E (3 page)

By mid afternoon, I'm weary, and feeling hopeless.  I've
convinced myself that I'm being paranoid, but I can't make the feelings go
completely away.  Wandering through the marketplace, something catches my
attention.

In one corner is a raised platform where slaves are paraded for
auction.  “Captive Laborer Auction” a banner reads.  Slavery is
illegal, and Sentries apparently don't get synonyms.  A young girl, thin,
bare-skinned, with cerulean blue eyes-- turns slowly under the audience's
speculation.  She does not seem afraid.  Only subservient.  Her
eyes are respectfully downcast, her face smooth.  Every aspect of her
manner shows that she's been trained to behave perfectly.  Maybe she's
been a slave forever.  But she's marked.  Maybe her training was
highly effective.

Most of the others are marked as well, though not all of
them.  Erasure makes you a target, but so do other things.  No one is
exactly immune from the threat of slavery.  I watch for only a moment
more, shifting my eyes to the groups of men gathered before the platform. 
There are at least two distinct packs who must be outsiders.  They're
watchful of what's happening around them, projecting an air of
separateness.  They stay together with their companions.  None of
them socializes outside their main group.  They carry with them a predatory
air.

Shivering, I turn away and move on.  I'm almost to the end of
the marketplace when I notice a man with boxes of items piled all around
him.  Inside is trash.  There's a young boy handing him a
satchel.  He dumps it into one of the boxes, tin cans tumbling in to join
others of their kind.  He hands the boy two small coins.  A
recycler.  Of course!

As I pass, I eye the boxes to determine their contents.  Tin,
plastic, paper, leather, cloth, and glass.  I hurry off into the back
alleys to see what I can find.  There's no shortage of trash in the
Outpost, but collecting it is not an easy task.  I start out boldly,
plucking cans out of a dumpster.  Within ten minutes, a pack of feral
children chases me away, hurling things, running at me, screaming loudly enough
to draw any Sentry within two blocks.  I retreat away from them, though a
few dog me until I get to the busiest streets.  On the northern side of
the Outpost, two men threaten to gut me for picking up a piece of paper. 
I'm lucky enough to be within a Sentry's line of sight at the time.  After
this, I'm more cautious in my approach to foraging.  I size up a few areas
and decide against taking anything.  Eventually, I wander along the
southwestern wall of the Outpost in the red light district.  Everyone here
is too busy thinking about other things to worry about trash.  It's a
creepy area, and full of unpleasant scenes.  The trade of flesh. 
Human desperation at its worst.  I keep my head down, stay away from
people, and only pick things up when I think no one is looking.  I'm
careful about what I take.  Sheets of metal leaned against buildings,
bottles placed outside a door in a box-- these are things I don't dare
touch.  But when I see the shed door hanging open, a pair of needle-nose
pliers visible on the wall within, the temptation is too much.  Taking
them could cost me my life, but how am I going to live without a foot?  I
tuck them into the folds of my rags and slip quietly away.

In the marketplace, the recycler is folding the lids of his boxes
shut.  I walk up within a few paces, careful not to come too close. 
I clear my throat, keeping my head down and face hidden.  He takes a small
step backward when he turns and sees me.

"I don't deal with the poxy," he says, turning back to
his boxes.  There's a coldness in his voice that makes me feel numb. 
He packs everything up in a cart.  I'm shaking with rage.  I want to
hit him with my metal bar, make him take the items I've worked so hard to
find.  But, helplessly, I watch him leave. 

***

As night pulls its dark hood over my eyes, I crouch against the
broken wall once again.  A deep sadness stirs within-- not exactly self
pity.  I don't cry.  I'm beyond crying.  Is my face starting to
look like some of the faces I've seen?  Are my eyes hollow,
hopeless?  Or is that still to come?

I press my makeshift bag close to my side, as if the items within
still have some worth.  In the middle of the night, when I'm not sleeping
anyway, I unbind my foot, rummage through my bag, and pull out a piece of glass. 
Ironic.  From the folds of my rags, I take out the stolen pliers. 
The wound on my foot is already sticking together.  I have to reopen it by
slicing my flesh with the glass.  I bite down so hard I expect my teeth to
crack, but keep sawing the wound open until blood runs freely down my
heel.  I press the pliers in, deeper and deeper, going after the fragment
with the tenacious savagery of a shark.  Through the handle of my tool, I
feel the metal hit the hard glass.  I have to worm around it, wriggling in
sideways, to get any purchase.  My teeth grind against each other, caging
the scream.  I get the blunt nose of the pliers under the glass, and
pry.  A whimpering protest sneaks up my throat.  I force it into a
low growl.  I dig deeper, use more pressure from underneath.  The
pain is nerve deep, stabbing, pulling.  All at once, with a sickening
sound of suction, the glass comes up.  It pops out of my flesh and splats
on the pavement in a gooey red puddle.  I slump against the concrete. 
Breathe.  It's done.

