Barrington sank to his knees. His hands scrapped the side of the girl he'd half-carried through the gate. Mud streaked her clothes. She shivered. Her white blouse clung to her flesh, outlining the contours of her small breasts and boney shoulders and thin flanks. She sobbed. She clenched her fists. She stood glaring at the tall fence. The gate closed, squeaking on its hinges, so loud that its protests could be heard even above the whimpering and curses and cries of the crowd.
"Get a good look!" the girl screamed at Barrington. "I'm a mess. Look at me. A mess."
Barrington stood and peeled off his overalls, keeping his eyes on the girl as though that would stop her from running off. She needed help. He wanted to help. Helping someone made his personal tragedy less damning. He gave her his one-piece work suit.
"It won't fit," she said.
"Just throw it over yourself. Your shirt's soaked through. You look like a drowned cat."
She smiled. The gesture brightened her dour face. Her eyes twinkled, the blue in them flecked with gold that sparkled. Barrington thought he heard a mumbled, "Thank you."
He introduced himself.
She said, "Thank you, Paul Barrington."
He waited for her to say her name. He wanted to identify her, to think of her as something other than the wet and angry young woman shivering despite the afternoon heat. Finally, she said, "Jeri Gunn."
"They got you right after work?"
Jeri looked down at her soaked blouse, smoothed her skirt with her hands. "I just started the job last month. I should've listened to Dad and done an extended year at school. Now what do I do?" She looked at their surroundings, shook her head, sank to her knees. She draped Barrington's overalls across her chest, down her slim back, the legs portions of the overalls across her shoulders.
Shouts reached them from a line of pushcarts stationed near a row of tents with signs on posts outside their flap-covered doorways. One signs read "Latrine" and another, "Legal Aid." A burly figure wandered nearby, zigzag fashion, and calling, "Muckers needed. Always need muckers. Good pay." Men and women at the pushcarts hawked their wares in strained voices. Barrington led Jeri to a cart piled high with blankets and capes, both made from remnants of old clothes.
"You need solids, fella," the woman behind the cart grumbled. "You got solids?"
Barrington stared at her, confused.
The woman lifted one arm, the cape across her shoulders falling away from her ample body, revealing a simple blue cloth across her sagging breasts, her wrinkled and flabby skin pock-marked with purple bruises.
"Over that way," she said, pointing at one of the tents. A sign read, "Mickey's Exchange." Then she opened her other hand. Barrington looked at the disks in her palm, each marked with a cartoon-like bug-eyed creature with tusks protruding from the corners of its wide mouth, its nose two dark dots and its ears pointed.
"Ogres," Barrington said, breathing out the word.
"Smart boy. Get yourself some solids if you wanna deal around here."
Jeri tugged on Barrington's shirt. "What're those?"
He sucked in a deep breath. This girl needed more than just lessons in how to survive Outside. Obviously sheltered by her parents, she needed lessons in life. He wanted to hold her, hug her close, explain everything in a rush of words.
She pulled away. Arms swinging, she tramped towards the tent advertising itself as an "Exchange."
"Whatever they are, if we need something we better get it."
#
For a youngster recently turned 21-years-old, Jeri Gunn had a hefty bank account, Barrington learned when he went with her to the Exchange. V-Rings pictured on tall stakes graphically depicted her worth. Bitters, the municipal's own currency, showed up as thick circles numbered as to their value. The round-faced man who'd come to his side of the long counter to serve them whistled when he looked at her All-Pod.
All along the counter, new arrivals conducted their business in whispers with the Exchange workers, all of whom wore red-and-white checked shirts and white-striped black pants. Known as "checkers," these men and women kept up a steady stream of chatter as they measured values and worth, along with Outside-smarts and maturity of their patrons.
Barrington suspected the checkers worked different deals with everybody. There were no posted exchange rates, no list of interest taken for different currencies. The checkers engaged in whispers with their customers as they bargained.
"That's 800 ogres per 500 V-Rings," the checker said, his round face wet with sweat, his furrowed brow making him seem studious and sincere. "We don't take no bitters here."
