Dom was accommodating, asking for and receiving permission to take Payton through the shelter, stopping to let Payton study the tablet when they came to the telephone booth, though he stayed nearby as Payton searched.
Payton’s heart leapt in his chest at seeing dozens of Zhangs listed there. No stone unturned.
Dom peered over his shoulder. “What are you after?”
Since he was at the shelter at Dom’s invitation, he answered, “Thought my friend might be listed but I was wrong.” Resisting the urge to steal the tablet to look up the addresses, he shut it down and allowed himself to be escorted through the place. It was getting closer to five and he should be heading over to the park to be there for the six o’clock meeting with Coru he knew already would never happen. It almost didn’t bother him anymore.
Dom wanted him to come, stay here, but Payton had heard the shelter was a dangerous place in itself. For now, he’d stick with his faithful Tree. It hadn’t knifed him in his sleep or stolen his pack, so far.
Dom was worried about winter and was going on and on about it as they went from room to room. Dom was trusted here and did some janitor work that ensured that he had a bed every night, no matter what. Today, he had winter on his mind.
So did Payton, frankly, having walked around in rain for several days now, but he was certain…okay, maybe less certain, than he had been. He was hoping to be done with this place long before winter arrived.
Payton stopped abruptly and turned toward Dom. “Look, what I want most is a job. Some way to earn some bucks to get myself out of this mess. Got any advice about jobs and I’m all ears.”
Dom grimaced and faced him. “The 64,000-dollar question.”
Payton frowned.
“It’s a saying…”
“Jobs?”
“Do you have a bank account where they can pay you? A social insurance number so they can pay your taxes? A Canadian birth certificate so they can issue you a social insurance number? A phone so they can call you in if they need you? Proof of address like a driver’s license or a bill that you got in the mail to get the bank account?”
An avalanche of terrible news. He glanced down at his own forearm, where all such things were recorded in his time inside a tiny chip. They were so backward here. Dom’s news was not the encouragement he’d been looking for.
He frowned. “They don’t make things easy, do they?”
“No.”
But then he thought again. All he needed was pieces of paper? They gave pieces of paper for ID?
Payton knew enough now to see what kept so many trapped down here, with no avenue out. Simple things like a bank account. Simple and unattainable. “Well, I’m done doing nothing, drifting from meal to meal. Where do I go for a social insurance number? Let’s start there.”
“You can apply on-line, at the library. They have open source internet there, free to the public, but you still have to pay the government for their troubles.” Dom grimaced, his teeth clenched. “Like everything else in life, it costs money, bud.”
“How much money?”
“Twenty at least?”
“Okay. I’ll get me twenty bucks.”
They fell into step and made their way back to the main entrance. Dom asked, his tone wary, “How will you make your twenty bucks?”
“I’ll walk the highway and pick up cans, return them to the recycling center.”
“It’s dangerous. Bum bashing is a national sport out there. You’re safer here, in the city.”
“But I’m locked in here. I have to start somewhere, and that’s where I’ll start. Come with me. We can climb out of this pit together.”
Dom wagged his head in regret. “Can’t give up my spot here at the shelter. I leave and someone else takes my place and no more steady bed for Dom Derrick.”
They paused by the front entrance door, still locked, the line-up of hopefuls already forming outside. Dom said, “Just wait a minute. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared down the hallway and after a moment, returned with a handful of dark green plastic garbage bags. “Here, you’ll need these to carry the returnables. Keep one for a rain coat. Poke a hole out the bottom for your head, one on each side for your arms. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”
Then he turned his back on the men gathering outside the door to keep his next move shielded from their searching eyes, pulled a small folded switch blade from his vest, and pressed it into Payton’s palm. “You’ll need this more than I will.”
“But what about you? How will you—.”
Dom held up his huge hands. “I’ve still got these babies, and they haven’t failed me yet.”
Payton looked at each hand as if he hadn’t really looked before and honestly, he hadn’t. All Dom had in the world were his two hands and his good heart. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll come show me your new social insurance number when you get one, kid.”
Payton looked at his friend, and yes, Dom was his friend. “How old are you Dom?”
Dom blinked in surprise. “Forty.”
Payton grinned. “You’re an old man!”
“And I hope to get a lot older.” Dom unlocked the glass doors and the men poured past them to the sign-in table. Dom’s and Payton’s eyes locked for a telling moment, then Payton nodded once and headed out to the streets. He knew exactly where to start.
He headed into the main Vancouver library and straight for the computers. He needed to look up the local obituaries and do it quickly. The place was hushed as libraries tend to be and was blessedly warm. Why hadn’t he thought of the library before? He might even find a quiet little corner to squirrel away in at closing and spend the night. It would be warm and quiet and safe. This could be his personal sweet spot. He was the King of Research, was he not? This had always been his playground and he’d been stupid not to recognize it until today.
Job one—since he did not exist, the logical first step was to steal identification that already existed. Someone who’d recently died would be a good start. He needed to find someone his age who’d recently died, get their address, school records, friends, contacts, PublicPage, and any other information he could gather about them. This would be how he’d get a birth certificate—which undoubtedly would cost him money as well—money he did not have but soon would.
