“Do you know if any of their concessions were met?” I asked.
“I haven’t heard one way or the other, only that the Custodians went mad, put the town in lock-down, and then hit those factories. They arrested the ringleaders and a bunch of others, then sent the rest home,” he replied.
“Doesn’t look likely, then.” My spirits sank. So much for hoping the stop-work protest would garner enough concessions to improve the quality of life here.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“This place is a flippin’ prison,” Gerry complained.
“That’s common knowledge down here in Newhome proper,” Matt said. “The North Enders have it made, but we’re just a slave labour force.”
“At least the men get to work. The girls and women are just slaves, full-stop,” I added. I was so sick of this place. I had to get out of here.
“If you lot are going to think things like that, don’t say them out loud!” the boss hissed. “I know where you’re coming from, but if a Custodian were to overhear you speaking like that you’ll be up on sedition charges.”
I noticed Con and Matt glance suspiciously at Ryan. No guesses to what they were thinking.
Other foragers started to bombard the boss with questions, but he held up his hands again. “Enough already. And before you ask, there’s no food here. You’re just gonna have to tough it out tonight and hope they let us go home in the morning. Just be glad I ain’t asking you to work. Now git! Go find some corner and talk, play cards, or sleep, I don’t care. Just stay out of my hair.”
The boss stormed back through the office doors and disappeared. I guessed he wanted to get home just as much as we did.
“Bet he’s got food stashed up there,” Gerry said wistfully.
“The scumbag,” Jack said. That elicited a few laughs.
Grumbling, cursing and cussing, the foragers split into cliques and teams, some going into the warehouse, others remaining in the yard.
Still cut about my argument with Ryan this morning and despondent because of the protest’s failure, I wandered alone into the warehouse. Although fluorescent lights hung from the corrugated roof, it was getting gloomy inside thanks to the sun sinking slowly towards the horizon, letting little light through the windows.
I meandered past piles of broken washing machines, dishwashers, oil and gas heaters, and untold other mechanical things the metals forager teams had brought in. Then came huge metal cages stuffed half-full of books, newspapers, magazines, cardboard and paper. Massive heaps of plastic were on the other side of the warehouse, but what caught my eye was the haphazard pile of wooden articles stacked in the warehouse’s back corner. Desks, chairs, beds, wardrobes, dressers – broken for the most part. These were items discarded by the town’s inhabitants. Beside them were piles of timber, cut neatly to required sizes.
I was about to wander off when something caused my breath to catch in my throat. Hardly believing my eyes, I rushed closer to the discarded furniture and stood there in a state of disbelief – I was staring at my own wardrobe. Thrown on top of it were my mother’s and father’s wardrobes. A quick glance around and I soon spotted our beds, chairs, and dining table.
The thing caused me such anguish, though, was that our perfectly good furniture had been thrown onto the pile like junk, damaging or smashing it in the process. Table and chair legs were broken off, doors split through, hinges torn away, drawer knobs smashed off, and dints and scratches galore.
What a waste! Our furniture had signs of wear and tear, that was true, so why didn’t they sell it off cheap or send it over to the homeless shelter where it would have been put to immediate use?
I ran my hand along the dining room table, my fingers finding a deep scratch that brought back memories.
Brand and I were seven, sitting at the dining room table drawing in scrapbooks with textas our father bought at the market. He was drawing Custodians shooting Skel, I was drawing a picture of the flat I wished we lived in. A flat looking remarkably like the ones in North End we could see over the dividing wall. Our sister, four years old, played over near the TV with a cloth doll mother made for her.
“Can’t get this lid off,” Brandon said. He was pulling on it as hard as he could.
“If you didn’t bash them on when you finished using them...” I said.
“More fun that way.” He beamed merrily.
“Here, I’ll get it off.” I reached out my hand.
He gave me the texta. I grabbed a pair of scissors, closed them over the cap, twisted and pushed with all my might.
“Not like that!” he squeaked.
Unfortunately, his warning came too late. The scissors pulled off the cap, but also slammed into the polished surface of the table, creating a deep furrow.
“Oops,” I said, face heating up when I realised the enormity of what I’d done. Mother would kill me.
My eyes widened in terror when we heard mother heading our way. Quick as a flash, Brandon snatched the scissors from my hands.
Mother saw the damage to her precious table immediately, mouth opening in shock.
“Sorry, Mother, I slipped,” Brandon said with what appeared to be genuine remorse.
I watched her face going through a series of emotions – from distress, to rage, and finally, acceptance. She never truly got angry at her precious son. Though had she realised it was I who cut the table, she would have lost her rag and sent me to my room without lunch.
“Be more careful, Son,” she admonished gently.
“Yes, Mother,” Brandon said, winking at me.
I mouthed a silent, “Thank you.”
“So you’re going to hide back here and sulk all night?” Ryan asked. His voice was tinged with anger.
I jumped to my feet, sniffing back tears. Too emotional to talk, I avoided his gaze.
“Crying over broken furniture now?” he asked.
“Will you get off my case?”
