by Luna, David
“This is Jimmy, named after his father.” Loraine hugs her son and faces him towards Neil and Wade. “Jimmy, meet your Collectors.”
Neil remains stone-faced. Wade not so much. “How old are you?” Wade asks.
“Ten,” Jimmy responds proudly.
Neil takes Jimmy’s blood sample and confirms it with the database. He nods to Wade.
“You do know what’s about to happen?” Wade asks.
“Course he does,” Loraine chimes in. “It was his idea.” She pulls Jimmy into her lap. “Jimmy’s always looked out for his younger brothers. We couldn’t be more proud of what he’s doing.”
“I get to see my dad.” Jimmy carries the biggest smile only a ten year old can have. He spots the black flag. “Is that for me?”
“It’s for your family,” Neil says.
Jimmy runs over and grabs it. “Look mom, just like dad’s.”
“Run along and tell your brothers good-bye. These men are busy, we don’t want to waste their day.”
Jimmy wraps the flag around him like a cape and dashes off. His voice echoes from the back room, “Michael! Thomas! Look what I got!”
Loraine forces a smile. Tears finally well up in her eyes. “Don’t think of me as a bad mother,” she pleads. “What else am I supposed to do? If I go, who’d look after the triplets? Who’d take care of poor Ben?”
Suddenly Wade rises and storms outside for air. Neil lets him go.
Painful silence fills the air of the utility truck as Neil drives and Wade rides shotgun. The quiet tension is only broken up by an Agency infomercial coming from the radio, “Appointments can be made up to three weeks in advance. You’ll be approved in minutes and receive your life quote—”
Click. Wade shuts it off. More silence.
Neil’s eyes drift to the rearview mirror, spotting Jimmy in the back of the truck on a side bench where he scratches off pieces of chipped paint, not a care in the world. Neil shakes his head. At least the kid is oblivious to where they are going. He finally turns his attention to the elephant in the air. “Look, I put my neck out for you once, but I won’t do it again. Mazer is asking questions. Just do your job or you’re done.”
Wade remains quiet, secretly thumbing a sliver of paper to help calm him down. It’s the receipt from the diner with Paiton’s name and the sketched heart across the top.
Suddenly their bodies whip back and forth as CLANK CLANK CLACK! A row of homemade metal spikes spring upwards and shred the front tires, jerking the truck violently up and down before it grinds to a halt in a ditch.
Neil and Wade instinctively bail out, guns drawn, taking cover behind the doors.
“Where are they? I don’t see ‘em,” Wade shouts from his side of the vehicle.
Neil scans left, then right before spotting the group of misfit kids fleeing down an alley in celebration. “Pegasus flies!” their leader shouts.
“Damn kids,” Neil mutters under his breath.
They rise and holster their weapons.
“At least it wasn’t the Brigade. It could be worse,” Wade says. He looks over the destroyed tires, but his optimistic attitude disappears upon discovering a severe oil leak. “Or not…”
Neil picks up the strip of metal spikes, each over eight inches in length. “Clever little monsters,” he says as he returns to the cab to start the truck.
Wade follows. “I don’t think it’ll drive.”
Neil moves only inches before screeeeeeeech, the truck’s steel rims grind into the dirt and gravel, unable to make it out of the ditch let alone out of the slums. He shuts it off.
“You going to call it in?” Wade asks.
Neil furrows his brow. “And say we got ambushed by a group of kids?”
Wade just stares at him. That’s what they are supposed to report. It’s protocol.
Neil seems to read his mind as he refutes this thought, “Slayter would have a field day. The last thing we want is to get on his radar. We’ll have to deal with the locals.” Neil notices Wade’s lingering concern. “It’s just tires,” he adds to try to diffuse the situation.
Just then Jimmy bangs from the rear of the truck.
“What do we do with him?” Wade asks.
The banging strikes again. “What?” Neil shouts.
Jimmy’s muffled voice barely reaches them, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Neil rolls his eyes. “We’ll take him with us.” He then steps forward and places his hand on Wade’s shoulder, dead serious. “Wade, I need to know you got my back. We’re a team, remember?”
