Deadlands (7 page)

‘Lele! Over here!’

I caught sight of his head poking out from behind a wooden dumpster. He was sitting in the shadowy space behind it.

I crawled in and sat down next to him. ‘Phew,’ I said. ‘It stinks here.’

‘You’ll get used to it. At least it’s out of the rain.’

He was right; the dumpster’s open lid, which was resting against the wall, formed a makeshift roof.

‘Did you see those Resurrectionists’ faces?’ he asked. ‘Dumbasses.’

‘But . . . I thought you were a believer?’ I pointed to the amulet around his neck.

‘I told you, Lele. Got to play their game.’

‘And how much trouble will we be in? At school, I mean.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘But Zyed –’

‘Don’t worry about him. There’s no way he’ll want to rehash that fight.’ He looked at me meaningfully. ‘But you shouldn’t have said that, Lele. Implied that . . .’

‘That he liked boys? So what? What’s the big deal?’

‘It is a big deal. Don’t you know that the Resurrectionists are against same-sex relationships?’

‘But why?’

‘Think about it. They need us to breed, right? Keep the Guardians happy.’

My heart sank. Zyed was a vicious little snipe, no doubt, but I was suddenly overwhelmed with mortification.

‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Thabo said. ‘He gave as good as he got.’ He leaned back against the wall, putting his legs up against the side of the dumpster. ‘So, you’re from the Agriculturals?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So you’ve been outside the enclave?’

‘I guess.’

His eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Through the Deadlands. Wow! I’ve never been outside. What was it like?’

‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘You must have seen something. Like, are the Deadlands totally overgrown now? You see any buildings?’

‘Seriously, Thabo. They brought us here at night, and the wagon had high wooden sides. You know, to stop the Rotters . . .’

I’d tried to push the memory of that journey out of my mind. Jobe, Chinwag and I squashed in with the other travellers in the pitch dark, trying not to think about Gran’s body stored on the roof with the others sent back to the city for ‘burial’. The wagon shook and jolted along for hours – the moans of the Rotters keeping us company; the occasional terrifying thunk as something large hurled itself against the slatted wooded sides. Everyone praying that the wood wouldn’t splinter; that one of us wouldn’t be snatched outside before the anonymous Guardians ferrying us had a chance to intervene. I shuddered at the thought.

‘You cold?’ Thabo asked.

‘I’m fine. So, Thabo, if you’re not a Resurrectionist, what are you doing at the school?’

‘The guy who adopted me after my folks died sent me here. Thought it would straighten me out. He works at the embassy.’

‘So does my stepmother!’

‘Seriously? So how come you look like you do?’ Heat rushed to my cheeks. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean –’

‘It’s fine. I haven’t had time to conform yet,’ I said, looking down at my boots to hide my hot face.

Out of the corner of my eye, I checked out his clothes. He was wearing a pair of spotless black jeans and a pair of Converse trainers that looked barely broken in.

‘Thabo, Summer said that you were the person to talk to about getting clothes and stuff, you know, from before the War?’

‘Ah.’ He gave me that lopsided grin again.

‘So where do you get the stuff from?’

He tapped the side of his nose. ‘My little secret.’

‘Oh, come on, who am I going to tell?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s not that hectic a secret anyway.’

‘So? Go on, then.’

‘The black market, of course. Out in New Arrivals.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘You don’t know New Arrivals? On the other side of the enclave? Back behind the factories? Sheesh, it’s not as if you could miss it . . . You really are from the Agriculturals, aren’t you?’ I bristled at this, but did my best to hide it. ‘It’s where they made the first settlement. Most of the workers live there.’

‘Right. But won’t you get into trouble selling the stuff?’

He shrugged. ‘The Resurrectionists turn a blind eye to it, Lele. After all, where do you think they get their fancy clothes?’

He leaned towards me suddenly, and for a second I thought he was about to kiss me. My heart leapt into my throat and I found myself blushing again. But he was reaching across me to grab my bag.

‘Hey! What are you . . .?’

He rummaged in it and pulled out my sketchbook.

‘No ways!’ I said, trying to snatch it out his hand.

‘Let me see, come on, it’s only fair,’ he said, holding it above his head, out of my reach. ‘I told you about my sideline.’

‘Okay,’ I said, pretending to be annoyed. I watched his face as he flicked through the drawings, pausing to snort at one of the Rotters attacking Summer and Nyameka.

