Scavengers

by Darren Simpson

  The third chimney fell into the fourth and final Finger, which smashed through the perimeter wall and toppled onto the hill, followed closely by the chimney that had taken it down and the upper half of another. Landfill scrabbled through the dust cloud and over high piles of red rubble. He gripped the edge of a cracked, curving slope of masonry, and stared through the destroyed section of wall to see the chimneys thundering down the hill.

  The rolling, hulking structures left huge swathes of torn earth behind them. Landfill could feel the rubble trembling beneath his feet. Down below, the Fingers plunged into the edge of the Spit Pit. Landfill thought he could see ripples moving outwards from the impact.

  The Fingers lay motionless, and for a moment all seemed still. Then the shifting began. Rubbish started to quiver along the ridges of colossal dunes. Even from so far away, Landfill could hear the hiss and tumble as crests began to crumble. Down slid the dross, down slumped the junk; down and down until it piled onto the Outsiders below.

  Landfill heard distant yells, and saw that the rolling machines with the blue lights had stopped by the verge of the Pit. White-shirted Outsiders left the machines to run across the grass towards the flailing figures.

  Landfill began to hop and shout. “Babagoo! It worked! We did it! It worked!” A smile almost touched his lips, but faded when he turned to find he was alone. He scrambled down the rubble and peered over the roof’s edge. Babagoo was lying on the ground, coated in dust and rubble, with Kafka bleating wretchedly by his side.

  Landfill whimpered and clambered down the wall. He sank to his knees and touched the scavenger’s forehead. “Babagoo?”

  Babagoo’s eyes stared up at the paling sky. His mouth was wide open, but it didn’t move. He was as still and silent as the moss that made his bed.

  The boy croaked again. “Babagoo…” He grabbed his arms to shake him gently, and flinched when Babagoo’s head lolled to one side.

  Landfill’s lips trembled briefly. Water pooled at the rims of his eyes and he burst into tears. His forehead fell upon the scavenger’s, and he blubbered while pushing away debris to find Babagoo’s hand. Clasping it tightly between his palms, he emitted a moan that was almost a howl, pulled the limp fingers to his hair, and put his own hand into the scavenger’s beard.

  Landfill kneeled like that for a while, sobbing silently, until a brush from Kafka’s nose roused him. He raised his head and cocked his ear. It was that sound again – the wailing he’d heard from the rolling machines on course to Hinterland.

  Landfill sat up. “More Outsiders. They’re coming.” He jumped up and looked back and forth between the wall and the scavenger. After squeezing his eyes shut, he moved to the black goat and pulled at its neck. “Come on, Kafka! No choice – got to give them the slip!”

  He pulled and pulled but Kafka wouldn’t budge. He just gazed at the fallen scavenger with those blank, horizontal pupils.

  “Plleeeaaasse!” wailed Landfill, but the goat was as set as stone.

  Wiping the snot and tears from his face, Landfill backed away, revolved and ran for the cabinet. After staggering down the Burrow’s stairway, he grabbed Orwell from the blankets, ran back up the steps and sprinted for the toppled gate.

  Landfill ran as far north through the bracken as he could. Hinterland was far behind when he clocked movement at the shallower side of the hill’s brink. As soon as he saw blue lights he dived into a hollow tucked behind some ferns.

  He gripped Orwell to his chest and kept his eyes on Hinterland. Outsiders were leaving their rolling machines and running through the gap by the fallen gate. More came up the hill, trampling through grass and waving their arms at each other. Pickaxes, tools and hatchets flashed in sunlight.

  It was dark by the time the Outsiders finally departed. Kafka had left earlier in the afternoon. Landfill saw him following a long black bag, which was being carried from inside Hinterland to the back of a large rolling machine. The two Outsiders lugging the bag tried to shoo Kafka away, but the old goat bucked his horns and kicked at the grass. The Outsiders seemed to exchange some words, and Landfill thought he saw a shrug before they loaded the bag into the machine and allowed Kafka to climb in after it. The machine then trundled down the hill’s gentler edge, followed over the course of the day by other machines and Outsiders on foot. The Outsiders with tools and axes never made it into Hinterland. From what Landfill could tell, the white-shirted Outsiders wouldn’t let them in.

