The Collector

by Luna, David

  The Collector

  A Collections Agency Novel

  David Luna

  Copyright 2015 Lunatime Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  Book cover designed by Deranged Doctor Design

  This book is available in print at most online retailers

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Thank You For Being You

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Appendix – Common Penal Codes

  Message from David

  About David

  Connect with David

  Prologue

  A decades-long drought and polluted waterways left most water undrinkable. The black seas and acid rain were both expensive and difficult to filter for consumption. Most states altered their budgets to target this issue, abandoning other fundamental programs such as infrastructure upkeep and development in the process.

  For years the South received their supply from the North, who got theirs from the East, who took theirs from outside the state. This convoluted web relying on a few select sources put pressure on the entire system.

  When a series of reactors leaked into the supply, the nation was left at a crisis. States were broken into individual city-states where they divided up the remaining clean water for rationing. This city’s was stored in the Strasburg Dam.

  It became important to not only control the water, but the population. The penal code system was implemented to deter emotional attachment, limit intimacy, and ultimately curb reproduction.

  Soon life partners could no longer be chosen, but were assigned by the city to align with the goals of the penal code system.

  Codes were further expanded to punish those with children beyond the suggested limit by reducing their rations.

  The Wall was built to isolate the city and protect its water from outside leechers of surrounding regions.

  Random identification checks were rolled out to verify travel visas, ID cards, and citizenship against a blood-based online database.

  All these methods enabled the city to provide just enough rations to the inhabitants through what little could be purified combined with what was stored in the Strasburg Dam.

  And then the dam broke…

  ******

  The Collector

  Cracked Stone

  Very upsetting news from the rumor mill today. Can you believe there are some who actually claim the Strasburg Dam was destroyed on purpose? Apparently nine workers were on duty that day at the treatment plant, but they only found the bodies for eight.

  Over 4,300 people drowned in Sector B, who would do such a thing? And why???

  -Quado

  1

  A vast body of polluted water with remnants of Victorian stone structures peering through, flooded and abandoned. Eerie silence, until suddenly the faint image of a dead woman nears the murky surface before disappearing. She’s followed by a dead man, his eyes wide, then a glimpse of a teenager, also drowned. But just as the teen is about to sink back below, a Security Enforcement Officer (SEO), dark blue uniform, fishes him out with a pole. He and another SEO toss the corpse into a growing pile of bodies off to the side. Two more SEOs on the opposite edge of the water do the same thing. A cleanup crew with piles and piles of drowned bodies everywhere.

  The source of the water is linked back to the Strasburg Dam. Nobody in Sector B ever expected the walls of the dam to break. Having been there at the top of the mountain so long, it seemingly disappeared from everyday sight, first figuratively then literally as the city’s budget no longer had room for basic civil infrastructure upkeep. Bricks crumbled, walls fell, and roads turned to gravel, all eaten away by decades of acid rain – if any rain came at all considering the endless drought. The dry stonewalls of the dam became sun faded with crusted white calcium and algae that from afar caused the once symbolic structure of hope to disappear within the surrounding mountains that helped keep the city’s last supply of water safe. Now that water was at the base of the mountain mixed with the dam’s crumbled exterior. The surge of water caught everyone off guard, swallowing up the cobblestone pathways, the Victorian foundations, and anyone who wasn’t fast enough to escape the doomed region of Sector B.

  The team of Security Enforcement Officers, the standard name given to the police force ever since the Agency came to power, continues to fish out the dead.

  Just then, an image of a young boy appears in the ripples of the water, only this image is different. The boy blinks, very much alive – a reflection.

  Many years later…

  The same boy stares at his reflection in a puddle of murky water in the slums, quite a ways from Sector B elsewhere in the city. He is surrounded by dozens of identical flyers littered about: Uncle Sam in his trademark finger-pointing pose with the slogan, SPARE LIVES BY SELLING YOURS. The young boy scoops a handful of the black water to drink when his mother yanks him up by the collar. “Get your hands out of that filth,” she scolds.

  As she wipes her son’s hands on his pants, she pulls him aside to make way for a covered utility truck crawling by. The tires steamroll the flyers, the path barely wide enough for the truck to fit.

  Neil Vaughn, thirties, in a black combat uniform with a 3-stripe arm badge, drives behind the wheel. His whole manner is serious, cold, precise – like a soldier on his last mission.

  The vehicle winds through the dusty cracked pathway, the terrain parched, nothing but dirt and an endless sea of shanty shacks made of plywood, aluminum, and any scrap of civilization that can be pieced together. The misery of the slums extends back until towering skytowers shoot up from the downtown horizon.

  Neil’s utility truck approaches a crowd near a water tank truck distribution line. The same SPARE LIVES BY SELLING YOURS slogan is plastered on its side. A Security Enforcement Officer guarding the water tank truck stands on alert while a Distribution Operator coordinates water rations for the residents. He helps split the line for Neil’s truck to pass, coming across a woman in a raggedy shirt with missing sleeves.

