The Collector

by Luna, David

  Neil’s eyes track the source of the song to a towering landfill at the northern edge of the slums, centuries of waste accumulating beside the poor. He can barely make out the outline of a woman sifting through piles of trash and collecting items into a small pull wagon, all while continuing to sing. He is entranced by the angelic voice. For being so far away, the melody seems to speak directly to him.

  The angelic voice continues until Neil’s PDA buzzes. He checks the device to find a text: REPORT TO HQ.

  As the Agency disrupts his personal time, the breeze suddenly dies, and with it, takes away the melody. Neil looks to the landfill once more. The woman is gone.

  ******

  Breachers, Leechers, and ???

  Did you know that a person who volunteers but then backs out of their contract is called a Breacher? Even if the person doesn’t try to run, they are still considered in Breach of Contract.

  And those that sneak between cities in order to get their rations, they are called Leechers. That’s why we have the Wall.

  The Agency really does have a name for every type of person out there! I wonder what they call me?

  -Quado

  2

  The Agency logo is etched above the rigid entrance to a gothic skytower. A once extravagant fountain damaged by decades of acid rain stands on its last legs in front of the structure, cracked and without water. The top of the grey tower seemingly disappears as it blends in with the dreary sky.

  Up on the fourteenth floor, Bill Mazer, aged from the weight of the city on his shoulders, supervises a psychological evaluation from behind a one-sided observation window. His hand tinkers with a stopped pocket watch as inside the white room a psychologist questions Neil from a pre-populated list. It is a standard Agency evaluation form and isn’t very forgiving.

  “This is weekly evaluation, session four, two, one. Please state your name and number for the camera.”

  Neil doesn’t flinch as the red dot from a camcorder blinks at him from a tripod in the corner. “Neil Vaughn. Collector One, Four, Zero, Five.”

  “Now I’m going to ask a series of questions and I want you to answer honestly and openly,” the psychologist states as she nears her pen to the first check box. She’s cold and blunt, much like Neil, which could be a prerequisite to work for the Agency. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the necessity of the Collections Agency?”

  “Ten,” Neil doesn’t hesitate, his standard response to the same first question each week.

  “Do you ever have thoughts too terrible to tell another person?”

  “No.”

  “Do you prefer flowers or clouds?”

  “Neither.”

  “Do you hear voices in your head?”

  Mazer studies Neil’s body language while Neil looks back to the observation window. Even though Neil can’t see Mazer, he stares seemingly right at him. He knows he’s under constant scrutiny by the Agency.

  “No,” he confidently responds.

  Satisfied, Mazer returns to his pocket watch and taps it again. It finally ticks forward. The psychologist checks the last box on the evaluation form: PASS.

  “The Agency thanks you for your continued service.”

  Wade’s eyes fixate on the floor, noticeably distant from the psychologist. It’s his turn for his weekly evaluation. Mazer once again supervises the session from behind the one-way glass. He can read the psychologist’s lips, “Do you ever have thoughts too terrible to tell another person?”

  Later in the office bullpen, all the Collectors sit around after hours. It is a diverse bunch: Cecil, Dale, Raymond, Garrison, Benson, and Wade. Wade is the only one under thirty, and the new blood to the team. Many are loud and rowdy, but none as boisterous as Patrick “Slayter” Huntley, the longest tenured Collector with a 5-stripe arm badge.

  “Shoulda seen this guy. Kickin’ and scratchin’ while I’m draggin’ him through the dirt,” Slayter brags to anyone who listens. “So what do I do? I tased him in his balls, that’s what I did. That’s one way to fight our overpopulation problem.”

  All the Collectors laugh, except Wade.

  “Made sure his partner saw it too,” Slayter continues. “Not so tough when you’re about to lose your manhood.”

  Off to the side at a small counter, Neil disposes used blood sample cartridges into a red biohazard container, then reloads his device with new ones.