‘Wow, Lele, these are amazing! Really! That’s what you want to be? An artist?’

I shrugged. ‘Not many trade credits in art.’

He pulled a pamphlet out of his pocket and smoothed out its wrinkles. It showed the same terrible drawing of the child with the huge head, staring up at the sun. ‘I don’t know. You seen this? Looks like it was drawn by a three-year-old.’ He scrumpled it up and lobbed it up into the dumpster. ‘You could do way better than that.’

‘And you? What do you want to be?’ I asked. ‘You going to work at the embassy?’

‘No ways! I have my own plans.’

‘Well? What are they?’

He looked at me sideways. ‘Can I trust you?’

I nodded.

‘I want to join the Mall Rats.’ He sat back to check out my reaction.

‘The what rats?’

I waited for him to make fun of me again, but he just shrugged. ‘Most people think they’re just some kind of rumour.’

‘So what are they?’

‘They’re amazing. They, like, go outside the enclave, scavenging for stuff from before the War. Can you imagine? I mean, Lele, they go out into the old city!’

‘There’s nothing left of the city.’

‘There must be.’ He gave me a look. ‘Where do you think the clothes come from?’

‘So you’ve seen them?’

‘No. But my contact in New Arrivals has.’

‘But how do they get through the Deadlands? What about the Rotters?’ The image of the rotten thing scrabbling towards me after the funeral popped into my head. And that was just one of the thousands out there.

He shrugged. ‘They’re like this awesome band of hard-core War veterans. You have to train for years before they’ll accept you.’

‘And are they part of the ANC?’

He snorted with laughter. ‘A, N,
Z
, Lele. Zee, not Cee. You do know what it stands for, right?’

‘Um . . .’

‘Sheesh, girl. Anti-Zombians, of course. You know, the Resurrectionists being the Zombians – zombie lovers. Duh.’

‘Okay, okay, you don’t have to rub it in. But what do they
do
?’

‘They’re the only ones who spoke out when the Resurrectionists stopped being some weird cult and started gaining power. They’re underground now, of course.’ I was doing my best to follow this, and he chuckled again. ‘You really don’t know anything, do you?’

‘Maybe not. But I know enough to know that I’ve got to get out of this place.’

And then it all spilled out. About how I needed to get away; about how my plan was to find a way to get back to the Agriculturals. Things were a lot better at home, but still, I hadn’t dumped the idea. And if the Mall Rats could leave the enclave, so could I.

‘You’ll get there,’ Thabo said. ‘I dunno how, but I just have a feeling you will.’

I smiled at him, and he held my gaze for a couple of seconds.

‘Hey!’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You want to have some fun?’

‘Sure. Where are we going?’

He held out a hand and hauled me to my feet. ‘You’ll see.’

‘What are we doing here?’

We were right in front of the embassy’s high metal fence. Half of the huge building was obscured by scaffolding, the workers scurrying above us as they constructed yet another floor.

‘Forget hospitals, right?’ Thabo spat, looking up at the building that towered over its squat brick neighbours. ‘Forget new housing. Long as the politicians and their priest lackeys have their fancy offices. Forget what the people need.’

We walked straight past the ornate front gate, where several men in Resurrectionist robes were standing with their arms folded, hard eyes scanning the busy thoroughfare.

I hoped the Mantis wasn’t looking out of one of the barred windows that loomed above us. I pulled my hood over my head just in case.

I followed Thabo to the building’s edge, where he ducked into an alleyway that ran parallel to it. Large dumpster-style bins flanked the narrow space.

‘You’ve really got a thing about garbage, haven’t you?’

‘That’s why I like you, Lele,’ he said.

‘Ha ha,’ I replied, but at least he’d said he liked me – even if it
was
in connection with garbage. ‘What are we doing here?’

‘This is where the embassy dumps its rubbish, right?’

‘So?’

‘So, I need you to keep a lookout.’

He dug in his bag and took out a spray-can. The tip of it was stained bright red.

‘The sign at school – that was you? Are you part of the ANZ?’

‘Not yet,’ he said.

He shook the can and started spraying one of the dumpsters with the words
Everything’s better with zombies – NOT
.

‘It was you as well! That message on my desk.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ Thabo said with his lopsided grin. Across the side of another one he wrote
ANZ – Be a Red NOT a Dead-Head
.

He handed the can to me. ‘You do one.’

‘Me? But I don’t know what to write!’

‘Use your imagination.’

