The Collector

by Luna, David

  As Mazer reaches the observation window, he barely catches a glimpse of Jace’s bruised and broken body tipped over on the floor, his hands and feet still tied to a chair, just as Slayter flips off the light. Slayter steps out with his sleeves rolled up and blood on his knuckles, some of it his, most of it Jace’s. Slayter’s been hard at work questioning Jace, but a slight shake of his head informs Mazer his efforts were unsuccessful. And based on Jace’s limp body and lack of signs of breathing, the interrogation is officially over.

  Slayter glances to the television screens, to the monitors, then to the concerned workers – the Agency office spiraling into disarray. “You’re losing your control,” he comments.

  Control…Mazer knows it is slipping from his grip, and he takes it personally. He can only imagine how the rest of the city is reacting as news of the Brigade’s recent conquest spreads. It’s another victory for all those who oppose their philosophies. Mazer knows victory breeds hope, and hope will only fuel the Brigade’s crusade. He cycles through his limited options before dialing on his PDA.

  “Neil. I have an assignment.”

  Quado types away by candlelight on her laptop, her feet propped up on the control room mixing board inside the Public Access TV Station. Knee-deep on another blog post, her attention perks up when the bright soundstage lights suddenly whir to life, accompanied by the eerie laugh track echoing throughout the studio. The control room looks out onto the country themed soundstage, now illuminated, where nothing looks out of the ordinary – the two clothed mannequins situated at the kitchen table with the bird cage still between them and covered with a sheet.

  Quado leans close to a microphone and presses a button to speak over the studio intercom. “Hello?” her voice blares out with no response. She clicks her cheek to illicit a response from her parrot beneath the sheet, but to no avail.

  “Who’s here?” she commands.

  Silence. She scrunches her brow as she tries to communicate with the parrot again, click click click click.

  The bird finally responds. “Distract them. Distract them,” it squawks, though muffled.

  Quado senses something’s not right. She knows someone else is there. “Show yourself!” she demands.

  Her heart nearly skips a beat when the intruder reveals himself, not because it’s Neil, but because Neil clutches her beloved bird threateningly between his palms. He stares at her from down below on the stage up towards the control room, the glass window separating them. “What do you want?” she asks.

  “Distract them,” the parrot squawks again. “Distract them.”

  Neil remains silent. A nod of his head combined with his steel eyes confirm the parrot’s request.

  “Who, the Brigade? The people?” Quado asks, responding to the bird but really trying to speak to Neil. “I only write about what I see.”

  “Distract them,” the parrot repeats.

  “This isn’t funny,” Quado says, her eyes pleading. “Say something.”

  Neil reorients his grip around the bird’s neck, ready to squeeze tight and snap it in two when the lights suddenly shut off.

  “No!” Quado shouts, the soundstage beyond the glass overtaken by shadow. The lit candle reflects off her face as she listens for any sound, any movement, desperately waiting for the male voice to squawk out, “Time to lean, time to clean” at the darkness, except this time there’s nothing.

  Quado stumbles out of the control room towards the emergency generator located off to the side of the soundstage. She cranks the shaft, but just as the lights whir back to life, Neil is gone.

  Quado collapses to her knees in tears as the eerie laugh track rings out, her last remaining family member taken from her. She sobs, until a voice interrupts.

  “Time to lean, time to clean,” squawks the male voice from beneath the dusty sheet, mimicking her father.

  Quado wipes her tears as she whips off the cover to the cage to reveal the colorful bird alive and well. “You’re alive!” she exclaims as she retrieves it. She caresses its neck with her finger.

  “Distract them,” the parrot squawks, reminding her of her orders that Neil and the Agency want her to do. “Distract them.”

  Neil and Slayter eat in silence opposite one another at their booth inside Dani’s Diner. Slayter inhales his meal, while Neil barely touches his. He looks to the backs of Slayter’s hands, then to his own, both pairs cracked and dry, oddly similar to their lives as Collectors.