It takes a moment, but Wade nods.
******
No Vacancy
Carrying Capacity is the maximum number of people our city can hold given the limits of our resources. Have you read the Agency’s annual report? While still above capacity, we are on a positive downhill trend.
But wait…if our numbers are shrinking, how come our rations aren’t increasing? And why are they calling for more and more volunteers? Is there ever light at the end of the tunnel?
-Quado
4
Frank’s machine shop in the slums has been under the same ownership for three generations. Ever since his father died, Frank has taken over the day-to-day activities and does his best to continue to adapt to the ever changing world. The shop used to be an auto repair shop, but with the slums becoming denser and poorer, very few can afford the general upkeep of a vehicle, let alone the necessity of a vehicle has diminished. With the opening of the SectorLink line some years ago, cars in the city have become something mostly reserved for the wealthy as the general population adopted the cheaper mass transit system, even if they have to put up with random identification checks and crowded trams. A working vehicle nowadays places the owner under immediate scrutiny, which is a position nobody, not even a Collector with their ominous utility trucks, likes to be in. Frank’s father converted the shop into a computer repair shop, but with the deteriorating electric grid due to no funds (or desire) to rebuild it, power is inaccessible in the slums. Thus the computer repair business fell to the wayside. Nowadays Frank spends his time welding. In his mind, as buildings continue to fall there will always be scrap metal readily available in the slums, which means there will always be some sort of business.
But even when there are no customers, Frank welds regardless. He’s honed his craft by making small figurines such as dogs, cats, and other objects to pass the time, intricate and detailed. If asked about it, he’d respond that he tries to preserve the things lost from this world in the only way he knows how, though he’d surely refuse to comment on the heart-shaped welded piece hanging on the wall inside the shop.
With grease permanently stuck beneath his fingernails, Frank currently welds two pieces of metal together when he spots Neil, Wade, and Jimmy approaching the front of his shop. Jimmy still wears the Agency flag as a cape. Frank furrows his brow at the sight of their black combat uniforms. “We’re closed,” he says without making eye contact.
“I’m going to need you to reopen,” Neil responds. He turns to Wade as Wade follows Jimmy around the side of the shop to use the bathroom. “Keep an eye on him.”
Frank continues to focus on his project, ignoring Neil.
“You a friend of the Brigade?” Neil asks assumingly.
“No, I ain’t with no damn Brigade,” Frank proclaims. “Look, I don’t agree with either side: you death-dealers or those extremists. If I help either one of you I’m just asking for trouble so I’d rather keep to myself.”
“Then point me to someone who will.”
“You see this on my hands?” Frank raises his stained palms. “It’s grease. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Neil’s hand moves to the handle of his shock baton. “You familiar with the penal codes? Failure to comply with a Collector is against code.”
“You can’t threaten me like that,” Frank says as he lifts his goggles, having been around too long to care abou
t pretending to be nice.
“It’s not a threat. But my truck needs repairs and I’m asking for help.”
“Does it look like I have anything for your truck lying around? I’m a machinist. I weld, that’s all.”
Neil grabs his PDA and readies to dial. “An Enforcement Officer will be here within the hour to pick you up.”
“What do you want from me? You need parts, there’s a junk shop up the way. That’s your best bet around this area, all right?” Frank exclaims. “Now just go. No good can come from having you around here.” Frank looks up and down the dirt path to see if anyone’s been watching their exchange.
Around the rear of the shop, Wade waits for Jimmy to do his business.
“I can’t go with you watchin’.”
“I’m not watching,” Wade says.
“Don’t you have a bottle or somethin’?” Jimmy asks.
“No.”
“You mean I gotta waste it? Man, mom would have a fit.” Jimmy bitterly pees in the dirt, then finishes. Wade and Jimmy then rejoin Neil back at the front. Wade nods that they are ready to go.
“Thank you for your help,” Neil says.