  Landfill had watched through ferns with Orwell on his lap. When dusk fell it became harder to see what was happening so far away, but many Outsiders had already left and headed downhill. There were no more rolling machines waiting by the wall, and Landfill watched for a long time without finding any sign or movement.

  “Think they’re gone.” The boy took the pup in his arms. Keeping low, he moved across dark terrain until they reached the hill’s edge.

  Landfill stared down into darkness. He saw the firefly specks that lined the edges of the Pit, and the gridded lights from the tract of buildings. Beyond that was the glimmering line that stretched out westwards, on its way to the fiery glow on the horizon.

  Orwell yipped and panted in Landfill’s arms.

  Landfill looked down at him. “Where now?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. The dark outline of the perimeter wall was barely visible. “Nothing for us here now. It’s all…dead. Baba—” The word snagged in his throat, and he wiped his nose against Orwell before trying again.

  He whispered hoarsely. “Babagoo said we have to find somewhere new.” He turned his head towards the gridded lights. “We need somewhere safe from the rot. Far from Outsiders.”

  Orwell barked again.

  Landfill looked at him through tears silver with starlight. “I know. You’re hungry. I am too.” He nodded towards the darkness beyond the Pit. “There’s an asphalt strip down there. If you go left it takes you to where Outsiders gather. But if you go right there’s trees – like the Thin Woods, but bigger. We can go there. Maybe there’s vejbles. Like at our patch. Could be gulls too.”

  A quiet yap.

  Landfill ran his knuckles through the fur on Orwell’s neck. “We have to try. Need food to get our strength up. Then we need to find somewhere. Will you help me?”

  The husky’s lapping tongue tickled his fingers.

  Landfill’s voice broke. “Good. Don’t think…I can do this alone.”

  He wept as quietly as he could while descending the hill.

  Daybreak found Landfill bargaining with a fox. With Orwell held tight against his soggy jumper, he climbed down from a fallen log and took a cautious step towards the animal. The fox bristled and snarled, its snout sticky with the blackbird clenched between its teeth.

  “Please, foxler,” pleaded the boy. “Share your bird with Orwell. He won’t eat the berries here, but you will, won’t you? I’ll help you find some – get the ones you can’t reach. Hunkadory?”

  The fox growled when Landfill ventured closer. It shook the bird in its jaws, speckling fallen leaves with red.

  “Please,” whispered Landfill.

  The fox snarled and scarpered, leaving boy and pup alone. Landfill groaned and took a seat on the log. He looked forlornly at Orwell, who returned his gaze with dull blue eyes. A grey drizzle fell between the leaves left on the trees, its patter broken by the distant hum of rolling machines.

  Landfill looked in the asphalt strip’s direction. “Have to get moving. Don’t know where, but we need proper food. And somewhere warm.” He shivered and rubbed the rain from the husky’s coat. “Can follow the strip away from where Outsiders gather. Maybe we’ll find somewhere that’ll look after us. Like the Pit, but far from the rot. Maybe there’s somewhere like that.” He sighed and lapped his wrist. “Maybe.”

  They’d made some progress northwards when Landfill noticed a rolling machine that had stopped by the woods’ edge. He studied the metal carapace glinting between tree trunks, and began to move in for a closer look.

  He wh
ispered to Orwell: “Might be grubbins. But keep close to cover. Rule ten – never stray too…” His eyes welled up and he wiped them with a damp sleeve. “Never stray.”

  The machine’s front was open like a giant metal mouth. An Outsider in a beige coat was glaring into the opening. Its long brown hair was wet and matted against its neck, and it had bits of metal in its ears that sparkled when it shook its head. The Outsider shifted its gaze to the rectangle in its hand, rolled its eyes and shoved it into a pocket.

  Landfill was skulking behind a low-hanging branch when he heard a shrill whine from within the machine. The Outsider’s glare fell away, and it walked quickly to the machine’s side to open a door and pull something out.