  “Penal code 11.15.a. No exposed shoulders,” the Tank Truck SEO announces bluntly.

  The woman’s eyes beg to be left alone, the tattered shirt undoubtedly all she has.

  “You’ll forfeit your week’s rations. Better luck next time.” The woman protests as the officer snatches away her ration card and throws her out of line.

  Neil acknowledges the Tank Truck SEO with a two-fingered salute, his universal exchange for anyone in a position of authority, even those below him, and continues to direct the truck forward. As they cut through the crowd, a rail-thin stray dog darts past and begins to lick its dry tongue against the dirt
near the feet of the Distribution Operator, hoping for any droplets of spilt rations. Neil watches in his rearview mirror as the Tank Truck SEO shoves the stray away with his boot, pulls out his gun, and shoots it in the head. Some in the crowd scream at the echoing gunshot while others shield their eyes and turn away, yet none flee from the line. No one wants to lose their chance at receiving water.

  Wade Olson, similar black combat attire except only a 1-stripe arm badge, rides shotgun next to Neil. Just a rookie at twenty-five, he scans the passing shacks. Many fly black flags with a white Collections Agency logo in the center – at first glance a simple C, but when rotated clockwise it becomes a variation on the Greek symbol Ω, meaning the ‘last’, the ‘end’, or as some like to say simply ‘death’.

  Just then a teen boy bursts from a small shack with his arms full of water rations. He’s followed by a screaming woman, “Help! Thief!”

  Wade reaches for his gun and grabs the door handle, but Neil doesn’t even slow the truck. Instead, Wade watches as the thief gets away.

  Another black flag flaps in the wind. Down below, a group of misfit kids play kick-the-can, pausing to get out of the way of an oncoming vehicle. But once they see it is the utility truck, they hurl clods of dirt at the steel mass as it passes by. Inside the truck, Neil and Wade ride in silence as the clods rain down. Wade flinches when a rock slams into his side of the windshield.

  The truck doors slam. On foot, Neil and Wade pass an Old Neighbor sweeping his porch. He pauses and places his hat over his chest when he sees Wade carrying a brand new folded black flag.

  Sean Holt is dressed in his best attire. Flannel shirt, jeans, boots. It’s still raggedy overall, but he tried. He stands in the middle of his cramped shack. The structure is on its last legs where a strong dust storm has a good chance of bringing it down.

  Sean extends his weathered forearm covered in sunspots, having worked outside his entire life. Neil presses a gun-shaped device to Sean’s vein and pricks a sample of blood, filling one of six tiny cartridges. The device is linked wirelessly to Neil’s handheld PDA, which cycles through an online identity database. The automated scrolling screen soon stops on a matched profile:

  Name: Sean Holt

  Age: 31

  Sex: Male

  Height: 180cm

  Weight: 93kg

  Collection Date: 0 Days

  Collection Time: 03:00pm

  Assigned Collectors: Neil Vaughn & Wade Olson

  Status: N/A

  Submitted by: N/A

  Neil nods in confirmation to Wade. Much like a six-shooter, he rotates the device to load an empty cartridge and holsters it. Attached to his belt are other devices Collectors are required to carry: a shock baton, handcuffs, and a 9mm gun.

  Samantha Holt stands nearby, twenty-nine, holding her daughter Cassi, just days from celebrating her fifth birthday and clutching a teddy bear. Samantha can barely look at Sean, her eyes red from crying. His touch causes her to break down again. He reassures her with simply, “It’s for the best.”

  Sean takes Cassi into his arms. The little girl is quiet in the way kids are when they can sense things are not right.

  “I need you to be a big girl and take care of mommy,” Sean whispers.

  Cassi keeps her attention on the teddy bear, “Where are you going?”

  “We talked about this. I have to take a trip. A long trip.”

  Samantha loses it. She turns the other way unable to watch.

  “Sweet-pea?” Sean runs his fingers through Cassi’s hair. “I love you. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” Sean kisses her forehead before hugging her. A last embrace.

  “Mr. Holt,” Neil interrupts. Sean motions for Neil to wait, but Neil insists. “It’s regarding your compensation.”

  This gets Sean’s attention. He looks for Neil to continue.

  “It seems you failed to document a pre-existing condition.” Sean cocks his head in confusion. “Your tumor, sir.”

  “The doctor said it’s benign,” Sean states.

  “I’m sure you’re aware all tumors have the potential to become cancerous. That changes things.”

  Sean sets Cassi down. She clutches her mother’s leg.

  “You were compensated based on the weight of your sacrifice,” Neil continues. “But because of this tumor, the magnitude of that sacrifice is now diminished.”

  “What are you saying?” Samantha chimes in.

  “His life expectancy is not the same. It’s less. Therefore we’re required to take back a portion of your compensation.” Neil doesn’t even blink as he delivers the bad news.