There was a fire in his belly driving him now and he savored the burn.
He sat before a terminal and instantly realized this would take him hours. The system was archaic, but then—good news—the system was chockfull of security holes. It wouldn’t take long after all, once he found a path in, but he needed uninterrupted time. He glanced around, saw no one looking his way. Closing was in half an hour. Could he find a hiding place that fast?
Nah. He had to scope out the security measures first.
He returned the next day and watched and listened carefully to the staff, learned who the head librarian was and made sure to ghost after her. She would be the one to set the alarm, and he had to know her code. That’s how he learned the pesky business of motion sensors. Man, what were they protecting here, the crown jewels?
He spent the balance of the day observing the staff, the security guys, learning their sweeps. They were pretty predictable. At the closing hour, he saw a security guard walk up to a sleeping homeless man in one of the reading booths, kick his chair, and say, “Time to go. Closing time”. There was no animosity in the guard’s expression. It was just the truth, the guy had to leave.
Payton was about to leave, to come another day when he heard one of the librarians tell another, “Hey, where does Sheila keep her end of day codes?”
When another librarian sent her a warning stare, then marched stiffly over to a blotter and lifted it up for her to see a paper taped to the other side, his jaw dropped. Could it be this easy?
The next day, he came with Weazer and right on cue, Weazer fell to the floor and had a grand mal seizure. It was a spectacular performance.
By
the time it was over and Weazer came back to himself and it was suggested by the staff that he vacate the premises—their sympathy was fleeting at best—Payton had all the codes he needed.
That night, it turned out the staff was anxious to get home and gave the place only a cursory check over before they locked the doors. Score!
After stowing his pack behind a rolling cart loaded with books ready to be re-shelved, he ghosted ahead of the security guard, familiar with his routine. Once he was sure one area was now cleared and safe for him to return to, he laid his newly slender body along an empty bottom shelf of seldom borrowed reference books and laid there quietly. What was the worst they could do? Toss him out? He’d risk it—he was out there anyway. Hiding here risked him nothing.
After a few minutes, he heard the door lock slap into place. Rising up, he skirted the perimeter to the security panel and keyed in the disarm codes. That was it. He was now free to move about the library.
Going to the furthest back computer terminal, he fired it up and began searching through the obits. It wasn’t long before he had the names he needed. Always have a back-up plan.
Next, he searched the names, printing out stats and info as he found them, accumulating quite the file. Once he was satisfied he’d done all he could, he switched to creating a few free email addresses, one for each name.
Next, he went on the Canadian government website and requested a random replacement birth certificate, knowing his request would be denied until he had a way to pay for them, which was fine—he wanted to know just how much money he would need. After that, he requested information on the cost of obtaining a replacement Social Insurance Card.
Next, he learned how much it would cost to replacement a ‘lost’ B.C. Service Card, which anyone behind the wheel of a self-driven vehicle still needed. Why? It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense—he still needed one. It was an invaluable piece of ID here in WEN 2036. He’d have to wait until he’d secured that all-important birth certificate and social insurance number before he applied.
None of these things came cheap but they were all doable. Fees and taxes could slowly choke a person. No wonder people were driven to work, work, work. They had no choice! It never ended.
Okay. What did it cost to open a P.O. Box in this city and what kind of ID did he need? There’s where his new Social Insurance Card came in. This plan would take him months, but he had months in front of him in any case; why not use them wisely? That meant the Social Insurance Card had to be delivered to him at general delivery, then be used to gain the P.O. Box.
Oh—and he’d need a pay-as-you-go phone, the only option for someone on the street. Something cheap that could take pictures—selfies and other ridiculous images he would add to the PublicPage he intended to create to prove he had a pre-existing life here in Vancouver. The page would be free and was completely open to setting him up as a real live person who belonged here in WEN 2036. But he was getting ahead of himself.
Next step would be the B.C. Service Card, after which he could be opening a bank account, into which a potential employer could send his paycheck. Finally, he would apply for the completely necessary bank card to access that money and a credit card, to create a financial record for himself. These things were tiresome, but necessary here in WEN 2036. No tattoo on his head would gain him entrance here. No business would take payment through the digital pod embedded inside his forearm. It was clunky plastic all the way. He was good with that. He’d have to be.
All this would be driven by Payton walking the dangerous highway boulevards and picking up the cans and bottles drivers tossed out their windows as they drove back to their tidy homes in the suburbs after a long day in the city. With those bottles and cans, he would start a new life.
It was about as low as you could go to start, but it was something he could do—it was an outlet, and avenue of escape he would not ignore now that he knew of it. And it was legal.
There were dumpsters too, he realized, warming to his subject—the manner of his escape from the hell that was Vancouver, WEN 2036 shining before him. He could join the dumpster divers and gain returnables that way as well. Abruptly, Payton’s world was looking rosy. And it was only thousands of discarded cans away…
4
THREE MONTHS IN …
THE CLERK HANDED him four twenties, a ten, a five, and some change. “Good haul, Payton. You’re our number one recycler these days. How do you keep up?”