  Pinned to a bulletin board above the disposal station are four mugshots labeled MOST WANTED: Brock, Jace, Chelsea, and Leon. The four members are part of the group called The Brigade, a resistance organization publicly against the Agency. Adjacent to this is a killed in action (KIA) section with half a dozen photos of Collectors in uniform. For many of them their picture was taken on the day they received their first stripe on their arm badge.

  “It’s not the job that breaks you down, it’s how you deal with it,” a voice says, sliding up to Neil at the counter. It’s Mazer. He clarifies, “Your rookie’s not laughing.”

  Neil notices Wade separated from the group. “He passed evals, didn’t he?” Neil asks rhetorically.

  “I know this is a hard job. He’s got to be able to laugh.” Mazer’s knack for worrying explains why he has salt-and-pepper grey hair. He takes his role with the Agency very seriously.

  “What are you concerned about? You chose him. I trained him.”

  “Just keep an eye on him. We need him on our side.” Mazer motions to the bulletin board, the number of killed Collectors greatly outnumbering the Brigade Leaders.

  The Downtown Sector is a bustling urban zone with deteriorating skytowers packed too tightly together. Only scrolling tickers and digital billboards add any sort of color to the smog infested sector. SPARE LIVES BY SELLING YOURS appears on a ticker, while mugshots of the same four Brigade Leaders crowd a billboard screen.

  Halfway up one of the skytowers is Neil’s apartment. Sleek and modern in design, a large glass window overlooks the neighboring skytowers illuminated at night.

  Neil presses a DAILY RATIONS button to release a short burst of water in the shower. A digital display ticks down from 8L, 7L, 6L before the water shuts off. He presses the button again to bring another quick burst. 5L, 4L, 3L. It’s not much. Even Neil’s status as a Collector doesn’t warrant extra rations. The water drips from Neil’s body, highly decorated in faded scars, mostly memories from past assignments gone wrong and fights at Reform School. He grabs a towel.

  Neil moves to the living room where a Newscaster reports on the television.

  “Coming up, a bombing in Sector A claims the life of another Collector…”

  Neil stops and stares at the image of Benson, a fellow Collector, side by side with the aftermath of an explosion. Just hours ago they were mingling in the bullpen back at Agency Headquarters, and now he’s dead. Neil knows tomorrow Benson’s photo will be removed from their roster and added to the bulletin board of those killed in action.

  The Newscaster continues, “Though unconfirmed, sources say the Brigade again claims responsibility for the attack. More after the break.”

  Neil remains stoic, no reaction. Danger is part of the job, while emotions are not.

  An Agency infomercial takes over just as there’s a knock on the door. The soothing voice onscreen goes through a tempting pitch, “Before my partner sold his life, we had little money and too many mouths to find water for. Now, my kids and I are happy. Every day’s a joy!”

  Neil opens the door to reveal Paulina, an Agency-issued call girl, barely twenty, gorgeous even with her body bundled in an overcoat. She eyes Neil’s dripping torso in the towel.

  “Not wasting any time, are we?”

  She brushes past him with two glass bottles of water in hand – shaped like bottles of wine – and sets them on the counter.

  “I brought these to celebrate. The water’s still chilled.”

  Neil furrows his brow, “What’s the occasion?”

  Paulina remove
s her overcoat to reveal a satin black dress with lace garters. It’s sexy, but Neil doesn’t notice. Instead he shuts off the television just as the soothing voice is in the middle of the tagline, “Spare Lives By Selling—”

  “It’s our last night,” Paulina says.

  “Why? You volunteer?” Neil moves to a digital fish tank mounted on the wall and uses an interactive touchscreen to feed the virtual fish.

  “God no. We’ve done four sessions already,” Paulina reminds him. “I don’t know who they will assign next, but I guarantee she won’t be as good.” Paulina slips her dress over her shoulder, seductively posing. “What do you say, Neil…Will you miss me?”

  Neil finishes with his fish before looking at her, blunt. “No.”

  Paulina drops the act, all business. “Good. You’d be in trouble if you did.” She struts towards the bedroom. “Let’s get on with this. I have other sessions tonight.”