  Landfill gaped at the creature lifted from the machine. It wasn’t unlike the doll he’d seen in the Pit: small and stumpy enough to be held in the larger Outsider’s arms, with a head that was round and pink and topped by a mess of brown fluff. It clenched its eyes while squalling through a wet, gummy mouth.

  The large Outsider bobbed and stroked the creature and returned to the front of the machine. It waved frantically at a few rolling machines as they raced by. And after some time it stopped, kicked the machine’s wheel and climbed inside with its creature.

  Landfill spied no sign of food, and was about to move on when he heard the grinding of wheels. Another machine had come to a stop just in front of the first one. Its side door opened and a dull, rhythmic noise filled the air. Landfill crept forward a little, turning his ear towards the sound. “Meeyoo…” he whispered, trying to recall the word. “Meeyoozic…”

  The sounds stopped just before a tall, short-haired Outsider exited the machine’s side door and leaned into the first machine to speak. It then returned to its own machine, took something from inside and opened the machine’s front, so that both machines faced each other with metal mouths open.

  The boy watched the tall Outsider faff and fidget, and before long both machines’ mouths were connected by red and black cables. The tall Outsider climbed back into its own machine, which suddenly began to tremble and purr, and gestured at the other Outsider with its thumb. The other machine spluttered momentarily, then began to purr and tremble too. A happy whoop pierced the rain’s glum spatter.

  Cables were removed and metal mouths shut, and both Outsiders were soon stood by the trees. They grinned and jabbered in the rain. The long-haired Outsider held its tiny creature, kissed its head and pointed at its machine. The tall Outsider nodded, shrugged and smiled, and laughed while pinching the little creature’s cheek. Sounds of gurgly babbling blended with scraps of laughter and – though his heart ached even more than his limbs – Landfill was surprised to find himself on the cusp of a smile. His lips moved to form Dawn’s words: “Big little things…”

  Metal doors slammed, and the two machines rolled off in opposite directions.

  After leaning out to check no other machines were coming, Landfill left the cover of trees and stood at the edge of the asphalt strip. He looked to the right, to where the first machine had gone, following the strip with his eyes until it disappeared around a bend. Then he looked to the left, following the course of the second machine, towards where Outsiders gather.

  A faint cawing caught his ear, and he looked up to see a flock of crows crossing the sky. Landfill watched them disappear behind the treetops, then buried his nose in the nape of Orwell’s neck. He breathed in deeply.

  When he spoke his voice was muffled by fur: “Maybe.”

  After looking once more to the left and right, he put his wrist to his mouth, turned left and took a step along the asphalt.

  • Where and when did you think the book was set when you started reading? What did you think had happened to bring Babagoo and Landfill there? How did you feel when you found out more? Why do you think Darren, the author, left so many things for you to work out by yourself?

  • Discuss your first impressions of Hinterland. What makes it different from our world? Would you like to live there? Explain your answers.

  • Hinterland is filled with animals. Do you have a favourite? Who is it, and why?

  • Do you think Landfill does anything wrong in the story? Give reasons for your answer.

  • What did you think about Babagoo when you first met him? Did your opinion of him change as the story developed? What do you think his life was like before he came to Hinterland? Does the book give you any clues about his past?

  • Discuss Babagoo and Landfill’s relationship. Explore the different ways they relate to each other; father/son, teacher/student, bully/bullied. Do they always treat each other in the same way? Do their feelings about each other appear consistent?

  • There are lots of made-up and unusual words in this book. Pick your favourite(s) and think about why you like them. Try making up your own words.

  • What did you think Longwhite was at first? Do you think he talks to Landfill? Why do you think Landfill wants to keep him a secret? How do you feel about what happens to Longwhite at the end?

  • How old do you think Landfill is? Give reasons for your answer. What does he do that makes him appear young? What does he do that feels grown-up? How has his life been different from yours? What do you think his life will be like after the book ends?

  • Scavengers is filled with unexpected discoveries and surprises, both for the characters and the reader. Think back to the moments that surprised you the most. Why did these have such an impact? Did it change the way you read the book or viewed any of the characters?

