HE STUNK. He knew it; anyone who dared come near him knew it. Surprise, surprise, bald homeless kid smelled bad.
It was simply a fact of life he had to accept. Yes, he slipped into the Stanley Park public washrooms with a different garment each day, ran the icy water, pumped liquid soap from the dispenser when there was some, onto the garment and scrubbed it hard and fast. This was necessary as he was not the first to come up with this solution and the public washrooms were monitored closely. He’d then make an attempt at a quick wash for himself, if time allowed. He didn’t care if the water was cold. It was clean, and it was not sea water, there was soap most of the time, and that’s all that mattered.
Once back out in the park, he’d drape the newly washed garment on a tree branch and hope for a warm breeze to dry it quickly. He’d keep a close eye on it as he ate whatever he’d pilfered from the soup kitchen. This he’d learned at a high price—losing a valuable warm sweater to a thief when he’d accidently fallen asleep due to pure exhaustion. Sleeping in trees was not as relaxing as one might imagine.
The good news—if you could consider this good news—was he was dropping his chubby look at breakneck speed, and tree climbing was an excellent body-building endeavor. It was amazing what circumstance and outright fear could do to personal motivations.
He stunk, but he was leaner and stronger than he’d ever been, and he now knew the inner city very well.
Coru had never shown up—naturally—that would have been something good, which apparently was not to be bestowed on the lowly Payton Wisla while he remained here in WEN 2036. That would be too easy.
Instead, a dark cloud travelled over Payton’s head, blocking out good fortune at its first glimmer and at every turn—Payton couldn’t catch a break.
Finding a ten-dollar bill on the sidewalk earned him a beating on day three. Falling asleep in the park cost him a sweater on day six. Helping a little girl who had fallen in the park got him a scowl from her father and a rough escort from the park by security on day twelve. Staying too late in the city had forced him to spend a night hiding inside a dumpster, quaking at every sound, much of which turned out to be the rats hiding in there with him. Standing in line behind two men who broke into a heated argument about cats that quickly escalated into a fist fight resulted in Payton receiving a ban from that soup kitchen’s breakfast for the balance of the month along with the offenders. Now, if he wanted to eat, he was forced to hike ten blocks for breakfast every morning, through hostile territory fiercely guarded by street gangs and possessive cops. He’d found looking as mean as possible and stomping through each territory rather than scurrying was often enough to get him a pass.
The fact was, he didn’t just want to eat—he needed to eat. Staying on the move required many calories, calories he was having a difficult time replacing; this eating was proving to be a freaking full-time job in itself.
“Move along,” was the beat cops’ mantra. “Move along.”
There was a reason the homeless were skinny, sick and tired. The street took everything out of them just getting through the day and Payton was no exception. Everything he touched turned to crap, no matter his intention. Vancouver did not like its homeless and seemed bent on killing them off as quickly as possible, stopping just short of gathering them up and outright shooting them.
No, the city waited ‘til life killed them off, then, one by one, gathered up the bodies in a silent, unmarked meat wagon.
He’d gone over his and Coru’s departure in his head for many nights while tied to Tree and had stumbled over that one look his brother had given him as he’d packed up his weapons. It had been a speculative look, one Payton had assumed was his older, stronger, and more capable brother wondering if Payton had the stones to pull this mission off. But upon re-examination, Payton had come to believe even then his brother was planning on ditching him as soon as he arrived in WEN 2036.
There had been no meeting of the brothers, though Payton risked returning to Waights’ beat every day to be at the Bore entrance at one o’clock, as promised. He’d been rewarded on more than one occasion with a well-aimed whack of Waights’ billy club as he made his escape. Another motivator, that billy club. Payton could move like lightning now. He was slimmer, stronger, and faster.
Payton had tried numerous times to re-enter the Bore and was rejected at every turn—there was no going back. Why? Because two men had entered in WEN 2341 and there had to be two men for the return trip? Because their mission was not complete? Because the Bore was well and truly broken now? Because there was no longer a future to return to?
The possibilities were all disastrous.
All answers pointed to Payton remaining here in this hell hole.
Payton could complain, and complain plenty, but he kept it to himself. Who would listen? Nobody, that’s who. Everyone around him was in the same boat, everyone with their tragic story of a family illness that took every last dollar, the marriage that failed spectacularly, the mental illness gone untreated, the job loss that led to home and family disintegration. Then there were the ever popular: the work injury that made them unemployable, the opioid pain meds that led to addiction and ruin, the criminal record that followed them relentlessly down into the gutter. It was a one-way ticket to homelessness, no returnsies.
Plus, his story was completely unbelievable. Why attempt it?
So, he lined up dutifully with all the other homeless for a meal three times a day, his expression properly tragic while he seethed inside. He was a Wisla! Wisla’s don’t come hat-in-hand, Wisla’s come with power; Wisla’s were the givers, when it suited them, if the cause was worthy.
Keeping semi-clean, scouring the city for messages from his brother in answer to his own, showing up in the alley at one and the park at six every day, finding food, staying on the move to avoid the cops, and tying himself to Tree every night to sleep in relative safety ate up a great deal of his time.