Done, except for the free-flow of blood.  When I feel it
start to drip off my toes, I make myself sit upright and pay attention.  I
dig around in my bag and bring out some rags.  A whole handful is soaked
red in a frighteningly short amount of time.  Swearing softly, I pinch the
wound closed.  The skin surrounding it is hot to touch.  I suppress a
groan as the weight of that fact sinks in.  My mind flutters to the man
maybe twenty feet down the wall-- the one with stumps instead of legs. 
Did his problems start with a simple piece of glass in his foot?  I
immediately dismiss myself as being overly dramatic.  I'm tired, hungry,
and frustrated.  I need to rest.  I hold the pressure on my wound for
a while, then bind it tightly in more rags.  I stow the pliers and
glass.  Time to sleep.  Sleep will make everything better.  I'm
sure of it.

Only, I dream about the box.

***

Once true starvation starts to set in, I'll have little hope of
survival.  I have to get food today.  I hoist my bag and my metal
stick, and limp toward the marketplace.  The slave market in the distance
seems to offer another option-- trading freedom for food.  Bile rises in
my throat.  I am not a slave.  I will never be a slave.  Not
even if it means death.  Freedom has to come before food.  I have to
remember that, even when weakness tries to make me forget.

I approach the recycler.  This time he sees me coming. 
He lifts his chin in disbelief.  His jaw sets, eyes narrow.  I stop a
few paces away and hold out the bag.

He turns his back on me.  He doesn't even say anything, just
turns his back.

I will not let him do this.  But what option do I have? 
I can't tell him I'm not poxy.  I can't trust him with that.

For a while, he makes himself unnecessarily busy organizing the
contents of his boxes, and I stand there like an idiot, chewing on my
lip.  Anger and frustration stir and swirl inside me.  I move closer,
just a touch.  He glances nervously over his shoulder, catching the
movement.  My eyes narrow.  I do have power over him.  I just need
to use it without getting in trouble.

Stubbornly, I hold out the bag.  He goes back to his
sorting.  I shuffle a step closer.  He keeps sorting, but I can see
the muscles in his back tighten.

Someone approaches from the side-- two older women carrying a few
bags each over their shoulders.  They're preoccupied with conversation at
first, but when their eyes finally fall on me, they stop short.  They
hesitate, glance at each other, then turn back the way they came.  The
recycler's eyes flick to me.  I step closer and plant my feet.  I can
stand here all day if I need to.

But it only takes one more ruined transaction to convince him that
I mean to do just that.  "Fine," he barks, and whirls on me,
pointing at the ground in front of him.  I toss my bag to his feet. 
He upends its contents with the toe of his boot.  He eyeballs the loot,
then kicks my bag back toward me and flings two coins-- not the same ones I saw
him give the boy yesterday-- purposely past me.  I scramble to pick them
off the ground.  I am victorious.  Shiny metal pressed into the palm
of my hand, I'm going to eat.  I can think of nothing else.

I hurry down the street, remembering a peddler I saw yesterday
selling small cakes to people who looked hardly less ragged than me.  I've
limped one full block and turned into an alleyway when she catches up to me.

"You," she hisses, a few feet behind me.  I stop in
confusion at first, then, glancing back, recognize the old woman with knotted
hands.  I meet her gaze as she approaches fearlessly, like I don't have
the pox.  There seems hardly any point in pretending I do.  Maybe I
don't have to be completely alone.  The thought is warm inside me.  I
might be human.  I'm about to offer to share a cake with her when she
sticks out her hand, palm up.

I eyeball it, then her face, my own twisting in confusion.

"Don't make this harder, girl," she says stiffly. 
"Hand it over."

I gape at her stupidly, then with dawning horror.  As I
shrink away from her, she grabs my wrist with her bony, lumpy hand, her yellow nails
digging into my skin.  I try to pull away, but she holds tight.

"Give me the money," she hisses, "or I tell the
slavers you are no poxy old woman."

I stammer, then yank my hand angrily from her grip.  I glare
at her and consider my options.  Forcing myself to breathe evenly, jaw
clamped, I place one of the coins in her talons.