  As he tries to shake off his feeling of uneasiness, he grabs his PDA to check the RSS feeds. Quado has released an unusual amount of posts over the past thirty-six hours, almost double than normal, exactly as she was instructed to do in order to distract the citizens of the city:

  REFORM SCHOOL: The Agency recently held a presentation at the reform school. As you know, reformatory consists mainly of orphans. Don’t you think it’s so compassionate how much the Agency cares about those that feel alone?

  OH SUNNY DAY: The sky looked beautiful today. With the way the sun reflected through the smog and pollution, the hazy view was actually relaxing. It’s much better than having clear skies because then nothing would block the sun and it’d be way too hot.

  EXERCISE CHALLENGE: While some filter their urine to salvage drinking water, what if we did the same with our sweat? Exercising and collecting sweat for one hour a day would put less of a burden on the Agency distribution trucks. I’m sure they would appreciate it if we all weren’t so reliant on them!

  While clearly filled with angst and pessimism, there is no mention of the Brigade or their victory. Even near the front counter where every mounted TV plays either the Agency Infomercial or the news, there is no mention of the Brigade. Instead, the same News Reporter from before focuses on the benefits of a recent addition to the penal codes – Code 17.84.f – a city-wide curfew beginning nightly at 10:00pm. Slayter grunts in agreement when the punishment for breaking the new code is reviewed, then stuffs his mouth with bread and water.

  Neil ignores Slayter’s caveman-like eating habits, satisfied at the Agency’s ability to eliminate coverage of Adrianne’s kidnapping in order to prevent adding more fuel to the Brigade’s fire of momentum. Now all they need to do is find Leon and Chelsea, the two remaining leaders of the Brigade, which will lead them to Adrianne and allow Neil to set this right. He resists the urge to consider the possibility that Adrianne may no longer be living. Even though he sees people face death on a daily basis, the thought of her death doesn’t sit well in his stomach. Adrianne always seemed so lively. So passionate about relaying the details of his next assignment. He signed up to be a Collector and to deal with the people, both good and bad, while she didn’t. He has to find Leon and Chelsea – for Wade, for Adrianne, for Inna – especially for Inna. For once he captures the rest of the Brigade then things can go back to how they used to be. Back when he was just a Collector and not a bounty hunter…back when he was just a Collector and not an interrogator…back when he was just a Collector and not a killer.

  Neil slides out from the booth and sidesteps over to a coffee cart along the wall, in dire need of caffeine to help clear his mind of these heavy thoughts. As he adds a drop of cream to his black brew, a hand suddenly brushes against his. He thinks nothing of it, merely an accident by a stranger, until the hand lingers, stroking the top of his cracked knuckles and accompanied by a subtle giggle. He immediately recognizes the innocent laughter as Inna.

  Neil’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull as he yanks his hand away. “What if someone noticed?” Inna plays it off without concern. She pretends to fiddle with the sugar and cream while never directly making eye contact. She giggles again, childlike, as she moves towards the restroom, slyly glancing back for Neil to follow as she slips through the door.

  Neil nearly picks his own jaw up from the floor. “What the hell does Inna think she is doing?” He looks to Slayter, still lurched over his food at the booth while watching the news, then takes a moment to scan every face at the
diner and convince himself no one saw anything. His pulse begins to return to normal as he lowers his concern, then registers that the encounter was oddly exciting. It was risky to touch hands out in a public space. Dangerous to interact with Inna outside of his apartment since a random identification check could happen at any moment. Just the thought of their brief interaction at the coffee cart sends a small surge through his veins. A feeling no amount of caffeine could provide. A rush similar to the one he felt the night he and Inna fled from the SEO at the restricted church ruins after nearly getting caught. He can still recall that night quite vividly, finding himself lost in the moment while dancing at the Bayou Sector. Now, with a Breacher waiting for him in the restroom and his partner just a few meters away in the crowded diner, Neil is again presented with the opportunity to feel that rush. He verifies that no one is still paying any attention to him, then with a deep breath and going against all better judgment, he moves towards the back and slips into the bathroom.