Every day illustrated buses passed him by—he had no ticket to ride—and he watched their broad sides pass with idealized scenes of the Vancouver in which the entitled lived, played, and thrived pasted to them.
Yeah, right.
This was not the true city, he now knew. Vancouver had its glitzy, clean, happy face, but under it all was a core of corruption, where everything was greased with cash, drugs or influence, none of which Payton possessed.
He’d yet to rise above the street level to the “third story” level of society, though he knew that’s where he needed to be. He had no currency, no phone, no transportation beyond his own two feet, and nothing of value to trade to get these things. Most important, he had no connections. He needed a hand-up, someone to get him started. Once there, he’d work his tail off to make the connections he needed to find Charles and Wren Wood and to find and stop Zhang. Perhaps then he could reenter the Bore and return home.
Down here, on the dark and gritty streets, he had no power.
A flicker of anger had been ignited inside his heart, and it glowed more brightly with each passing day without Coru making himself known. Payton had no other conclusion to make. He’d been abandoned. Nice!
He’d learned not to carry his backpack and all his precious belongings with him while in the city. It was the only reason he still owned them. He learned to stop and go another way when he saw a group of street people ahead of him, if he was lucky enough to see them in time. He’d learned early on to clench his stomach muscles when he saw a punch coming his way, if he was lucky enough to see it in time. He learned fingerless gloves protected your knuckles when you hit back, if you were lucky enough to hit back… He learned keeping his thoughts to himself was imperative to his well-being.
He learned dumpster diving was a fine skill to have, and he learned where the best dumpsters were, and soon enough, how to protect them from others.
He learned a dirty, half eaten apple was still half an apple, that a wrapper containing the last three bites of a burger was still three bites of a burger. He learned to eat
as much as possible at all opportunities. The next meal was never assured.
Soup kitchens can run out of food, street people can block your passage.
He’d stopped fussing over the cuts and bruises that always covered his body now; he’d even stopped his transitory nightly habit of counting them when he climbed back up into Tree. Why bother? There was no one to sympathize.
His daily injuries became part of the landscape, the same as the dirt he could never quite break free from.
He’d met up with Weazer and Dom a few times now, sometimes together, most times on their own. Yes, Dom and Weazer were friends, but they weren’t fast friends. They knew and trusted one another, as far as you could trust another homeless person scratching out an existence on the streets. Down here you started to recognize faces, learned who was safe and who to stay clear of. Looking back, he knew now that he’d been incredibly fortunate to stumble into first Weazer, then Dom when he’d arrived. Some of the alternative personalities would have stuck him with a blade the moment he plummeted to the earth, no questions asked, just for his backpack and clean clothes.
“Moving along”, as always, pleasing the local beat cops and “keeping his nose clean” as they all liked to remind him.
“What’s with the nose fetish?” he wanted to ask the cops, but of course kept his lip buttoned. Never a good thing to antagonize a beat cop, no matter how stupid the guy was.
Several days ago, while coming along Water Street, he spied Weazer, backed into a corner by two young punks having themselves a good time “Bum Bashing” the old guy. No stupid cop in sight, naturally. Poor Weazer didn’t stand a chance. He was already bleeding from a cut over his eye and from the corner of his mouth, and he was struggling to breathe, his asthma kicking in at the most inopportune time, as such things so often do.
Payton probably didn’t stand much better of a chance than Weazer, what with the years he’d whiled away studying the histories instead of working to build his strength, like Coru had done, but what the hell—it was Friday—he guessed—and he wasn’t about to let this happen. At least he could breathe in the nasty late-day exhaust fumes currently standing in as atmosphere with two healthy lungs. Plus, he could climb trees like a monkey. The skills you accumulate during your lifetime.
A good offense was a good defense they were always saying—whoever “they” were. Before he could change his mind, he raised his hands in protest and waded in with his best twenty-first century jargon. “Hey, hey, hey! Whatcha doing to my guy here?”
The two punks reeled toward him, panting from their heroic efforts.
“What’s it to ya?” The taller of the two demanded, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Seriously, man? You’re breaking a sweat beating up an old guy …even with help?”
The punk blinked in surprise at his words and glanced at his companion doubtfully, looking for direction from who Payton guessed was the brains of this outfit. His was not the behavior they expected of a homeless guy. The homeless made their way quietly, tried not to draw attention.
“Pathetic.” Payton strutted forward, looking them up and down with a sneer and settling on the taller one, the weak link. “And I see you also need permission to speak. Your boy got you on the short leash? Sad, I tell ya, just freaking sad.”
The shorter punk narrowed his eyes and raised his fists, hunkering down to spread some of his skilled attention Payton’s way. Tall punk followed suit. Resisting the need to match his stance to defend himself, Payton laughed, his arms relaxed at his sides. “Wait ‘til the guys see you two bozos. I knew sweeping the neighborhood early tonight would pay off.” He motioned Weazer to his side. “Hey, Weazer, Dom’s got his two cousins in from Detroit. We’re giving them the tour before tonight’s fight.”
Weazer scurried behind Payton.
Short Punk sneered. “There’s no fight tonight. You’re bluffing.”