  • There are lots of disgusting moments in the book. Why do you think the author chose to include so many of these? Go back to some you remember and look at the way Darren describes them. What kinds of words does he use, and what effect do they have?

  • What were your first impressions of Dawn? Think about her relationship with Landfill. Why do you think she makes the choices she does? Do you agree or disagree with them?

  • Landfill has a strong reaction to music in the book. Imagine experiencing things you enjoy for the first time now. What would that feel like? Imagine what it would be like to hear music, watch a film, sit in a moving car or use a smartphone, having never known they existed.

  • Look again at the scenes Outside. Can you work out all the things that Landfill is seeing for the first time? Does seeing these things from Landfill’s perspective change the way you look at them now? If so, how and why?

  • Turn to page 215 and look at Dawn’s dialogue. Discuss the idea of “big little things”. What “big little things” are important in your life?

  • Go back to the very last scene in the book. What is happening? Why do you think Darren, the author, chose to end the book with this moment?

  The wild animals that live in Hinterland play a key role throughout Scavengers. Babagoo gave them all their names, save for Longwhite, who was given his name by Landfill. Each creature in Hinterland is named after a famous author. Here’s an introduction to some of those writers.

  Atwood the cat, named after Margaret Atwood (born 1939)

  Multi-award-winning Canadian writer whose work includes eight books for children. Her picture book, Wandering Wenda and Widow Wallop’s Wunderground Washery even inspired an animated TV series called Wandering Wenda which focuses on wordplay.

  Carter the fox, named after Angela Carter (1940-1992)

  English novelist, short-story writer and journalist, whose work draws on myth, folklore and fairy tales. Often her work contains elements of magic realism, depicting our world, but with surprising touches of the magical or supernatural.

  Hesse the turtle, named after Herman Hesse (1877-1962)

  German-born poet, novelist, and painter. His best-known works include Steppenwolf and Siddhartha, and explore an individual’s search for truth and self-knowledge. In 1946, he received the Nobel Prize for Literature.

  Joyce the squirrel, named after James Joyce (1882-1941)

  Irish novelist, short-story writer, and poet, best known for Ulysses, a 265,00
0-word book, loosely based on Homer’s Odyssey and told in a variety of writing styles. The book follows the adventures of one man, Leopold Bloom, in Dublin on 16th June 1904. “Bloomsday” is still celebrated by Joyce fans today.

  Kafka the goat, named after Franz Kafka (1883-1924)

  Czech-born Jewish novelist and short-story writer, whose work mixes elements of the real and the fantastic, to explore troubling human emotions. One of his most famous stories, The Metamorphosis, is about a man who wakes up to find he has transformed into a giant insect.

  Melville the turtle, named after Herman Melville (1819-1891)

  American novelist, short-story writer and poet. His writing draws on his experience at sea as a sailor, most famously in the epic adventure, Moby Dick, the story of Captain Ahab’s doomed search for the white whale that

  Orwell the pup, named after George Orwell (1903-1950)

  English novelist, essayist, journalist and critic, who wrote about many experiences, including his time during the Spanish Civil War, working in kitchens in Paris and living on London’s streets. In his book, 1984, Orwell created lots of words that we still use today, including Big Brother, Room 101, newspeak and doublethink.

  Rushdie the fox, named after Salman Rushdie (born 1947)

  Award-winning British Indian novelist and essayist, who combines magical realism with historical fiction. A lot of his books are set on the Indian subcontinent and focus on the relationships between Eastern and Western civilizations. His fourth book, The Satanic Verses, proved so controversial that Rushdie received death threats and was put under police protection.

  Swift the parakeet, named after Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)

  An Anglo-Irish satirist, essayist and poet. Satire is a way of writing where people’s foolishness and failings are ridiculed, with the aim of shaming people and organizations into improvement. Though funny, its greater purpose is to draw attention to wider problems in society. One of Swift’s most famous works, A Modest Proposal, is a deliberately shocking article in which Swift pretends to suggest that poverty could be reduced if poor people started eating their children. He also wrote the famous fantasy satire Gulliver’s Travels.