"Who does?" Barrington asked.
The checker shrugged his shoulders, his thick lips turned down, eyes half-closed.
"It's 3 ogres per V-Ring where I come from," Barrington said.
The checker laughed. "And you ain't there now, now are you? You're Outside. You ain't finding no other exchange around here. You gotta go all the way to Lakeshore -- " He pointed over his shoulder in a generally eastern direction. "That's the next official exchange with a link-up to the city info-grid. No other way to read your All-Pod, you see."
"I'll take 800," Jeri said. She shot Barrington a look with her lively blue eyes that seemed suddenly cold and harsh. "I'm hungry. I want some decent clothes. I don't care what the rate is back home."
"Authorize," the checker said, and turned the All-Pod display so Jeri could study it. She bent towards the screen, right eye wide open, her fingertip on her upper lid. A soft red flash indicated an iris read and the checker handed back her All-Pod, a look of smug satisfaction on his round face.
The lights on the pole lamps scattered around the large tent's cool interior flickered. A printer squealed to life and the checker stepped away from the counter. He returned seconds later with eight Mylar strips. Perforations separated the hundred printed ogres on each strip. The "Head" side showed the cartoon monster and "Tails" contained a GR code of squiggles and dots and thick bars to denote the banking agency that issued the currency. Ogres were "Off-Grid," but official nonetheless..
"And you?" the checker said, nudging Barrington with a jabbing finger.
"Don't bother," Jeri said. "I got enough for both of us."
"I can pay my way," Barrington said, though he decided to take Jeri up on her offer.
"Help me get a message to my dad. Or get out of this mess. Or something. I'll buy us a meal tonight."
"And a place to sleep?" Barrington asked.
"Yeah. Well. Whatever." She sauntered off. Barrington followed after her, out of the dimly lit tent, back into the foggy afternoon air. He caught up to her at a table full of neatly piled-high clothing. A patched overhead awning blocked what little light penetrated the fog.
Jeri sorted through the trousers, jackets and shirts. Everything, old. Everything, patched. Everything giving off an odd odor that Barrington couldn't identify. Nearby, a man marched back and forth, calling out, "Muckers wanted."
The skinny old woman behind the piles of clothing chuckled and held up denim overalls and boots made from recycled rubber. "You be doing some muckin', you'll want these."
"What's mucking?" Jeri asked. She pulled a thin brown shirt close, seemed to eye it for a correct fit.
"Digging out the shit in the latrines," the old woman said. "Whatcha think?"
"Why?" Barrington asked.
The old woman shook her head. "There's a waste recycler up on the other side of the river, up north a-ways. How do you think they get the diesel for those trucks."
"What trucks?" Barrington couldn't help but ask.
"You don't know nothing about Outside, do you, kid?" The old woman shook her head.
"I'll take these pants and this shirt."
"Fifty ogres."
"Fifty?" Barrington repeated. "They're -- rags."
The old woman shrugged, but Jeri didn't object to the price. She counted out fifty Mylar ogres from a strip of one hundred. The old woman kept a grip on the pants and shirt until Jeri handed over the money.
"You'll need these, too," the old woman said, and tossed a pair of rugged rubber clogs onto the counter. "And this for carrying your old stuff and whatever else ya got." She slapped a brown fuzzy blanket atop the table. "Roll your stuff up inside it."
Jeri purchased the shoes and blanket for another forty ogres, rolled her high heels, blouse and skirt inside the blanket and cocked her head at Barrington as a signal that he should follow. He folded the overalls he'd given her earlier under one arm and they walked to an open-air eatery with long wooden tables and benches made from tree trunks sliced lengthwise. Several girls walked around serving stew from leather buckets, filling small wooden bowls.
Barrington got the attention of one of the servers. She waddled towards him, past a crowded table where a woman sat making her brood of five children share one bowl, forcibly moving it from one toddler to another, wetting her finger with stew to let the baby in her arms have a taste.
