesses instead of solid rows of humble dwellings. The businesses are the only things that add color to the streets as they hang brightly colored displays in their windows to draw in customers. Nothing too bright though. No one would want you to mistake a display for something cheerful...

I passed only a few people along the way before my factory comes into view, most headed in the opposite direction, coming home from the night shift. The usual thick streams of smoke were curling up from several chimneys on the factory's roof, coming from the many boiler rooms we have to regulate the crop's temperatures year-round.

I was stunned as I noticed just how uniform absolutely everything is, even the factory. The factory, made of its strong cinder block walls and perfect, rectangular structure is a very large building. But it'd have to be to feed everyone in our surrounding area. I walked up the smooth sidewalk and put in a code to open the thick medal doors and slip inside.