He expired with frustration. “I’m not on your case.”
“Then what do you call it? Harping on about my injuries and your theories as to how I got them?”
“I know you didn’t get them falling down stairs–”
“There you go again.” Angry, I met his gaze.
He looked at my dining room table and frowned. “I don’t get you, Brandon. You own a Skel and save our lives with feats of dexterity the likes of which I’ve never seen. Then you turn up this morning like the proverbial walking wounded and get angry when I raise it with you. And now I find you crying over busted up old furniture? Seriously, man, what gives?”
“Can’t you give me some space? This hasn’t been a good day for me, okay? I was hoping the stop-work protest would achieve something, you know, like better living conditions. Instead we learn it was crushed with typical Custodian brutality.” And of course, there was him with his too-close guesses and not speaking to me all day.
I turned to leave, but he reached out and grabbed my arm.
Majorly annoyed, and concerned he’d realise my arm wasn’t masculine, I quickly shook off his hand. “Let go of me!”
Ryan slapped a hand to his forehand. “Look, sorry, mate. I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
“Then why did you come?”
“I wanted to talk.”
“Funny way of going about it.” I gave him the evil eye.
“Sorry, I'm not the easiest person in the world to get along with.” He smiled sheepishly.
“No kidding.”
“Hey, you're no ray of sunshine yourself!”
“If you came over here to insult me–” I made to leave. He reached for me again, hesitated, and lowered his hand.
“I came over here to tell you you’re right. If I won’t talk about my past, why should you?” he said.
That stumped me. Why didn’t he say that in the first place instead of accusing me of sulking?
“Okay, I’m listening,” I said.
He grabbed a chair that still had four legs from the pile of disca
rded furniture and sat down.
“I was working in an automotive factory before I came here. Kind of enjoyed it to, but one of the experienced mechanics stuffed up and an apprentice was badly injured. However, rather than tell the truth, the mechanic and all the other guys who saw the accident covered it up, testifying it was the apprentice who made the mistake that caused the accident. The poor guy was taken to hospital and sacked on the same day.”
I sat on the edge of a broken wooden desk. “So where do you fit into all this?”
Ryan looked down as he continued. “I went to the boss the next day and told him what really happened, and gave him evidence of the cover up. The boss sacked the mechanic on the spot and reported him to the Custodians. Unfortunately, none of the other guys saw the situation as I did. Suddenly I was public enemy number one. Not only did they all shun me, they also orchestrated a revenge campaign, breaking my tools, sabotaging my work, stealing my lunch, urinating in my drink bottle. Even those I’d counted as friends turned on me. All of them.”
“And so you left.” Now I understood why he wouldn’t let me near him when he first joined us.
“Yeah.” He looked up. “Had to. I did the right thing but it cost me everything. A job I enjoyed, the respect of my workmates, and all my friends.”
“Not all of them,” I said, giving him a friendly punch on the shoulder.
“Thanks, mate.” He rewarded me with the first heartfelt smile I’d seen him give.
I sighed, wishing life was always like this. That guys and girls could meet and socialise freely without fear of being arrested for inappropriate contact with the opposite sex.
“You wanna tell me the furniture story now?”
I jumped off the desk and ran my hand over our dining room table. “This table, those wardrobes, chairs, beds – they’re ours. At least they were, until last Saturday.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We got evicted after my father was arrested.” My face burned red with shame from sharing a part of my life I had intended to keep hidden. “He owed eight weeks back rent and we had no money. Not even me. And as we could only take with us what we could carry, the rest was auctioned off or brought here.”
“So where are you living now – with relatives?”
“The homeless shelter,” I replied, my voice coming out as a croak.
“Really? Sorry mate, I had no idea. I feel the complete heel, going on at you when you’ve been going through all this.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. I should have told you, I was just too embarrassed.”
“You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about, Brandon. Stick your chin up and let everyone see your backbone. It’s not where you live that makes the man, it’s who you are and how you behave.”
“Thanks, I needed to hear that.”
“Hey, you hungry?” He gave me a sly smile.
“There’s no food.”
“I’ve always got extra crackers and dried fruit in my bag. Enough for two, in fact.” He slipped off his backpack and unzipped it.
“I ain’t gonna say no, but what about everyone else?” Thinking of us scoffing food while every else starved sent pangs of guilt shooting through me.
“They’ll live. Besides, it’s really only a snack.” He winked as he handed me a handful of crackers.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ryan and I made small talk until the early hours of the morning. He went on a trip down memory lane, recounting some of his experiences in school. Having never been to school myself, I shared some of my brother’s school adventures. Pranking the teachers, getting one up on the bullies, putting red food dye in the toilet tanks. By the time he fell asleep on the floor, Ryan had gotten to know my brother pretty well.
I tried to get some sleep in a chair, but it was too uncomfortable. I had never been able to sleep on my back, and I couldn’t sleep on my side because it would reveal my narrow waist.
Nature called so I headed for the toilets. Lucky for me they were all enclosed cubicles. I noticed that half the foragers had fallen asleep and the rest were still talking or playing cards.