Frank mumbles under his breath as he returns to his work, “I didn’t help nobody.”
An Uncle Sam flyer sticks out half buried in the dirt on a pathway. Suddenly Jimmy’s foot stomps over it, followed by Neil’s boot, then Wade’s, each leaving a print on Uncle Sam’s face. Jimmy dashes ahead pretending to fly with his cape. Rounding a bend, they reach a two-story dilapidated antique shop.
A bell jingles as the trio enters the musty shop, overflowing with stacks of junk and rows of other oddball trinkets.
Damian, late thirties, limited mobility on his right side due to a disability rather than age, solders a string of wires inside an old AM/FM radio at the shop’s rear counter. He struggles to keep his right hand steady.
“Can I help you?” Damian asks as he glances up to see Jimmy leading the way. “Oh hey Jimmy,” but immediately he spots the black flag, followed by the Collectors. “Bless his soul.” Disgusted, he returns his attention to the radio.
Jimmy finds a box of action figures, many of them missing limbs, before Wade pulls him away. Neil approaches the counter. “We’re looking for some parts.”
“Look around, got lots of them.”
“For our truck.”
“You mean those death vehicles?”
“No. For our truck,” Neil says bluntly. Damian locks eyes with Neil. Neither is intimidated. It’s a long moment of silence, until Damian finally concedes.
“Try in the back,” he says, though he isn’t happy about it.
“The Agency appreciates your cooperation,” Neil states again per procedure, this time with a tint of nastiness. He finds himself doing that from time to time when a citizen has been nasty with him.
Damian’s eyes never break from Neil as he, Wade, and Jimmy cross to the back door.
Outside in the antique shop’s back lot, it is a combination of a junk yard and a vehicle pick-n-pull. Piles of electronics, machines, and other devices form a natural perimeter to enclose the lot.
Neil and Wade split up. Wade scans the piles as he moves deeper into the lot, hampered by Jimmy, who is easily distracted by the plethora of items.
Neil tosses objects aside only to reveal more junk below. This could be a lost cause. Just then, his ears perk up upon hearing the beautiful melody, the same he heard while on the cliff in the mountains. Like before it stops him in his tracks. He takes it in, then turns to follow it when he overhears Wade, “Would you stop touching everything?” Wade drags Jimmy over by the arm to interrupt.
“I was thinking, the transfer tunnel is what, a mile away? Two tops? What if I take Jimmy on foot?” Wade suggests.
“We’re not splitting up. It’s against protocol.”
“We don’t want to be stranded here at dark, let alone have an assignment with us,” Wade counters.
A rise in the wind causes a rise in the melody. Neil struggles to remain focused on the task at hand, his attention split.
“I can handle it,” Wade urges. “You trained me.”
Neil makes a judgment call, partially influenced by the angelic voice though mostly convinced by Wade.
“Okay,” he agrees. “Complete the assignment. Then meet back here and I’ll have the truck fixed.”
Wade nods before heading back towards the shop with Jimmy. “Bye, Mr. Collector,” Jimmy waves with a smile. Jimmy’s enthusiasm is unsettling, but that passes once Neil’s ears perk up, the breeze returning, and thus the melody.
This time Neil is determined to find the source of it. He changes trajectories, navigating through the maze of things forgotten when he stumbles upon Inna, twenty-five, petite, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, dressed in clothes pieced together from the shelves of the antique shop yet still radiating beauty. Singing the melody, she unloads objects from a pull wagon, handling each item of junk – a clock, an old camera, a cracked mirror – as if they were the most precious jewels left on Earth.
Neil watches from behind a rusted water heater. It isn’t until Inna inspects the cracked mirror, rotating it, that she spots Neil spying on her from the reflection over her shoulder. The melody stops.
“I wouldn’t waste your time,” she says as she lowers the mirror and turns around. Neil steps out, caught red-handed, but to his surprise Inna clarifies, “That water heater you’re looking at...there’s no fixing it. Besides, what water are you going to heat?”