  Inna leaps onto Neil immediately as he steps into the single occupancy stall, her lips targeting his. He backs her against the wall, then stumbles to the sink and returns the passion, tearing at her shirt and massaging her chest. “Wait—,” he says as his brain struggles to regain control, but she shushes him as she attacks his neck, biting him. It’s hot. Heated. Passionate. All elements that have been lacking from their secret relationship. As skin touches skin and beads of sweat begin to glisten off of their bodies, suddenly the door handle jiggles.

  “It’s taken,” Neil manages to shout through Inna’s lips as someone attempts to come in. Luckily the lock does its job, but the close call is enough to snap him out of the moment.

  “What’s the matter?” Inna furrows her brow as he breaks away.

  “You can’t be so careless.”

  “Nobody saw anything.”

  “What if that was Slayter?” he points to the door handle, then asks grimly, “How am I supposed to protect you when I’m nothing but smoke in those smokestacks?” She ignores him and pulls him forward to kiss him again, turned on by the moment. Neil nearly allows himself to again be swept away until he commands her to stop, then grabs her by the shoulders. “We’ll deal with this later,” he says. This time his eyes never falter. “We have to stick to the procedures.”

  “I hate your procedures,” she growls in frustration as she fixes her top.

  “It’s the reason we’re alive,” he reminds her.

  “What’s the point if you’re just going to keep me trapped in that prison?”

  Her words penetrate his shield. He doesn’t like keeping her cooped up, and it’s clear she obviously doesn’t like it, always having had the freedom to explore places like the landfill as she pleased. But he knows it’s what they have to do if they want to be together. He searches for the correct words to say, but he was never good with words so it takes longer than he hoped. Just as he opens his mouth a voice from outside interrupts.

  “Attention people of the city,” the voice blares out. The voice is loud – too loud to be coming from the opposite side of the restroom door. It seemingly echoes through the streets all the way outside the diner.

  Neil furrows his brow. “Wait exactly three minutes before leaving, say goodbye to someone at the counter, then head north up the sidewalk,” he instructs.

  Inna gets it. She’s heard him explain the procedure for exiting the same location before. He’s had her recite it dozens of times to prove her understanding. She nods just to convince him yet again that they are on the same page. Neil kisses her forehead before slipping out the door.

  Immediately Neil notices everyone in the diner is crowded near the window and staring outside. Even Slayter is on his feet, already on his way out and lumbering into the street. Neil rushes to catch up.

  The two Collectors join dozens of others from the surrounding buildings, all flooding out onto the cracked pavement with their heads tilted up towards the largest digital billboard screen towering over the Downtown Sector. The screen has been hacked, transmitting a live video feed of Leon and Chelsea.

  “The Agency can try whatever dirty tactic they want to try to control the flow of information, but they can never suppress us,” Leon announces. Neil and the citizens gravitate towards the transmission like insects to a light. Leon continues, “For the last decade, a virus has infected our city. Slowly spreading. Ingraining itself within our core and killing us by the masses.”

  Inside Agency Headquarters, dozens of television screens display the same video feed as the Agency workers are forced to watch on. The Brigade has managed to hack every broadcast system.

  “There is a name to this sickness,” Leon says on the television. “They call themselves the Collections Agency.”

  Mazer sits behind his desk while the message plays on his computer. Stoic and motionless, he watches Leon crowd the camera and stare directly at the lens – directly at Mazer – his face nearly covering the entire screen.

  “Bill Mazer,” Leon calls out. “You stand in front of the Board as the face of this disease. A vile leech sucking life from our great city. Now hear our message. You kill our innocent, we kill yours.” Leon rotates the camera to reveal Adrianne tied to a chair with the burlap sack over her head.

  Mazer doesn’t react, though his thumb nearly subconsciously snaps his pen in half.

  Adrianne’s digitized whimpers echo from the billboard’s speakers throughout the heart of Downtown.