"Twenty ogres a bowl," the server said, her voice as gruff as her demeanor, the blonde hair spiking out the back of her triangular cap adding to her monstrous look. "Another ogre for a spoon. You can keep the spoon. You'll need it."
Jeri paid for the stew and the spoons. The serving girl moved on, wide hips undulating as thought showing off her bulk.
"It's all inflated here," someone said. A thin man in a long off-white shirt squatted at the end of the table waved his scrawny hands at the bowls of stew. "Farther you get from Lakeshore, the worst it is. The worst."
"I notice," Barrington said, exhaling the word. He sipped the stew. Hot. Welcoming. All vegetable. Brown and thick and with a spicy aftertaste.
"You're new-ills," the stranger said. "Buy me a bowl. I'll give you a few tips. What you need to know." He pulled a wooden spoon from a pocket. Jeri waved to the heavyset server.
The stranger quickly slipped onto the bench, pressed close to Jeri. She stood and moved to the other side of the table.
"Ain't gonna hurt you, kid," the stranger said. He grinned, which offset his close-set features so he didn't look so hawkish. His dark eyes darted from Jeri to Barrington.
"Got yourself a customer, Clips?" the server said, and set a full bowl of stew on the table. She turned to Barrington. "Some advice."
Barrington waited. Jeri piped up. "What? Don't trust him?"
The server shook her head. "Listen close. Clips knows what he talks about."
"See," Clips said. "Ain't here to put you wrong." He slurped the stew, spooning it quickly into his mouth, his tongue gliding across the edge of the bowl to catch every drop. He didn't finish all of it, as though he wanted to savor the last smear at the bottom of the bowl.
"Okay," Barrington said. "Let's hear our 20 ogres worth."
"Like I said, everything here is inflated. This is two ogres max any place in Lakeshore."
"You said that."
"So get yourselves out of here," Clips said. He breathed heavily. "I wore the hell out of my pants. Can't afford new ones. Look what I'm wearing."
"The server knows you," Barrington said. "If everything's so expensive, why are you hanging around?"
"Ain't no new-ills -- new exiles -- except at these exit depots." Clips pointed in the direction of the fence, the enclosed Ready Zone empty now. No exiles huddling in the open. No water tankers or helmeted guards. No police at the locked gate.
"What if we want to go south instead of east?" Barrington asked, thinking of Dell's birth mother, Rita, and the sprawling housing complex where she lived. A lawyer, Rita might help him get a city job again or represent him because his right to a forty-five day grace period had been denied. The municipality would claim it was an administrative glitch, but Barrington suspected everyone suddenly expelled from the city was deliberately abused.
"West Wilds?" Clips said. He shrugged, his boney shoulders straining against the fabric of his shirt. "Don't walk it, that's my advice. Too many gangs between here and there."
"How far?" Jeri asked.
"Get to Lakeshore," Clips said. "There's a bus line. Lots of bus lines, for that matter. Going south and east and north and west. Going all over, if that's what you want to do."
"How far if we walked it?" Barrington said, following up on Jeri's query.
Clips seemed to muse about his answer before saying, "Twenty-five miles. About."
"Buses?" Jeri echoed, eyes narrowed to accentuate her incredulous tone-of-voice.
"Some diesel. Some mule-drawn. Cycle powered types for a few passengers at a time. Ain't a city tram, kid, but better than walking. You pay for the guards, of course, so it ain't cheap, either."
"Where do we get a bus or something to Lakeshore?"
"You can walk it in less than a day. But get stared now." Clips looked sideways at the sky, as though accessing the time of day. "Don't be out there after dark. Better yet, sign up with a jobber. Mucking. Driver if you know how to work a truck or something. Or fisher. They're always looking for help on the tenders bringing fish back to market. Get a job and you get paid, get transport to Lakeshore, and even a put-up -- a place to stay at night. That's my advice. Which is what you paid for."
Clips finished his stew and rose from the bench, his bare legs moving and giving Barrington a quick flash of dark hair between his upper thighs. Jeri turned away from the sight. The skinny man laughed, licked his spoon clean, pocketed it, and started to walk away. He stopped, a hand on the edge of the table.