Inna sets the mirror aside and extends her hand, allowing Neil to get a good look at her for the first time.
“Hi, I’m Inna. Can I help you?”
“You work here?” Neil asks as he accepts the handshake, immediately noticing a pair of leather gloves protecting each of her palms.
Inna nods. Neil’s thrown off guard. He stumbles over his words, uncommon for someone in his position of authority. “My name’s Neil. I need tires for my truck.”
“Have you checked in the back?”
“I thought this was the back.”
Inna laughs. “Here, I’ll show you,” she offers. She leads Neil deeper into the lot with a skip in her step. “I’m surprised Damian let you back here.”
“The man at the counter?”
She nods.
“Is he your brother?”
“Partner. He’s not too fond of Collectors.”
“Interesting pairing, you and him,” Neil observes.
“Why?”
“Partners are usually matched based off age.”
“Well I’m not his first. He lost her when the dam broke. You might’ve noticed his arm. They paired me to take care of him.” There’s an awkward silence as Inna rubs near her shoulder, then asks, “What about you? Are you matched?”
“Collectors aren’t issued partners,” Neil replies.
“Oh…I guess everyone’s making sacrifices.” There’s a hint of sympathy in her voice as they continue towards the back.
Unbeknownst to both of them, Damian spies on Neil and Inna through the blinds from the antique shop. As Inna’s contagious laugh reaches the shop, Damian exhales through his teeth. Inna was right. He’s not fond of Collectors.
Neil and Inna finally reach the rear of the back lot where various abandoned vehicles have been left to die.
“How’d you fit all these in that funny little wagon?” Neil asks seriously.
Inna giggles, childlike. “I didn’t know Collectors were allowed to tell jokes.”
Neil remains silent. It wasn’t really a joke. He inspects a truck similar in size to his, but then points to the bare steel rims. “It’s already been stripped.”
“We can always rig it,” Inna suggests. She notices Neil doesn’t quite follow, then clarifies. “It’s what I do. Here, watch.”
She unearths a large seated lawn mower from another junk pile. “Not much use for this nowadays.” She points to the tires, thinner and di
nkier than what is on Neil’s utility truck. “You can take these. Doesn’t look like much, but they’ll at least get you out of the slums.” She looks to the setting sun. “We should hurry though.”
“We?” Neil furrows his brow thinking to himself. “What makes you think I need help?”
“Don’t let pride get the best of you,” Inna says, nearly reading his mind. “It’s almost dark.”
With that she heads off, not waiting for permission.
The sun teeters on the horizon as Neil and Inna backtrack to the utility truck on a pathway in the slums. Neil pulls the wagon carrying the tires.
“Not a funny little wagon now, is it?” Inna jokes. She smiles, but Neil is distracted by something on his mind.
“I was wondering about that song. The one you were singing back there.”
“So you were watching me! I knew it!” Inna says playfully.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Lighten up,” she giggles. “Why are you so serious?”
“I’m not serious,” Neil barks back, confirming the accusation.
“Yes, you are. C’mon, smile. Just once.” Neil feigns a smile as Inna inspects his face. “See, you don’t even get wrinkly. You must never smile. Probably worry all the time.”
“You read minds in addition to running your shop?”
“No, but everyone worries these days. Especially about our problems with Mother Nature.”
“What’s wrong with Mother Nature?” Neil asks.
Inna points all around them. “The dry land. The poisoned water. The polluted air. It’s Her way of starving us off to take it all back.”
“Years of suffering and you chalk it up to some fight with the planet?” Neil quips.
“I didn’t say fight. In a fight, both sides have a chance,” Inna responds morbidly. “Look, we’re living on borrowed time. It’s like the people who sell themselves to you. I know people don’t like to consider it, but maybe our time’s coming to an end.”
“How do you manage to be so cheery with that kind of outlook?” Neil asks.
“Perhaps it takes knowing you’re going to die to really start to live.”
They reach Neil’s truck in the ditch. Neil counters her argument, “Well I believe we have a chance.”