She frowns at me as though I've done something she disapproves of.

"I'll give you another tomorrow," I say, and hear my own
voice shaking.  Has she really just threatened to give me over to the
slavers?  I'm so angry, and so terrified.  My whole body is trembling
out of control.

"You most certainly will," she agrees.  "And
you'll give me this one, too.  And you'll give me some the next day."

My eyes go wide, realizing the full extent of her blackmail. 
This could go on forever.  I have no real recourse.  Not unless I'm
willing to kill her right here in this alleyway.  I glance past her at the
people on the street.  Noise of movement at the end of the alley behind me
makes my skin prickle.  An accomplice?  No, I can't kill her. 
Not here.

Her clawed hand is still outstretched, waiting for its pay.

"Not if I die of starvation," I snap at her. 
"If you want something tomorrow, you'll let me keep enough to eat
something.  Otherwise, you won't get a damned thing."

Her eyes narrow, the lines around them deepening until her face
looks like tree bark.  She says, "Maybe you don't understand, you
little bitch.  I
gave
you food.  You're mine now. 
This
is mine."  She seizes my hand and rips the last coin from it, her
jagged nails tearing my skin, clamping down.  Her spittle showers my face
as she barks her final threat:  "Learn it fast, or you're dead."

I bare my teeth at her, rage welling within me.  Death is
nothing compared to this.  But she reads my mind, and goes on, before I
can challenge her.

"The slavers pay a good price for the right
information," she sneers, revealing her own twisted, mottled-ochre
teeth.  "I can get my money out of you that way.  But I can't
imagine you'd like it, being some greasy old man's pet.  Of course, you
wouldn't care.  They have ways of taking that out of you." She turns
and marches away, and, glancing back at me over her shoulder, adds, "There
better be more than this tonight."  Then she's gone.  My money--
my hope of food-- is gone.  And I'm still shaking.  I lower myself
slowly to the ground and take a few moments to calm myself.  I try to
accept what has happened and move on, but even as I pull myself up and start
walking, my teeth are grinding, my fists clenched.  I'm consumed with
anger.  How dare she threaten me like this.  How dare she take away
something I've worked so hard for.  How dare she make me trust her only
for the sake of manipulation.  Piled on this is anger at myself for not
seeing it coming. 

Two things I am thinking as I pick my way through the alleys
looking for safe bits of trash to steal:  The deceptive, by their nature,
can appear to be trustworthy.  And information is deadly valuable.

Stalking through the streets, seething over the old woman’s
betrayal, my mind settles into the realization-- the sum of her power is
knowledge.  That same source of power is available to me, but I have to go
find it.  I become a different kind of scavenger-- one who collects
information. 

This new awareness transforms the Outpost into something entirely
new, a swamp of hidden possibilities and dangers.  I explore new places to
pick trash.  I sift through filth in gutters, invisible in plain
sight.  All the while I'm listening.  All the while, my eyes, shaded
beneath my rag hood, are watching. 

Matthew.  The name is everywhere.  Mentioned by men
exchanging a heavy bag of coins.  Whispered by a group of women ducking
out of the way of two burly, armed thugs who stride down the street. 
Exulted by small boys mock-brawling in an alley before being chastened by their
mothers.  And the slaves-- a large proportion wear cuffs on their wrists
bearing the insignia "M".  I suspect that other insignias were
sold from Matthew's stock.  I remember the name.  I remember the
voice, in the alley where I was born, saying "Matt's going to think we're
slacking."

His henchmen are the easiest ones to spot.  They're the ones
that prowl the streets without fear.  Their eyes scan and take everything
in, feral cats choosing their next meal.  They're visibly armed, with
knives in their belts, holsters peeking from under their jackets or strapped
around their waists or legs.  They go wherever they want, do whatever they
want.  No one challenges them.

These men include the slavers I’ve been avoiding.  Now, I
dare to follow after them from a distance.  I scavenge the drop zones
quickly, after they make their rounds, and am rewarded with half a bag full of
loot.  Wanting to fill the rest of it, I head toward the red light
district.

I snatch bits and pieces, making sure no one is looking when I
do.  I am a thief of trash.  My load is ever increasing.  But no
one else is scavenging here.  That makes me nervous.  Still, I keep
on.  I need to survive.

I pick my way down an alley.  I have just stooped to swipe a
stray bit of paper blowing on the wind, when I hear a hissing noise behind
me.  I glance back.