"Watch out for them kind," he whispered, and flicked a nod of his head in the direction of two newcomers who'd sauntered into the eatery. Wooden clubs dangled from their belts. White shirts and dark brown pants served as their uniform. Dressed alike, from thick-soled boots to round and brimless, high-crowned hats, the pair stood out.
"Police?" Barrington asked.
"They think so," Clips said. "Just don't cross them. If you need their help, you'll have to pay. That's how they get by. If they want to escort you away from the depot, make sure you set a price beforehand. Got that?" He looked from Barrington to Jeri, as though needing to elicit a response.
Jeri swallowed, her small face turning white.
"It's important," Clips said. "What I just said." He walked away, turning from the direction he'd originally been headed so he didn't encounter the police, who stood chatting with a dark-skinned woman standing next to a huge cauldron atop an iron mesh. Coal burned in a pit beneath. A kid pedaled a fan that blew the smoke away from the enclosed eatery.
"You think you can walk to Lakeshore?" Barrington asked Jeri.
"I don't know. How far?"
Barrington wondered about that. He wished he'd asked the skinny stranger, Clips. "Finish up," he said.
"I did."
"Let's get out of here." Barrington stood, extended a hand, which Jeri clasped, and he squeezed her fingers tight as they walked away.
#
"We don't need to take jobs," Jeri said. "I've got plenty. It'll last. When it's gone, then we can think about work. But I don't want to go mucking." She shivered, her small head shaking and her long blonde hair galloping about her shoulders.
Jobbers walked nearby, each of them holding a sign showing what enterprise they represented. A few stood at makeshift kiosks papered with posters announcing positions in different occupations. Barrington stopped to glance at a few, in spite of Jeri's high spirits and willingness to share her largess. Eventually, her wealth would run dry. He needed to know in advance whether his skills meant anything Outside. He didn't see anything, but he hoped Lakeshore or its vicinity had need of someone who could test circuit boards or make repairs to old-fashioned electric devices.
They walked in the middle of a rutted street, the asphalt torn up in so many places that driving here would be impossible. Torn down houses line
d the mutilated sidewalks. In places, hardly any remnant of an old home remained, with just a line of bricks or a set of cement steps marking where the structure once stood. A few houses remained intact, except for front porches or facades. Many had canvas flaps across the front. A few had basements and sub-basements with newly constructed wooden staircases.
People lounged outside the buildings. They sat on canvas chairs or benches made of smoothed-over planks. They huddled together, passing cigarettes back and forth. Barrington smelled the tobacco, an odor he remembered from his high school days when he engaged in those activities. He drank homemade wine back then, too. And just-distilled, high-proof liquor.
He felt eyes on him and Jeri as they walked. He didn't make contact. He warned her not to look directly at anyone, either. They just needed to keep walking. When he saw a sign indicating the presence of a bus depot, he brightened. Now they had a destination.
A tall brick building housed the depot. Most of the windows lacked glass, and some were no more than rectangular holes in the wall. Toilet facilities, an eatery and several kiosks selling supplies varying from expensive flasks filled with various liquids -- water the least expensive, beer and wine and liquor comprising most of the offerings -- to dried meat and fruit wrapped in coarse brown paper.
Barrington picked out the depot's conductor based on the man's peaked cap and his striped blue-and-white jacket, and baggy trousers. The man rubbed his unshaven cheeks, light gray eyes lively and friendly, hands fluttering. A large man, he looked like he enjoyed his work, enjoyed helping new-exiles that came to him with their questions.
"Fifty ogres if you want to sit. Thirty if you can pedal as well. I need fifteen pedal-riders for a bus. Four if you want to go by jitney, but that only seats five, so it's a slow ride. A rough one, too."
Jeri and Barrington exchanged a glance. Barrington sensed she agreed that they should take the bus as soon as possible. The conductor stepped up to Jeri and put a hand on each of her lean shoulders, as though assessing her strength, especially when he looked her slender body up and down.
Triptych Page 4