by RD Hale
'Don't blame me because you were stupid enough to leave a window open while you were sleeping. You dopey bastards!' I remark.
Killow and Oscar cross forearms and vigilance keeps them at either flank as the outsiders encircle us, but Scoop silently watches despite being slightly less incapable than his cowardice would imply. Our seven adversaries may be unimpressive, but they outnumber a trio of game short-arses and a chicken shit and my broken hand could make this difficult. Tight-fitting, ripped jeans accentuate their lack of muscle power and the voice-breaking testosterone about to be unleashed would have laughable results under regular circumstances.
The mouthy one squares up to me, tensing his pathetic biceps as lopsided jug-ears prop up his baseball cap. And this misshapen weakling would not be spoiling to fight the injured member of the group if his allies were not providing backup. Scrunching his goat-like face, he shoves my chest and if it was not for this cast, one haymaker is all it would take.
'What you gonna do now, thief? This is steal-back! I'm gonna beat the bile out of you, then we're gonna go in there, take what we want and burn the rest with you inside,' the jug-eared lad feebly growls.
'You want what's in there? I'd happily give it away if you weren't such a parasite!' I sneer.
The jug-eared lad swings a punch, scuffing the top of my head with his fist and he misses with a second swing, then lunges forward. His skeletal accomplice pushes me in the direction of an oncoming punch which knocks me onto my backside. A raised fist looms, but at least his lack of power should mean it does not h... THWACK! Out of nowhere the football slams into his face, causing my pathetic foe to stumble on jellified legs, shaking his wincing head.
'Who did that?' the jug-eared lad yelps as the football rolls along the sand. 'It was you, wasn't it?' he yells at a wide-eyed Scoop.
'Nope, wasn't me,' Scoop mumbles as all eyes turn to the football spinning in the grit, which rises due to some unforeseen force and rotates at blurring speed like a celestial object accelerated by an intense gravitational field.
'What the hell? How is it... ARGH!' The hyper-dynamic orb slams into that moronic mug in a wince-inducing explosion of leather which causes my attacker's twig legs to capitulate. In a flood of tears, he drops onto hands and knees with cheek red and swollen like a ginormous tomato as his allies take slow steps back.
'Wh-who did that?' the jug-eared lad whimpers.
'I did.'
Less than fifty yards away, the culprit stands with her linen dress swaying in the breeze. The terror generated by Dynah's glowing eyes provides a priceless sight as these phony hardcases turn to mush; their quivering lips almost making up for the insult of my aching cheekbone.
'They have a droid. RUN!'
As they flee the threat of a presumed robotic psychic, the deflated ball rises once again to launch into the ankles of my attacker and when he trips over, I take delight in kicking him up the arse. 'Get the hell out of here,' I grunt and their hurried footsteps crunch over the broken glass of an unused bus shelter as they vanish into the derelict industrial estate. The boys applaud our rescuer as Emmi skips out of our headquarters in a flowery dress with an empty potato sack over her shoulder.
'I see Dynah had to come to your rescue again. Honestly Arturo, you wouldn't last two minutes if you didn't have a teenage girl to protect you.' Emmi bears weirdly white teeth.
'Hey, I have one hand.' I raise my plastic claw, tapping my left knuckles against the cast.
'We're about to head off to a farm to steal some food, what with our supplies running on empty and everything. According to the CUS map, the farm's nearly five miles away so this could take while, but it'll be worth it,' Emmi says.
'Actually, that's a good idea, but what in the underworld are you dressed up for? You'll get filthy!' I reply.
'Nooo, we're just going to pick some fruit and put it in Oscar's sack for him to carry home! We'll be fine,' Emmi insists.
'Okay, don't say I never told you so.'
Tying jumper around waist, I semi-circle the chainlink fence and approach the sliding doors of the squat entrance. Killow hangs his head, breathing sharply as we march past the grinning girls, who slept in Dynah's room last night for 'protection' and are now embarking on their ingeniously-devised excursion. Entering the hoard, I rummage for an empty sack and Killow gets back to prodding Ivor's innards as he does every day in a futile attempt to bring scrap iron to life.
'Try looking down there,' Killow mutters, pointing his screwdriver towards the rear tyre of the old banger where I uncover a sack beneath shredded binbags. As I hold oil-smeared hessian in my fingertips, petrochemical fumes make me grimace.