  “If they can’t keep what we agreed on, I’m not going through with it,” Sean protests.

  This time Wade speaks up, trying to assert himself. “You’re already in the system.”

  Sean shoots Wade a look. He furrows his brow at the rookie, knowing this can’t be more than Wade’s third or fourth assignment. Neil backs his partner up.

  “You signed a contract. Your family has already been paid. We have to take you in for processing.” Neil gives Wade the signal. Wade approaches to bind Sean’s calloused hands, but Sean outsizes him. He jerks his arm away.

  “I changed my mind. I want you to go,” Sean demands.

  Undeterred, Wade grabs at him again, but this time Sean shoves him into the wall. He looks to Samantha. “Run!” she says, panicking.

  Sean does so, but just as he is about to make it to the door, ZZZZZAP! Neil prods him with the tip of his shock baton and a burst of electricity brings him down.

  “Daddy!” Cassi screams as she rushes forward, but Wade grabs her. Her flailing arms scratch and leave a gash across his face. Wade pushes her towards her mother.

  “Get your kid under control.”

  Sean continues to resist until Neil zaps him again, then bashes him in the face with the bottom of the baton to end the scuffle. He turns to Samantha. “Your rations will be adjusted accordingly for what you owe.”

  Samantha comforts Cassi, both in tears, while Wade binds Sean’s hands and drags him to his feet. Neil slides the folded black flag across the table, the white Collections Agency logo prominently displayed.

  “The Agency thanks you for your sacrifice.”

  An Agency flag hangs above the gated entrance to an underground Transfer Tunnel. Neil and Wade lead four volunteers, including Sean, to a Check-In Guard at a kiosk station. He uses his own gun-like device to take a blood sample from each man to wirelessly verify their identities on the kiosk – a measure put in place years ago after a couple mishaps occurred where the wrong individuals were submitted as volunteers. Check-In Guard notices Sean’s swollen face.

  “Breacher?”

  Neil nods.

  The guard glares to Sean. “Coward,” he says as he jams the needle deep into Sean’s forearm to purposefully make it hurt. He updates Sean’s profile in the database:

  Status: Submitted

  Submitted by: Neil Vaughn & Wade Olson

  A second guard unlocks the wrought iron gate and marches the four men inside the transfer tunnel, loading them into the rear of a cattle car. He taps the bumper and the cattle car pulls away.

  The car drives deeper into a web of interconnected underground passages – old mining tunnels with rocky archways where only a single bulb draped every ten meters provides any sort of illumination. The vehicle veers at a fork and joins behind another cattle car loaded with more volunteers coming from a separate transfer tunnel entrance located across the city.

  They eventually reach the underground entrance to the Processing Facility. Here even more volunteers are marched inside on foot, the steel double doors slamming shut behind them.

  Above ground, the processing facility is nothing more than a manufacturing factory, sprawling in size similar to a refinery, with three main smokestacks piercing the sky. The Agency logo is embossed on the center smokestack.

  Just then, black smoke spews out from all three cyli
nders at once, presumably the volunteers dying, tainting the already bleak sky.

  Neil strips a stick of its bark with a utility knife, while Wade caresses his wounded cheek. They each sit on a stone boulder up in the mountains.

  “It doesn’t get any easier, does it?” Wade picks at the dried blood before it can turn into a scab.

  “It’ll fade,” Neil responds, brief and cold.

  Silence falls, except for the sound of metal on wood as Neil carves the stick to a sharp point. Wade continues to stare at his mentor as if he wants to make a confession.

  “Can I tell you something? Just between me and you?”

  “It’d be best if you didn’t,” Neil says, never glancing up. He stabs the stick in the dirt, then leaves Wade with his thoughts. After a day of assignments he needs time to himself and this rookie isn’t giving him any. Neil weaves throughout the dead trees towards the edge of a mountain cliff.

  Neil overlooks a panoramic view of the valley: a city surrounding a polluted bay spilling into the tainted ocean. Even from this height the water is noticeably black. An elevated SectorLink metro line loops around to connect the Slums on the West Bank to the Downtown skytowers in the North to the processing facility in the East, along with the numerous other sectors sandwiched in between. Smoke continues to pour out from the facility smokestacks.

  Opposite the skytowers are the remnants of Sector B, abandoned since the flood years ago, followed by the collapsed ruins of the Strasburg Dam and adjacent water plant further up in the mountains. Just meters beyond at the northern most tip of the city is the Wall. At eight meters tall and four meters thick, the cement enclosure is shaped like a giant horseshoe wrapping around the entire city, its edges ending where the tall cliffs meet the rough sea, surrounding both the valley below and the polluted bay, leading some to nickname their home The Bend.

  Neil takes it in, his city, all that he has and all that he knows, when suddenly a beautiful melody echoes throughout the valley, seemingly traveling with the wind. It’s peaceful. Serene. Hopeful in a dark time, invoking memories of a time forgotten.