Thrown Away Omnibus 1 (Parts 1-4)

by Glynn James

  And he was no longer in the fighting pit, hearing the jeering crowd as they chanted the name of their champion, JumpingJack, JumpingJack over and over.

  His name. No. His name back then.

  His pit name. Or was that pet name?

  Now he was standing on the hard chipped concrete ground of the old train station once more. Ryan would be hiding where he had been told to, just a few dozen yards away, watching fearfully as Jack was encircled by the gang.

  There were six of them.

  And they were the ones who stole the boy’s shoes.

  I have to be dreaming to know that. The boy, he told you that these were the ones who stole his shoes. But he told you after you fought them. Not before.

  So this had already happened.

  This must be a dream.

  But it didn’t feel like it had already happened. The gang was spreading out, circling round, trapping him in and closing, slowly. They would strike as one, he knew. They were a group that hunted together, and they knew how to work as a team. They were dangerous.

  But they had no idea what was coming and how dangerous their single opponent was.

  And you were sure that you would die back then, weren’t you?

  There were six of them. Too many. You’d never fought six before. But you still drew just one machete and started hopping on your feet, circling back, hopping forward – testing them. Hop, hop, hop. Dancing, almost. A way of moving that earned you a nickname, once.

  And this was it, he thought. I am dreaming. This was it. In one moment the guy to the right, the one dressed in the ripped leather jacket with the blue splotch across the front. Paint maybe? Blue gunk, whatever it was. You never did know. He would rush you. And then the rest would come in. You’ll go past him, that’s what happened, and he didn’t expect it. You grabbed his arm as he swung the bat at you and you spun round, swapping places with him even as your other hand brought the machete across his throat. Then down with your other hand to fetch the second blade from your belt.

  The man leapt forward, and Jack side-stepped. The bat came swinging down right where he had been a second earlier but he was already moving forward, one hand grabbing and pulling the gang member’s arm, pulling him past him. The other hand brought up the machete and swept it across the man’s exposed throat as he went by.

  And this was as the rest of the gang moved in, but they didn’t get what they expected, did they? Instead of you backing off fearfully, easily trapped, they got their own guy, stumbling forward with spurting blood all over them. They crashed into each other to get back, one of them tripping. And it was that guy that took the next machete cut.

  Jack moved past the second man, who was already bleeding out rapidly on the floor. He lifted his machete to strike the third man.

  But it wasn’t a gang member.

  And he was no longer in the abandoned train station.

  Where was he now?

  Alone.

  He still had his machete in his hand, but he was alone now and in the dark.

  No, not alone. In the dark of the tunnel.

  His stomach churned.

  No. Not the tunnel.

  Not that again.

  He didn’t want to see what was in the tunnel again.

  “Hey,” came a voice from the darkness.

  Jack stumbled away, trying to avoid the voice. He didn’t want to see who it was, what it was.

  But wait. Those things hadn’t talked. They couldn’t.

  Dreaming again.

  “Hey, wake up.”

  The things in the tunnel had no voices, no vocal chords at all, no minds, no speech. Nothing. They were empty creatures, driven only by animal instinct. Once human – maybe – long ago. But not then, not now.

  Jack felt something slapping the side of his face, but he couldn’t see what it was in the darkness. He tried to bat the hand away, but it was persistent.

  Then sunlight burst into the scene and lit up the tunnel, and he could see them all around him. Dead things that didn’t stay dead. They approached, stumbling toward him, the nearest just feet away.

  Still a dream.

  Then he sat up, nearly banging his head on the low roof of the tiny room in the shack.

  “At last,” said the voice, and Jack’s vision swam, hurrying to catch up with the next scene. He wasn’t in the tunnel, wasn’t in the old rail station, and not in the pit.

  “I wondered if you was going to sleep forever,” said the old man.

  Then the dream left him, and Jack remembered where he was. In the shack, somewhere. In a tiny room with a rough bed. His leg dislocated at the knee. Yet it didn’t hurt at the moment, and didn’t seem too bad as he moved it.

  “You, err…you like mushrooms?” the old man asked him, offering him a bowl filled with some greenish, greyish sludge. It looked foul, but the smell was fantastic.

  Did he like mushrooms? He couldn’t remember ever eating them before. Or had he? He thought maybe he had.

  More Secrets

  Lisa frowned. Then she stopped frowning, realising she had been doing a lot of that lately.

  “It’s not there,” Hailey said, banging on the table. The woman was frustrated. She didn’t like not being in control of the computer system.

  Lisa leaned forward and started tapping the keys, waited for the results, and then stood back. “Maybe there’s a problem with the system?” she asked.

  “Nothing that I can find,” said Hailey. “I put three other reports in at the same time, and they are all still in there, I checked. The one on E2 is gone, like...well, someone got rid of it.”

  Jackson, Lisa thought. Or Rogen. One of them. Both would have the clearance to remove the records if they wanted to. And it made what she had seen the previous night even more strange. No, not strange – it damn well put the chills up her. Something was going on that was not legitimate, but she had no way of knowing what it was.

  Unless she figured out how to open the hatch next time.