I was almost there when Con jumped up from where he was sitting with a bunch of plastics-and-paper foragers.
“Wait up, Brandon,” he called as he hurried over to me.
“Aren’t you old enough to go to the toilet by yourself?” I asked.
“Funny.” He joined me, practically standing on my toes. I was glad for the cap. He would probably stand nose to nose otherwise. “Spending the night with our friendly informer, I see.”
“How many times do I have to tell you he’s not an informer?”
“Have you found out where he worked previously?”
“An automotive factory.”
“He told us that when we met him. I want to know which one.” He glowered at me, exasperated.
“I tried, but he won’t open up. Just says his last job was too painful to talk about.”
“What the blazes have you two been talking about all night then?”
He was watching us? An involuntary shudder wracked through me. “School days, mostly.”
“Man, you’re utterly useless, you know that?” he spat.
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“Don’t smart-mouth me, boy. Try the direct approach, ask him outright.”
I rolled my eyes. “I already did. If I press the issue he just clams up and won’t talk to me for hours. Like he did today.”
“We’ve got to find a way to get him off the team; he’s really cramping our freedom. If you can’t get me the name of where he worked so I can get some dirt on him, I’m going to have to try more drastic measures.”
That sent chills down my spine. “Like what?”
“Don’t worry your little head about it.” He turned and stomped back to his friends.
I hurried to the toilet, mind awash with fears for Ryan’s safety. They already tried to get rid of Ryan by letting Skel capture him. So what exactly would ‘drastic measures’ entail? From here on, I would have to really keep my wits about me, watching over Ryan as well as keeping an eye on the other three goons.
* * *
After what was for many of us a sleepless night followed by a day in which we sorted recycling materials into piles, they let us go home in the afternoon. By then we were starving, grumbling and irritable from having been locked in the warehouse for twenty-four hours with nothing to do. Before he let us go home, the boss filled us in on what happened to the protestors. The leaders and other notables were sentenced to lengthy prison-factory sentences and everyone else who participated was given a hefty fine.
It galled me that Con had been right when he told us not to get involved.
* * *
It was Friday lunchtime. We were back in the same street, foraging for paper. Con said the council was about to publish a new handbook outlining the town’s ideologies, and demanded truckloads of recyclable paper.
Ryan and I ate our lunch sitting on a pile of bricks in the small backyard of a townhouse. The other three were next door, by the sound of it. Con hadn’t made any moves towards Ryan yet, but I was on full alert, ready for anything but having no idea what it would be.
Voices coming from the property behind us startled me from my reverie.
“What is it?” Ryan asked.
I held a finger to my lips. “I thought I heard something.”
“Skel?” He jumped to his feet, eyes wide.
The voices were not guttural like Skel, and I could hear males and females, chatting amicably, even laughing. I picked my way silently towards the back fence, moving through knee-high wild grass that grew beneath a tree whose branches formed an umbrella over the yard.
“What are you doing!” Ryan hissed.
Reaching the fence, I knelt and looked through a gap between the rotting wooden planks. I saw a large shed with asbestos walls and a corrugated roof, and a dilapidated house behind it. Four youths were in the backyard, two guys and two girls, all
about my age. They had removed boxes of tools and equipment from the shed and laid them out on the wide concrete area between the house and shed.
“Anyone know what this is for?” asked a tall, slim guy with brown hair. He was struggling to hold up a strange iron contraption with wheels, levers, and threaded rods.
“It’s an old lathe,” replied one of the girls. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, but considerably more solid.
“How do you plug it in?” he asked.
“That’s only part of it,” she replied. “Rest is still in the shed.”
“How do you know so much, Jen?” the guy asked.
“She actually does things with her dad,” replied the second guy. He was built like Ryan, a bodybuilder, and of Indian ancestry, at a guess.
“Sorry, milking cows and farming just doesn’t do it for me. Plenty more interesting things in the world,” the tall guy said.
The other girl, who had been watching her companions banter good naturedly, suddenly pointed to my position and staggered backwards in fear. “Someone’s there!” she shrieked.
In the bat of an eye, the four of them pulled handguns from their belts and aimed them at me.
“Whoever you are, you’ve got three seconds to put your hands up and show yourself, or we’ll blow your head off!” the Indian guy shouted.
I almost died when Ryan unexpectedly grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away.
“Let’s go, Brandon!” he whispered fiercely.
Following a hunch that these kids were not bad news, I shook his hand off, stood, and lifted my arms above my head. The top half of the fence plank was missing, so they could see me clearly.
“We mean you no harm.” I spoke slowly but clearly.
“Who are you and why you spying on us?” asked the heavyset girl. Her gun was aimed at my head.
“Not spying, just curious. Never seen guys and girls working together before,” I replied.
The Indian lowered his gun. “From Newhome, huh?”
I nodded. “You’ve heard of our town?”
Impersonator (Forager Impersonator - A Post Apocalyptic Trilogy Book 1) Page 16