Payton laughed again. “This ain’t no fight you two losers would know about. This is the real deal, invitation only, the underground matches that happen between real fighters, not your punk-assed street sideshow.”
He turned to Weazer, grabbed his chin and jerked his head from side to side, looking over the damage with a critical eye before turning to face the two punks. He allowed his expression to morph into angry before their frightened eyes, the expression he’d been perfecting as he strode through gang territory. Their reaction was priceless. This was fun. Bullies really were cowards.
He addressed Weazer in an exaggerated stage whisper, “What da’ ya’ say, Weazer? Should I take care of this myself, or let Dom take care of these guys for ya? You know how he hates to miss the warm-up action. He just stopped to pick up a bottle, should be here in—.”
The two took off running.
Weazer and Payton stood watching them go. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Payton murmured. “Talked myself out of trouble.”
Once the punks were out of sight Weazer and Payton fell into one another’s arms laughing.
Weazer pulled away, gasping, and wiped at his tearing eyes. “Don’t make me laugh! I gotta catch my breath, dammit!”
“I’m sorry if I was a little rough. All in the name of a good bluff.”
“It worked, didn’t it? You’ve come a long way in a short time, kid. You’re all right.”
Payton motioned Weazer to walk along with him down Cambie Street. Move along. “You heading into the soup kitchen? I hear it’s Beef and Barley tonight, with apple crisp for dessert.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Weazer answered, swiping at his battered face with a rag he’d produced from somewhere in the folds of clothing he wore, his expression relieved and happy.
Payton liked that phrase, “Sounds like a plan”. It suited his frame of mind these days. It was time he came up with a plan himself. He was tired of waiting for life to happen to him. He wanted to jump on top of life and squeeze every drop of it dry. That started with why he was here in the first place. His mission to find and stop Zhang. Failing that, he had to find and secure Charles and Wren Wood.
Yeah, because famous scientists and their teenage daughters stopped and listened to smelly bums all the time. Still, the incident with the two bullies was a turning point for Payton, his “why me” period abruptly over.
This coming week he’d spend a good amount of time tracking down Zhang.
HIKING FARTHER AFIELD, miles and miles farther along River Road that took him across the bridge—two days there, two days back—and he found himself gazing up at the locked entrance of Zhang Corporations gated premises and feeling like an idiot. Of course, it would be locked. And there were cameras everywhere, and likely an alarm system so no climbing the fence or breaking in. It also meant Zhang had arrived long before WEN 2036. All this had taken time to set up.
He grudgingly admired what Zhang had drawn around himself, even while he resented it. It’s what he would do in this situation—protect himself and his new life with every safeguard he could.
With each passing day, the truth was being pounded further into Payton’s brain: He’d never be taken seriously until he made changes in his appearance, his station in life, his fortunes. Money rubbed shoulders with other money. If he wanted to get to Zhang, he needed money. He had to look and act like Zhang.
But how? He wanted to cry with frustration. He couldn’t even buy himself a damned cup of coffee or a newspaper and read what the hell was going on in the world around him. For all he knew, there could be an asteroid bearing down on them this very moment with only three days of viable life left here on Earth, but he’d never know it. Well, he knew it wasn’t happening, since he knew the future, but still! He was so completely out of the day-to-day loop, he had no hope of getting close enough to Zhang to…
Here’s where he always tripped up. Once the hurdle of getting to Zhang was breached, what then? He turned away from the possible scenarios.
He needed cash. What was he willing to do, what law would he be willing to break to get some?
There
was always drug running.
Glenn Gibbons, one of the half dozen local drug lords had offered him an entry level position as a runner—his organization thought Payton’s baby face would give him a pass. Promises had been made about rising through the ranks if Payton kept his fingers off the merchandise. He was smart enough to know once he walked through that door, he’d never walk back out.
Payton also spent some quality time down at the shipyards, wandering the docks, looking over the industry happening there, having been drawn by a tanker in the bay that read Zhang Corporation as it headed up the Fraser River. He was looking for the owner, the parent company, maybe even an employee willing to speak to him. But no one looked at him, beyond yelling at him to get out; he was run off by security as an undesirable. Not a surprise.
But he did come away with information. Judging from the new paint, signage, security uniforms, pavement, sidewalks, office buildings, new containers, fresh lumber along walkways and gang planks—this was a new venture. Of course, all this could be new in the course of an established company’s lifetime, but everything new at once? No.
Zhang Corporation was a relatively new company, and a rich one at that, big into import and export. It wasn’t much information, but he’d lost track of time and mistakenly come on a Saturday, when several of the offices were closed for the weekend. He’d have to go again during the week and see what he could scare up then. Ack. That long trek once again…
And he’d have to look better, fit in better.
Cash.
PAYTON NEEDED access to the Homeless shelter’s phone, so asked Dom to give him the tour during off hours at the shelter, telling Dom he was finally ready to consider the shelter.
Seeing the name Zhang by chance on the side of a barge in the bay was not the best way to research Zhang. He needed to see public records of some sort and knew the shelter had a phone and records of phone numbers. He’d start with the phone-guide tablet that was locked beside the “One call only” phone in the homeless shelter.
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 4