  Later in the bedroom, Neil thrusts Paulina from behind while she still wears the dress and lace garters. It’s nothing less than mechanical. Sweaty emotionless sex.

  “I think it’s love,” Wade says as he smiles at Neil, his depressed demeanor from yesterday a thing of the past.

  The two Collectors eat at a booth in a downtown diner – Dani’s Diner – each with a large glass of water in front of them. As before, they wear their black combat uniforms, which easily makes them stand out from the others, even from Security Enforcement Officers dressed in blue attire. Everyone knows the sleek black jumpsuit is the highest sign of power and authority.

  Wade points to his PDA to clarify his statement, reading from the screen, “How do you let go of this? When the feeling still lives on. How do you abandon this? A natural creation.” His eyes return to Neil. “It’s a little more cryptic than usual, but it’s about love.”

  “Why would Quado write about love?” Neil asks. “It’s probably a jab at the Agency.”

  “Interpret it how you will, but not everyone is so openly against us. Especially Quado.” Wade continues with his line of thought, reading the last line again, “A natural creation.” He lingers on the words, smiling. “That’s love. Love is the most natural thing.” He points to an older couple at the next booth over. “Behind you, they’re in love. Even the waitress over there.”

  He refers to a waitress named Paiton, twenties, her hair tied back and the pink hue in her cheeks matching her lips. She’s full of life as she serves the customers, a stark contrast to the dreariness cast over the city.

  “She’s glowing. Only love can make someone that happy.”

  Neil doesn’t care. He focuses on his meal.

  “Don’t you think we could do our jobs better if we were allowed that?” Wade questions.

  “I do my job just fine,” Neil counters.

  He finishes his water, then heads for the register. Wade follows. Within moments Paiton rings them up. Wade was right, up close she is glowing.

  “Is that all for you boys today?” she asks enthusiastically.

  Neil nods. She hands him a pen, “If I could get your badge numbers…”

  Paiton waits while Neil writes on the back of the bill. She smiles at Wade, tucking her hair behind her ear. There is a slight sense of familiarity between them, like two kids with a shared secret and the joke is on everyone else.

  Just then, a Bearded Bum alone at the counter causes a fuss as Neil and Wade prepare to leave.

  “How come they don’t have to pay?” the Bearded Bum speaks out.

  “They’re Collectors, sir” Paiton responds.

  “Without my tax dollars they wouldn’t exist, so how ‘bout I get some more water here?”

  Wade taps Neil for them to intervene, but Neil continues out.

  “Sir, just calm down,” Paiton tries to diffuse the situation, but the Bearded Bum works himself up.

  “It’s the most expensive thing on the menu!” he exclaims.

  Outside on the sidewalk, Neil brings up their next assignment on his PDA. The only information they are given is a name, location, and Collection Date & Time.

  “We just gonna let him start a riot?” Wade asks.

  “It’s not our job.”

  Wade’s eyes plead, still a rookie. Neil relents. He flags down a Security Enforcement Officer patrolling nearby.

  “Hey, bearded guy inside at the counter. Get him out of there.”

  The SEO nods before heading inside. Neil turns back to Wade. “Happy?” he asks.

  Wade reads over the receipt from their meal. “Somebody is. Look. She drew a heart. See, she must be in love.”

  “Or she wanted a tip,” Neil quips.

  Wade shakes his head in disbelief. “You sure are cold, Neil.”

  They pass a brick wall covered in graffiti on their way to the parked utility vehicle. Standing out from the collage of artwork and Sector gang names – each spray-painted over one another throughout the years – are two words bolded beneath the image of a black silhouetted figure: WHO’S QUADO? The same image can be found sprinkled throughout the walls in many Downtown alleyways.

  Just then, sounds of a scuffle steal their attention as across the street, another SEO splits up a young man and young woman holding hands.