'Hardly the most hygienic food carrier, but it'll have to do. You coming or what?' I ask.
'No can do, I have to get this guy up and running. I've figured out the problem now… By this time tomorrow, Ivor will be resurrected and he'll perceive me as his God!' Killow replies.
'Well, you're gonna need a power supply first, genius. That last one we got is clearly fried. Get yer arse down to Bailey's to sort one out. I'm off now, see ya,' I reply.
With sack over shoulder, I leave the warehouse and a pouting Scoop brushes past me at the sliding doors, apparently offended by his own cowardice. Upon reaching the road, I shield my eyes to scan the industrial estate for my fellow trekkers. A howling comes from the jagged windows of an unoccupied building, but there is no time to greet any unapproved squatters so I hurry on. Lel twirls with her arms outstretched to bask in pink light as the gang trundle away without giving me a second thought.
'Hey slow down, I'm coming too!' I yell, stepping out the way of a motorcar spewing poison from its exhaust as it cruises along a mostly disused road, which bends until soon the impatient sods are out of sight. Increasing my pace, I feel both offended and quietly impressed by their unexpected resourcefulness. I catch up to the quartet, panting as I hear Emmi mid-sentence:
'...our own source of free food. We don't even have to steal it!' she says.
'You do realise it still counts as stealing if you take it from a farm?' I gasp.
'Not if we don't get caught!' Emmi grins.
'Better be careful though, the crops maybe genetically modified,' I adopt a stern tone.
'Getenically mofidied, what does that mean?' Emmi asks.
'It means they're dangerous. Their genes have been tampered with and sometimes they mutate,' I explain.
'If you ea-eat them they grow in your st-stomach and eat your insides!' Oscar elaborates.
'No way, you two are full of it.' Emmi frowns as seeds of mutant plants germinate in her mind to no doubt give her nightmares.
'If you don't believe us, just go online and search for GM crops when you're home. According to these green activists, they're one of the great evils of the world.' I smirk at the thought of one of many conspiracy sites 'confirming' our cowshit.
Factory smoke intermingles with the scent of thistles during our lengthy detour around the statue-mounted hill into parts where we so rarely venture. Countless midgie swarms prompt me to wear my jumper, slow-cooking my internal organs as we plod by civilians smart enough to be dressed in shorts and vests.
After a couple of painfully predictable hours of the girls complaining their feet hurt, we at last glimpse rows of vegetables through a boundary of bushes. Dresses are clicked by twigs as we breach a thin section of hedge to leap a ditch into a field of purple and yellow leaves with trees concealing the horizon. There is not a human nor tractor in sight and the boundless harvest means no-one could possibly notice if a handful of hungry orphans help themselves.
'Cabbages, disgusting,' Emmi says.
'Come on, there's an orchard over there… Dynah, we need to keep our eyes open. If a farmer sees us, he might shoot. If we see anyone we run, okay?' I instruct and Dynah nods her head in response.
Surrounded by easy pickings Oscar and I do not waste the opportunity to stock up our ration supply. Dirt clogs overgrown fingernails as we bend over to dig up a few carrots, bef
ore trundling after the shuddering girls. 'I guess beggars can be choosers!' I mutter.
Slowed by feet sinking into soil, it takes longer than expected to trudge across the farmer's field and sweat drips down our foreheads but Dynah bounces joyfully along, kicking up dirt as she points to a hot air balloon in the sky. The thought of coming food exacerbates my fatigue so I snack on a hairy carrot.
'Anyone want one?' I ask to frowns of revulsion from Emmi and Lel, but Dynah snatches a carrot from my hand and takes a bite, screwing her face. She places the half-eaten root vegetable back into my sack as the other girls giggle and we plod on towards tastier alternatives. Sprinklers form a sparkling mist through which Oscar and I jog, embracing the opportunity to cool down as the girls sneak around, presumably to avoid ruining their hair.
Our goal comes as a mouth-watering relief upon reaching trees bearing millions of jewels dangling in the sun, accompanied by the sound of songbirds. Eyes melt into the sea of chlorophyll flooding this man-made equivalent of the Edinnu Steppe where delicious treats, normally out of reach, are offered to us from the soil of Eryx.