Payton rubbed at his head through his wet wool hat and flashed her a weary smile. “Motivation is a wonderful thing, Trudy.”
“I guess.” Her answering smile was sad. “I wish you the best in whatever dream you’re chasing. You deserve it.”
He tucked the bills under his plastic raincoat and into the folds of his damp clothes and dropped the change into his pocket. Today, he’d bus it back into city center. His feet were on fire. “Thanks, Trudy. See you tomorrow.”
Stepping back outside the return depot, he squinted, glanced around. He’d finished early today because of the rain and it looked to be around four. If he was picked up on the number 12 bus, he could meet Dom and Weazer at the Cambie soup kitchen as planned and chew the fat. Literally.
Where did they come up with the mystery meat they presented to the men as chili on Tuesdays? It wouldn’t kill a guy but would certainly take him to his grave sooner.
Then he’d head back to Tree, where he’d rigged a camo tarp roof to keep him dry while up there. He’d lashed several planks he’d pried off a few back-alley pallets to create a platform for himself and had two thick wool blankets he’d liberated from a couple of sidewalk stiffs just before the meat wagon collected their sad remains. After hand-scrubbing the wool blankets in the park’s public washrooms, he’d stowed them up in Tree inside plastic to keep them dry. Yes, they were old and not perfect, but with a clean wool blanket under his warming cloak, he was downright toasty up in Tree these days, ready for pretty much anything nature threw his way.
Maybe not winter ready, but certainly comfortable enough to wait out stormy weather. He had food and water too, for when the weather was so bad he couldn’t collect cans. He had a couple of second-hand paperback books, also wrapped in plastic, along with his backpack, to read on those rare days off. Out here, in the real world, plastic was your friend.
He was doing all right.
Walking through town, or even in the park in the evenings, didn’t bother him anymore. He’d gained a reputation through the necessary brawling that happened when you were young, male, and alone. He lost some confrontations, but he won more, and now he was mostly left alone, which suited him. He was not looking to make friends.
If this rain kept up, he’d hike over to the post office tomorrow and check to see if his Social Insurance Card had come in by General Delivery yet. He was so close to opening that P.O. Box and then the bank account—he could almost taste it.
He pulled his hat further down his forehead to keep the rain from running into his eyes and stepped back into the deluge, trudging up to the bus stop two blocks away in his too-big gumboots—best two bucks he’d ever spent at the Good Will Store. They weren’t comfortable, since they weren’t strictly his size, but they kept his feet dry and that counted for everything.
A fist plowed into his face from the side, a thunderous crunch out of nowhere, knocking him to his knees. Lights burst before his eyes; he saw nothing. Before he could recover fists and boots rained down on him, knocking him flat and keeping him there. There seemed to be three of them, though he couldn’t tell from here on the ground, the rain pouring down, blinding him to the assault. His only defense was to curl into a ball and protect his head and outlast them; until they grew tired. It wasn’t the best defense, but it was a defense. A wicked thud to his head clapped through his brain. Black out.
When he came too, it was dark, he was lying on his back behind a dumpster, alone, and it was still pissing down rain.
He rolled to his side with a brief low groan that sounded stran
ge to his own ears and slowly drew his knees up to his chest, aware he lay in a puddle of rainwater a few inches deep but unable to change that fact. God. Everything… everything hurt. Taking in quick shallow gasps, it took an eternity for the pain of moving to subside. His face was on fire. Still panting like a dog, he tested his limbs. They protested his command, but he could move them. Thank God they weren’t broken. His ribs were another thing. If they weren’t broken, they were at least cracked or dislocated—something horribly painful that stabbed at him with his every breath. Not good.
Tentatively he worked his jaw while trying to avoid drinking in the dirty water in which he lay. Man, that hurt, but miraculously, also not broken.
He spit out a tooth along with chunks of clotted blood, heard it plunk into the puddle. It was a molar from the left side of his mouth, leaving one hell of a hole. First one he’d lost—he’d been lucky so far—not so lucky tonight. He was now officially a member of the Weazer club—one tooth down, twenty-seven to go. He rose to his feet, hissing in protest, his right arm hanging useless. He blinked water from his vision, swaying, and looked around. They’d dragged him only a few feet from the street, which was deserted. He could see the bus stop from here.
He fumbled at his pocket with his left hand, what he’d consider his good hand, and was relieved to find he still had the loose change, then felt inside his plastic rain coat, torn to pieces, confirming they’d taken all his cash from today’s haul. He could kiss the pay-as-you-go phone goodbye—and he’d been so freaking close.
This was on him—he hadn’t been watching out.
He’d been tired and had grown complacent, checking into the same depot with his cans every day, like clockwork. He’d set himself up.
He risked a step toward the street, then another. Encouraged he was still standing, he staggered toward the bus stop, his senses fading in and out, aware his path wandered, and fighting to straighten it. When he finally reached the stop, he sagged with his less injured left side against the sign post to stay upright and waited. There was no way he’d make it back home on foot, and no way he’d be able to climb Tree. Even climbing inside a dumpster would be impossible. If he didn’t get off the streets tonight, he’d just received a death sentence. For the first time, he needed help. Real help.
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 5