  “Penal code 11.15.b, no public displays of affection,” the SEO announces. He continues with the proper protocol, “Papers. C’mon, hand ‘em over. Let’s see some ID.”

  The couple obeys, but the young man fidgets as the officer reviews their documents.

  “This is expired,” the SEO exclaims. He immediately cuffs the young man’s hands. The young woman protests, but the Enforcement Officer whirls around with steel eyes, “Watch it or you’re coming too.”

  Wade glances back inside the diner, still within sight, where Paiton buses a table, also able to glimpse the skirmish through the window. Their eyes meet, a sense of sadness between them, until Neil obliviously interrupts their hidden exchange.

  “C’mon, back to the slums.”

  ******

  Diversity

  Many think the Sectors are split up and divided by population when in fact they are designated by geography. Think about it, Sector A is the old industrial zone near the mountains, the slums surround the landfill on the west bank, and Downtown is all flatlands covered in concrete. I heard about a sector hidden in the dead forest, but can’t confirm. For being an enclosed city we sure do have a lot of areas! I bet if we had a desert it’d be designated as its own sector too!

  -Quado

  3

  Two of the four misfit kids sword fight using various junk objects, while the leader of the group squats down doing his best to draw the outline of a winged horse in the dirt with the tip of a bent antenna.

  “Why can’t we still be the Vipers?” the fourth member asks, referring to the sketch.

  “Pegasus is better,” the leader defends. “It’s what they first called themselves.”

  “How ‘bout the Cicadas?” the fourth member suggests, posing with his broken rake handle high in the air like it is some magnificent weapon. “We’ll swarm everyone!” He jabs at the leader, who in turn parries before joining in on the mock battle. Even in the perpetual state of despair ravaging the slums, kids will still be kids.

  The sword fight continues until the misfits notice Neil’s truck approaching in the distance. As they pause, the leader of the group converts his bent antenna sword into an imaginary rifle and tracks the truck, then pretend fires – not just a kid being a kid, but a future Brigade member in the making.

  Once parked in front of a dilapidated shack, Neil and Wade follow Loraine Wells through a porch screen door nearly off its hinges. Wade carries a black flag. Compared to Samantha the day before, Loraine keeps her composure.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she says without much concern, like this is an ordinary house call.

  Neil sticks to protocol, cold and callous. “The Agency appreciates your sacrifice.”

  They enter a two
room shanty where along one wall is a homemade contraption designed to purify water. Dozens of urine jugs are stacked nearby, but the treated water is far from clean.

  “We do our best to filter it, but sometimes the kids still get sick.” She motions to Ben, age six, lying on a cot faced towards the wall, his stomach severely bloated.

  Sounds of children playing come from the other room. Wade notices.

  “How many kids do you have?” he asks.

  “Four, including Ben here. God knows I love my children, but I didn’t ask for triplets.”

  “That’s a lot of thirsty mouths,” Wade responds, much more warm and personable than his stoic partner.

  “Well thankfully the neighbors help some, sharing their rations and all.” She points to the purifier. “And we got this. It’s too bad nothing can filter water from the bay though.”

  The Collectors sit on a rotted sofa, while Loraine sits opposite them in a wooden chair.

  “If only the Agency could see what families like us have to go through,” she continues. “I was penalized when the triplets were born for going over the limit, can you believe that? More mouths, less water. Tell me how that’s fair.”

  “Times are tough for everyone,” Neil interrupts before her emotions get the best of her. He’s seen this happen many times before. “But as long as people do their part.”

  “I suppose so,” Loraine relents.

  “Is your partner late?” he asks, returning to the task at hand.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The appointment said noon,” Neil clarifies. “For James.”

  Loraine caresses her naked ring finger on her left hand. Her eyes move towards another black flag already hanging on the wall.

  “James has been gone for two years. Sold himself to y’all, though the money didn’t last long.”

  Wade scrunches his brow. “So who are we here to collect?”

  “Jimmy!” Loraine shouts.

  Within moments, Jimmy, a lively ten year old full of energy, dashes out from the other room.