'Wow, my happy place is real!' Lel skips past a red admiral butterfly.
'It certainly is, but we're here for practical purposes. Armed farmers are not to be messed with. We need to gather as much-'
'Stop lecturing us about what's practical, Dad! Loosen up... I can't see any farmers right now and what's the point of risking ya life, if you can't have fun doing it? Remember, we should live for the moment.' Lel parks her backside on untrimmed grass and grabs a fallen orange.
'Aye, you're right. Me and Dynah are more than capable of protecting you three and now that we're here…' I trail off, struck by a sudden craving for mischief.
'You mean Dynah is more than capable of protecting us, just like she protected you from being beaten up this morning! Ooh, time to eat,' Emmi suggests and as those words leave her mouth I snatch an orange from an over-burdened branch, tearing skin open to separate segments.
As the first piece bursts in my mouth, Dynah makes me chuckle by running from tree to tree as though her motor-functions have been overloaded by semi-natural surroundings. She is chased by a gooey-eyed Oscar who seems eager to flirt with the supergirl, but too shy to actually stammer something and when he grabs Dynah's arm she spins to face her admirer.
'Careful, I have powers!' Dynah warns and the love-struck fool backs off as his complexion turns even paler. 'I'm kidding, Oscar, I wouldn't hurt you!' The papery skin covering Oscar's cheekbones flushes pink as he hesitates, unsure whether to risk the supergirl unleashing an anti-nerd hurricane.
Emmi toddles over to an orange tree, jumping with arms at full stretch to reach through untrimmed branches for the lowest hanging jaffas. There are other trees nearby with citrus fruit within her grasp, but I feel no obligation to point this out.
'I can't reach,' Emmi pouts, before swinging her sack to bash a bough and oranges tumble down, thumping her forearms as they shield her body from a mild assault.
'Ouch!' Emmi shrieks, provoking Oscar and myself to shake the branches until more ripened produce tumbles down and my sister squeals in delight upon the realisation they do not hurt after all.
Golden globes thud and squelch into our sacks until mine is reasonably full so I rest on lumpy turf and continue to eat. The excess of tongue-stingingly sweet pulp makes my innards gargle as I watch Lel swing around a tree trunk bearing the stumps of sawn-off branches. Emmi bites into an unpeeled orange, spitting the skin out and wrinkling her brow as juice dribbles down her chin.
'You never had an orange before? We weren't peeling them for fun, ya know!' I laugh.
'Oh, I wondered why you were wasting it!' Emmi digs her fingers into orange peel as citric acid squirts into her eye. 'Oww, it stings!'
'Emmi's not allowed any more fruit. Health and safety reasons,' I remark.
'Look at the handsome chap who's come to serenade me,' Lel coos as she suspends construction of her daisy chain to point at a blue finch perched on a leafy branch with chest puffed and beak pointing skywards.
The songbird's sweet lullaby drifts along on the breeze as Oscar snatches an orange with a sinister grin on his face. Closing an eye, he stretches his arm back to throw the rubbery-skinned missile at his undeserving target. Lel watches in open-mouthed horror as his near miss brings the melody to an abrupt end, causing the visitor to flutter away.
'Hey, don't be so evil. You could've killed him and I was enjoying that!' Lel protests.
'L-look at that, it went halfway to Nyberu! S-see if you can throw one further, Arturo,' Oscar challenges and so I reach into a tuft of grass for a green-blemished orange, despite my physical disadvantage; surely even my left arm is capable of outmuscling this weakling.
My uninjured hand flings the projectile and as it thuds into a furrow at a pathetic distance, I glimpse sunhats bobbing at the end of the grove. Fortunately, rows of trees are providing us with just enough cover so long as none of the menial employees look in our precise direction.
'Shhh, guys get down.' Ducking low, I point towards the busy specks as their nets extend into branches. These fruit pickers may not pose a direct threat, but they could still raise the alarm and if an irate farmer identifies us fleeing over vegetable patches, his twitching gunsight may force us to ditch our sacks. 'I don't think they've seen us. Keep your heads down and move this way.'
'Why are we heading towards the barns?' Emmi snaps.
'Makes it easier to keep out of sight. Come on.' I beckon her with my hand.
'Arturo, that makes no sense. Let's head back.' Emmi stamps her mud-covered shoe.