The spray-can was difficult to use at first, and on my first try the paint just spluttered out, running down the side of the can in a trickle, but it wasn’t long before I started to get the hang of it. I chose the dumpster in the middle, drew a cartoon version of a Rotter, put a cross through its head, and, as an afterthought, wrote
Mall Rats Rule!

Utterly lame, I know, but Thabo looked impressed.

‘Hey!’ A male voice called from the far end of the alley. ‘What are you kids doing back there?’

‘Okay,’ Thabo said. ‘Here’s the part where we run.’

The Mantis was sitting at the kitchen table when I arrived home – back as rigid as a broomstick, face a solid block of stone. The peace-making vibe of the night before was clearly a thing of the past.

‘I can explain!’ I said before she had a chance to speak. Although I actually didn’t have a clue how I was going to explain why I’d spent the day defacing the embassy after almost punching one of my classmates.

‘Explain what?’ the Mantis snapped. Her eyes dropped to my boots. ‘I really hope you didn’t wear those to school, Leletia.’

‘I changed into them on the way home,’ I lied, relieved. ‘What’s up?’

‘You’re late!’

‘Huh?’

‘For the movie at the embassy! Go and get changed, and be quick about it!’

I raced into my room and pulled on the first clothes at hand. I was still on a high from my day with Thabo, and right then not even the Mantis could dampen my spirits.

‘Couldn’t you have made more of an effort?’ the Mantis grumbled when I came downstairs. She was dressed in her fine woollen suit, topped off with an anorak she proudly said was made of polyester. I shrugged. I was comfortable in my threadbare jeans, Mom’s boots and Dad’s old army coat.

The Mantis decided that rather than cramming into a rickshaw, we’d walk to the embassy, so the four of us set off together. Despite myself I was excited. I hadn’t seen a film since before the War, and could barely remember what watching one had felt like. It was something the townies took for granted, and I was pretty sure that the kids at Malema High deliberately tried to copy the accents and phrases they’d seen in the films.

There was a festive atmosphere in the streets that night. The Mantis eventually stopped scowling and Dad even offered to carry Jobe when he became too heavy for me. Of course, the monthly movies were not for everyone. Sure, there were crowds of poorer citizens bunched around the gates, hoping for a glimpse of the film flickering on the white wall of the embassy, but these outings were for the rich: the embassy workers, the high priests and politicians, and the wealthy store owners and their families.

‘Dad,’ I said as we queued to get in. ‘You know anything about the Mall Rats?’

‘Where did you hear that name, Lele?’

‘A friend mentioned them.’

‘Don’t let Cleo hear you talking like that.’

‘But who are they?’

‘They’re no one,’ Dad said. ‘Just fairy stories, that’s all.’

‘But –’

‘Ssssh.’

The Mantis waved her tickets at the robed Resurrectionist stationed outside, and we were ushered through the metal gates and into a large courtyard where several rows of folding chairs were laid out. The place was packed, and we had to push our way through the crowd to find our seats. As soon as I sat down, Jobe climbed onto my lap, popped his thumb into his mouth and leaned his head on my shoulder.

The rain looked as if it was going to stay away, but most people had come prepared for the worst, bundled up in raincoats and clutching sheets of plastic to cover their heads if necessary. Pretty much everyone was wearing something from before the War, and I didn’t know where to look first. There was a woman a few seats away from us dressed in a bright red silk jacket covered with embroidery. Judging from her expensive outfit and the ginormous amulet around her neck, I assumed she must be one of the high priests, and I recognised the fellow next to her. It was Rickety Legs – the Resurrectionist from Gran’s funeral. I looked around for my classmates (okay, I looked around for Thabo, mostly), but the crowd was too dense, and the lighting was too subdued to make out any other familiar faces.

Finally an expectant hush fell, and then the generator roared to life. An image flickered on to the wall in front of us, and everyone started cheering and clapping. I didn’t know it then, but the only films the Resurrectionists allowed were violent gangster films or slasher horrors. They wanted to remind us how violent life was back then, before the War, and the movie that evening –
Jerusalema
– was no exception. Still, I was fascinated by how life was
before
: cars, bars, restaurants, men in suits, the thump of music, everyone smoking and chatting and shooting each other. The lives the movie portrayed were so different to mine that it was almost like watching an alien race on screen. But, strangely, few people actually seemed to be watching it. They moved around, swapping seats and chatting to acquaintances, shouting over the soundtrack.