  The scratches. What was with the scratches? She’d checked in with maintenance and they’d said that the scratches would go when they gave the carriers their usual blast cleaning, a process they used to clear out all the crap that the machines picked up out in the dirt and grime of The Junklands. The guys over in maintenance had told her just an hour before that the carriers had scratch and dents marks on them all the time, and that they promised to clean up E2. She wouldn’t even know the marks had been on it, they’d said. They’d promised.

  But Lisa hadn’t been bothered about the marks being removed. What bothered her was that she couldn’t find out if other carriers had come back similarly marked.

  Happened all the time, maintenance had told her.

  “Let’s just move on to the next issue,” said Lisa.

  Hailey turned to face her. “Doesn’t it bug you? Not knowing?”

  Lisa nodded. “Yeah, sure,” she said. “But it’s not important. I want to know where we’re headed tomorrow.”

  Hailey turned back, tapped at the keyboard, and peered at the screen. “Sector thirty-two,” she said. “Just another salvage op.”

  Lisa sighed. “Nice. At least I can work on my tan.”

  Two hours later, Lisa tossed the scruffy paperback book she was reading onto the floor next to her bed and sat up.

  Sector thirty-two, she thought, unable to take her mind off Jackson’s little espionage mission in the hangar. That’s just one hop over from the last, where E2 was tampered with.

  Maybe whoever did it will try the same again. And I’ll make sure I intercept it. Then I’ll know why.

  She sighed. Wanting to know why was what had gotten her into trouble the last time, but she couldn’t help it. As if thinking of her time in the Outer Zone sparked some memory she wanted to recall, Lisa reached down to the cabinet at the side of her bunk, pulled open the second draw down, and took out the magazine that sat on top of the pile inside. It was old and scruffy but she still treasured it. You couldn’t get stuff like this back in th
e Inner Zone, not relics of this kind. The magazine was ancient.

  There was a faded picture on the front, showing a huge building called Grand Theatre, and outside the building were crowds of people queuing to get in. But what she peered at wasn’t the coloured cover. It was the two stick people drawn near the entrance of the building, right next to where the queue entered a large, ornate doorway. The stick people – an adult and a child – were holding hands and walking into the building in front of the crowd.

  She put the magazine back in the draw and pushed it shut, then thought back to her current dilemma. She didn’t like Jackson, the governor of the facility. He was up to something.

  And she wanted to know what it was.

  Open Up

  The Watcher heard the banging and woke. Other noises should have alerted him much sooner, but hadn’t, and he cursed himself for being slow.

  You’re getting old, he thought. You don’t hear or see things the way you once did.

  And someone was rattling at the front door.

  He stirred, sat up from his bed, and stretched. In the other room he could the heavy breathing of the stranger, the digging man, and nodded.

  Still here, then. Sensible.

  The Watcher trundled across the wooden floor towards the front door, frowning at the noise being made, interrupting his sleep.

  “Come on, RootMan,” called a voice. One he recognised, wasn’t it? Yes. FirstMan’s second in command. Right-Hand, Tight-Man, or something like that. Trouble, was what he was. “We know you’re in there.”

  Do you tell the stranger to hide? He is surely what they are here for. No. You’re too late. You’re at the door and they’ll kick it down if you keep them waiting for too long. Ah well, at least you gave the digging man a day of rest. And his knee would fix soon anyway, if they don’t beat him too badly.

  The banging continued.

  “Alright!” called The Watcher. “I’m coming. Don’t break my door!”

  “Get this door open, you old fool,” came the reply. “I don’t have all night.”

  You don’t? Don’t have all the time in the universe for your foolishness? You could stay out there for an hour or two and nothing much would change. Always in such a hurry to go nowhere in particular and then disappointed when you get there.

  The door creaked loudly as the Watcher pulled it open. He blinked at the darkness outside, but then smiled as his eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw the face of RightHand stared back at him from the gloom.

  “Well if I never,” said the Watcher. “A visitor.” But then he saw other shapes moving in the darkness. “Many visitors.”

  Of course, he’d sensed they were there before he saw them, but he didn’t want them to know that.

  If they think you’re old and stupid, they’ll leave you alone. They won’t be bothered with you. It always seemed to work. Except when that other man was involved.

  Then FirstMan stepped out of the darkness and into the dim light that seeped out of the cracks in the building, cast only by the low lamp that burned inside the entrance. The Watcher liked dark places to hunt and search, but he also liked to keep his home lit.

  Yes, that man. More trouble than most trouble.

  “Hello, Haggerty,” said FirstMan, also smiling. “I’m sorry to bother you in the middle of the night, but it would appear that news has reached me to suggest that you may have a visitor staying with you that is of great interest to me.”

  The Watcher, Haggerty, frowned. “Well, now,” he said, his bright, toothy grin spreading wider. “Who could have told you that then?” And he thought back over the time since he brought the digging man to the shack, but couldn’t recall seeing anyone other than the search party that he had avoided out in the trash lands.

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s important who told me,” said FirstMan. “But I do think it’s important that you allow us to speak to your visitor.”

  The Watcher peered at the dozen other Junkers gathered along the edge of the swamp. “You mean to accost my visitor?” he asked.