'Not until they're gone. If they see us, we'll be in trouble. Farmers tend to have guns, we need to get out of sight.'
The Chicken Coup
Binocular vision scans for movement in the grove and then we abandon tree cover to traverse open ground towards a vast wooden barn. Animal snorts can be heard as spine and fingertips press against a scorching hot wall of sanded trunks and the gang form a tense line to my left. Sneaking to the corner I peer around at hay bales in steel clapboard shelters and 'unicorn' heads poking over worm-eaten stable doors.
'Come on, I think the yard is clear.' Breaking cover, I glance over troughs, gates and parked vehicles to ensure there is no sign of human presence.
'Arturo, have you completely lost your drug-ravaged mind? How is this way safer than the other way?' Emmi asks.
Disregarding the question, I sneak over dried mud to unlock barn doors by lifting a wooden beam then I wave my awestruck adherents and cranky sister over. We giggle as curiosity compels us to trespass into the least appropriate of hiding places and the stink makes nose hairs stand on end. Oscar closes doors behind us and faint light streaking through slits in the roof gives rafters a gentle glow. A mass of jerky movement clucks in obscurity and my holowatch highlights seeds scattered over the droppings at my feet.
'Chickens! Come on, let's catch one!' Emmi insists, instantly forgetting about the impending danger which led us into a giant birdcage.
Always one to seek endorsement, Oscar runs in zigzags and flaps his arms but despite thousands of potential victims, every chicken he targets remains out of reach. Slipping repeatedly in low-light, he dives out of sheer starvation and lays hands on a bird but it escapes with a feather-scattering flap of wings.
'He is like an ahem, headless chicken!' I say and the lasses wheeze with laughter. Masked by sawdust the would-be poacher dives again, wrestling to subdue a struggling chicken to cheers of mockery-tinged approval.
'Quick Emmi, open the s-sack,' Oscar gasps with arms wrapped around prey I was unsure he could overpower.
'Oscar, you'll be smeared in bird shit now. Should improve your smell!' I remark, provoking further laughter from the girls.
'You'll be happy enough to eat later so why don't you help him now, Arturo?' Emmi asks.
'Have you seen the size of those things? They're pumped full of steroids! And what am I supposed to do with a broken hand?'
>
Oscar stuffs the chicken into my sister's sack, provoking her into histrionic shrieks. Emmi holds furious contents at arm's length but her grip seems unlikely to thwart an escape attempt as the hessian prison bulges. The stammerer proceeds to capture another chicken, no more efficiently nor less amusingly than his previous effort. With the second fowl in my sack, I focus ears and place a finger over my lips. Gentle noises outside could be a figment of paranoia but they could equally be footsteps and the gang transform into hunched statues.
'What's all the commotion in the chicken coop then? I must've left the door open, better not be another bloody fox. Oh well, good job I have Mr Shot Gun to greet him.'
'Quick hide.' I scour the coup for anything resembling a hiding place and chicken wings brush against bent knees as we wade through indistinct tripping hazards to crouch behind one of several waist-height wooden protrusions. Barn doors creak open and a farmer strides inside, thrusting his shotgun towards the corners and stopping to roll sleeves of mudcaked overalls. As the farmer sighs I notice hay tangled into the visible half of his beard.
'I know you're hiding in here somewhere… And soon your carcass will be going in my meat grinder, along with the pigs.'
A swing of the farmer's wellington boot launches a chicken into the air and the noise is deafening as the brood scatter, leaping over one another to stay out of kicking distance. His double-barrelled shotgun spins in our direction so I retract my head and place my hand over Dynah's mouth to stifle her high-pitched murmuring.
'Aha, got you n... What the?'
Squatting calf-muscles tremble as I prepare to be held nose to twin-barrels but our gang's near detection is interrupted by a rattle and a crash, external neighing and the clomping of hooves.
'I can't have left the stables open as well. It's been a long day.'
A fatigued sigh is followed by garbled muttering and plodding footsteps of decreasing volume. Despite the shotgun risk I peek as the farmer trundles towards the exit of this vast barn, kicking another chicken twenty feet into the air. The light level drops as door hinges creak and with a shuffle and thud the anticipation of gunfire is swept away by a tsunami of relief.