  Leon taunts her as he pets her like an animal, stroking her hair. “Do you hear that? The heartbeat of the people waking up? Do you smell that? Life percolating back in?” Leon turns and stares into the camera. “You have forty-eight hours to dismantle the Agency otherwise this woman dies. We are the true preservers. We are the Brigade.”

  Leon flips a switch and the video feed disappears, replaced by the signature Uncle Sam image and Agency slogan, SPARE LIVES BY SELLING YOURS. A stunned silence fills the air until suddenly – BOOM! – an IED explodes at the base of the giant digital billboard. The sound of twisted metal screeches as the towering billboard careens over. Masses of bodies flee the streets away from the collapsing monument, Neil himself included as he sprints to escape the structure’s reach. He dives for cover on the opposite side of a parked car, then shields the back of his neck just as the tower crashes into the pavement, propagating a riptide of smoke, dust, and debris outwards through the streets – Neil narrowly avoiding death by just a few meters.

  The screams of pain and hysteria force his eyes to open. He glances to Slayter, still on his feet having never even flinched from the blast, then to the surrounding state of chaos. He rushes to aid a nearby man whose lower torso is crushed beneath a piece of the billboard’s metal, tugging to pull him out until he realizes the man’s lower half is missing. Neil almost gags at the growing pool of blood as the man babbles in a state of shock, then grows quiet as his body goes limp.

  Neil stares at the lifeless body until his PDA buzzes and jolts him to release the dead man’s hands. It’s an emergency message from Mazer, “Find them!”

  Neil crosses through rising smoke in the aftermath of the blast where a sadness washes over his face. Dozens are dead, and many that are alive will soon die from their wounds. He clinches his fist, furious at the selfishness of the Brigade. The heartbeat of the people – nothing could be further from the truth. He agrees with Mazer’s text. He must find the Brigade.

  Neil reaches the origin of the IED at the base of the collapsed billboard tower and scours for clues. Sifting through the rubble, most everything has been turned to ash except for the last remnants of a thick strand of string embedded within the metal. To most it would look like a fragment of debris caught in the blast radius, but Neil recognizes it as the remains of the fuse used to ignite the IED. As he thumbs it between his fingers, a distinct smell reaches his nose, his brow furrowing. He examines the fuse closer, noticing it is made up of clumps of dried moss braided together. He smells it again – a unique musty sce
nt – the same he first experienced from the webbing of the Dream Catcher back in the Bayou Sector. He retrieves the pendant hidden in a cargo pocket of his uniform and compares it to the fuse – an exact match – both items forged from the same scented material Abby claimed was specific to their region and couldn’t be found elsewhere in the city, not even the Black Market.

  Neil rubs the moss between his fingers as he mulls over the clue. If what Abby said is indeed true, then Neil knows he just found his best lead to the origins of the bomb – and with any luck – potentially the bombmaker.

  ******

  Coincidence or Not

  Does anyone find the shape of the Wall enclosing the city to be a little suspicious? It’s shaped like a horseshoe. Next time you see the Agency logo, tilt your head and you’ll see the C is also kinda shaped like a horseshoe. I know the Wall was built prior to the Agency, but that is some coincidence!

  -Quado

  19

  Chelsea squats between two fallen trees, just a few of the many no longer living, the outskirts of the bayou a graveyard of parched cypress. She extracts thin fibers from the shredded bark littering the forest floor and packs it into a pail, then adds handfuls of moss to her collection, retrieving it from deep within the cracks in the ground and also between the branch limbs.

  With her supplies sufficient, she returns to the ground level of the Bayou Sector – the former site of Elijah and Abby’s Collection Date party – and crosses towards a shack on the edge of the perimeter. The dwelling is separated from the rest of the communal forts built high within the trees. Isolated. Reclusive. A bearded man in overalls stops rocking in his porch chair and pretends to shift his focus to his harmonica, eyes white like he’s seen a ghost. Other residents spy from the tiered bridges connecting the upper levels above, whispering to one another as Chelsea passes below, oblivious.