Forager - the Complete Six Book Series (A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Series)

by Peter R Stone

  Man, he was getting close with these guesses! Too close. I had to deflect him somehow. “I already told you I didn’t know he was taking them, let alone where he got them from. Can’t you just accept I fell down the stairs and leave it at that?”

  “No. As I said, I’m worried about you.”

  “Well, don’t be! I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

  ‘You can be a right pain in the butt, you know that?” He threw his arms in the air.

  “Me? What about your refusal to talk about your last job. Oh, let me guess, it’s too painful to talk about.”

  “Actually, it is.”

  “In that case, it’s too painful to talk to you too. About anything.” I turned my back on him and hobbled off to look for paper.

  A moment later, he stomped up the stairs, muttering to himself about how frustrating and annoying I was. Tough.

  We didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the day, just tip toed around each other as we did our jobs. We even ate our lunches separately.

  “Something happen between you two?” Jack asked when we were tossing the paper into the back of the truck when they came back to pick us up at five.

  “Oh shut up,” I snapped.

  “Okay, Hermie.”

  A book hit the back of Jack’s head.

  “Oi!”

  I sat up front next to Con on the way back, still fuming.

  * * *

  “That’s not good,” Matt said when we got back to town.

  “What’s not good?” Con demanded.

  “There’s a squad of Custodians outside the gates,” I said.

  “Guess their stop-work protest didn’t go down as planned,” Jack said.

  Con brought the truck to a stop a good five meters from the gates and quickly addressed us. “If they start asking questions, we didn’t know about the protest, got it?”

  “What does it matter if we did?” Jack asked.

  Matt knocked on Jack’s head. “Anything in there, or is it just space for rent? Think, man! What do you reckon the Custodians will do if they find out we knew about the protest but didn’t report it?”

  “Oh.” Realisation dawned on Jack’s youthful face.

  “Out of the truck and line up!” bellowed the Custodian sergeant. As he came closer, two of his men went around to the back of the truck. I moaned inwardly when I realised it was Sergeant King. Again. What was with this guy – were our meetings coincidences or was he deliberately on my case?

  We climbed slowly out of the truck and lined up in front of it. I made sure I didn’t stand next to Ryan. I had had enough of his hypocritical attitude today, not to mention he was getting too close to the truth.

  “What have you model citizens been up to today?” King looked directly at me as he spoke.

  “We’ve been foraging, Sir.” Con’s voice bordered on insolence.

  “Is that right?” King mocked.

  The Custodians who went to the back of the truck returned. “Truck’s full of books and paper, Sir.”

  King seemed moderately surprised. “Any of you know about this stop-work protest?”

  “Protest, Sir?” Con replied.

  “Cut the bull, Dimitriou. I know you foragers always have your finger on the pulse.” King stepped closer, giving Con a taste of his own standover tactics.

  “Actually, we’re a tight nit bunch who keep pretty much to ourselves. Sir.”

  King came over to me. “What about you, Thomas – anything to add?”

  “About what, Sir?” I gave him a sickly sweet smile. The one Brandon used to drive me nuts when he made fun of me. Something he did a lot. A sign of affection in his case.

  “One of these days...” King’s voice trailed off, but his animosity was unmistakable. He had it in for us. For me. “Right then, back in the truck and follow us to the Recycling Works. You will be spending the night there.”

  “Excuse me, Sir?” I stepped forward, alarmed. I couldn’t leave my mother and sister alone. What if Deacon and his pet dinosaur dropped in?

  “The town’s in a state of lock-down,” the sergeant replied, revelling in the discomfort it caused us. “No one is permitted on the streets for any reason.”

  “But–”

  “Drop it, Brandon,” Matt whispered, propelling me towards the truck. “Nothing good’s going to be gained by antagonising him further.”

  “My family–”

  “Can survive a night without you. Now move!”

  Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me after him. “Come on, mate, Matt’s right.”

  I climbed into the cab after him, but not after a glance at Ryan. I was surprised to see him studying me carefully, no doubt trying to ascertain the reason I was so desperate to get home.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “What’s going on, Boss?” Con demanded when we were back in the Recycling Works yard in front of the office entrance. We were with all the other foragers – there were over forty of us. Sergeant King had shepherded us to the yard and left. I could hear Custodian vehicles patrolling the streets outside, though – Bushmaster Armoured Mobility vehicles and G-Wagons.

  Trajan Barclay stood on the office steps, looking extremely flustered.

  “We really gonna spend the night locked in here?” I asked.

  “What are we supposed to eat – recyclables?” Gerry asked. He worked in one of the metals foraging teams, apparently.

  Trajan held up his hands. “All I know is that a handful of factories over near the markets went on some sort of strike, demanding certain concessions be met before they would go back to work.”

  “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 fo
rager 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 discarded 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.”