  “Oh, let’s not be so harsh, now,” said FirstMan. “We just want to know who it is and why they are here. Make sure they’re no danger to you or anyone else.”

  “Humph,” muttered Haggerty and nodded his head towards the shack. “Go on in, then,” he said. “Not that I can stop you anyways. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that you even knocked in the first place.”

  “I wouldn’t have dreamed of any other way,” said FirstMan. He too nodded, but this time to RightHand.

  RightHand stepped into the doorway and Haggerty moved outside, walking along the wooden platform that jutted out over the swamp. FirstMan followed him and they both looked out over the dark water and waited. There were noises inside the shack, things being moved, doors opening, cupboards opening and then closing, and then a minute or two later RightHand stepped back out into the night.

  He looked confused. “No one in there,” he said.

  FirstMan frowned and turned to Haggerty. “Where did your visitor go?”

  Haggerty shrugged. “I guess they just up and took off while I was asleep. If they was even there in the first place.”

  “You said you had a visitor,” said FirstMan, now seeming irritated.

  “Did I?” said Haggerty “I thought it was you that said that.”

  FirstMan turned to his men. “Spread out,” he ordered. “They can’t have gone far.” And then he stalked off, ignoring the old man.

  RightHand stayed for a moment and stared at Haggerty. “You should be careful,” he said. “Hiding a potential enemy is not going to help any of us, including you. And it’s bad enough out here as it is.”

  “Thank you,” Haggerty said. “For the advice. I shall consider it when I next have visitors.”

  After the group had gone, Haggerty went back into the house and peered into the small back room that Jack had been asleep in. The bed was empty, and the pile of gear that he had found with the man’s unconscious body was also gone.

  But there were no signs of how the man had got out of his shack.

  Well done. Well done. Right under their noses, as well. Even skipped past me.

  I must really be getting old.

  Out of Here

  Finder watched from the top of the junk pile, a hundred yards from the edge of the swamp, staying back as he had been told to by FirstMan. He didn’t see why it could be dangerous. Old Haggerty wouldn’t hurt him. They were friends, or so he believed, and whoever it was that he’d seen the old man helping towards his shack had certainly been in no condition to be moving.

  But he did as he was told, as always, and sat there in the darkness, just listening and watching as FirstMan and RightHand spoke to the old man. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he saw RightHand move into the house.

  To go fetch who is in there, Finder thought. And he wondered who the man could be. If it was a man. There was that as well. It could be a woman. But none of that mattered. It wasn’t a Junker, so it had to be someone from the facility, or maybe a Farlander, or worse.

  A trooper? No. The person lying on the stretcher hadn’t been wearing the grey armour they wore, the sort that he could so vividly remember. Of course, it could be one of the salvagers going runaway. But, from what he heard, they don’t usually get very far and no way did they reach this far towards the Junker towns.

  But this one had caused all kinds of worry in the towns, with Junker patrols and warrior packs going out every day to find the intruder. The intruder had been spotted at a distance a number of times but they hadn’t caught up with them. Whoever it was was too good at hiding.

  Finder remembered someone he once knew that was good at hiding. The one who taught him.

  It was with these deep thoughts that he sat there, waiting patiently for the group to be done with the old man and the visitor. He did wonder if they would kill the intruder, but even with the rumours of how ruthless the Junkers were, he had never actually seen them treat anyone badly. He r
emembered when he had joined them, not long ago – just half a year ago – with all the others from the Picking Factory.

  He’d been in the last picking warehouse in the facility, the one nearest the sleeping quarters, standing up on the platform and looking at the constant flow of junk rolling along the conveyor.

  There were half a dozen others on the platform, all leaning forward and grabbing things from the trash, throwing them into the bins behind them. He remembered vividly reaching forward and taking the rusty wrench from the flowing trash when the sirens went off.

  He’d never heard the siren before, and he stood up, shocked and surprised to see the rest of the kids running down the steps and over towards the other end of the warehouse. They stopped there, not far from one of the open entrances of the building, all huddled together.

  He ran down the steps, half a minute behind everyone else, and was only part of the way across the open ground when the strange figures crossed the compacted dirt outside.

  He’d never seen a Junker before that day, but had been told all kinds of nasty tales about them and what they did. Mostly that they were really half-human monsters that ate people, but seeing them then, up close, he wondered if any of the stories were even close to being true.

  Sure, they were ragged looking and covered in dirt. But they seemed to be wearing armour that was similar to the facility troopers, and they even carried weapons that looked the same. The tales he’d been told were of spear wielding savages.

  And then the siren stopped.

  He stood there, not knowing what to do, as the Junkers entered the building, a dozen of them spreading out and scoping the corners. Some of the kids nearly bolted and ran, but others grabbed them and stopped them.

  Finder had just stood there, in the middle of the open space, not knowing where to go. And they had let him stand there.

  Then the three facility guards walked into the warehouse from the other side and headed towards the Junkers.

  It had puzzled him at the time. They had met in the middle. No blazing fights, no killings, no blasters going off. At the time he’d thought he’d better run and get under cover, because where he was standing was a prime spot for catching a stray blast.