She runs up, not close, but within a few feet-- this rail of a
woman.  Skimpy clothing identifies her as a prostitute.  Her eyes are
wild and moving unnaturally in her head.  My fingers tighten on my metal
stick, but her posture is non-threatening.

“No, no, no,” she whispers, desperately.  “Don’t do
that.  You can’t do that here.  She’ll worse than kill you. 
Don’t mess with May Deth.”  She runs off as quickly as she came,
staggering as she goes.  I wonder what she’s on.

I stuff the paper in my bag, and stride off.  Her warning
chills me, but I'm still tempted to go on about my business.  I walk in
the neighborhood, and look closer at its people.  A shadow of fear lingers
over their faces.  No.  She’s right.  I can’t forage here.

On my way back to the main street, I pass a shack with a sign that
reads “Isaiah Bones, Chemist”.  Hard to believe there’s a real chemist in
the Outpost.  Voices come from within, arguing.  A man and a
woman.  Before I’m past, a young woman bursts from the building and flees
down the sidewalk, tears streaming her face.  She clutches a vial in her
hand. 

I go to the main street and pick the gutters.  Three men with
horizontal red stripes painted across their foreheads walk by, engaged in
conversation.

“I can’t afford my dues
and
something to eat,” one
whines.  “Canson tried to charge me three times what he’d charge anyone
else for a bag of rice.”

“Try Sumter’s,” another one says.  “He’s got some of the
discount sausage.”

The third one laughs.

The first says, “They say eating people makes you crazy.”

“Not eating makes you crazy, too.”

Fighting down a sick feeling, I move on.  I don’t doubt it’s
true.  It's a man-eat-man world.  Big fish, little fish. 
Predator, prey.  Which am I, I wonder.  Do I have the teeth?

As I wander, and gather, and listen, I try to determine how people
manage to move up the food chain.  The quick answer is... they
don't.  Poverty and desperation are cyclical, and self-perpetuating. 
The less you have, the more you need.  The more you need, the more you
have to give to get it.  The more you have to give up, the less you
have.  It could go on and on, but it is a cycle that rots out
quickly.  The lives of the poor are leprotic, consuming themselves in
painful and ugly ways. 

I focus on those who are not exactly poor... the next step
up.  Like the men with the red stripes.  A much smaller group of
people.  They seem to be healthier, thin but not emaciated.  They
perform odd jobs-- running messages, hauling goods, repairing clothing or
shoes.

After people-watching on the main street for a while, I discern
three distinct and separate groups.  Each has its own identifier--
something worn to show belonging.  One group wears a shoe-lace in bright
orange.  Another group has a small, ratty badge stitched to their left
pant legs.  And of course, the stripes.  I consider the conversation
I heard, and remember one of the men mentioned paying dues.  As I scout
for more safe places to gather trash, I consider how it might work.  I
wonder if I might be able to pay some dues, and live a better life.

Then, in an alley, I walk in on two Orange Shoelaces beating up a
third.  The man being beaten pleads, "Please, please.  I
couldn't afford the payment."  The other two leave the old man
bleeding in a huddle on the ground, yanking his shoes off as they flee the crime
scene.  I want to help him, but self-preservation kicks in.  I run
away in the same direction as his attackers, needing to be gone before a Sentry
shows up.  When I feel that I’m far enough, I sit with my back against a
wall in an alley, putting the pieces of the puzzle together.  It's pretty
straight forward, really, making me wonder why I didn't guess it before. 
The sheep pay the flock.  The flock pays the wolf.  The wolf doesn't
eat the sheep, but still makes a profit.  Not everyone can be a slave, after
all. 

Hope rises in me.  Could I somehow come up with the
money?  But the more I wander the streets, I notice commonalities between
members, even across the three groups.  They’re all plain, mediocre in
every way.  Unskilled.  Not very bright.  The slaves, on the
other hand, are mostly cut of a different mold.  They’re either strong
from hard work, skilled in some way, or simply beautiful.  There's a
reason they are kept when others are not.  Value.  Reasoning it
through, tithing to one of the groups is risky business.  Most likely, the
sheep happily sacrifice the best of their flock to the wolf... for a profit, of
course.  My hope deflates.  I don't know much about myself.  I’m
made weak from hunger.  Erasure will have deleted any skills I may have
had.  But I’m pretty.  And beyond that, there’s something else I am
certain of:  I have value.  There will be no safety in one of those
groups for me.

For the rest of the day, I scan the streets and listen to
conversations.  It seems there is a sprinkling of people who are not slaves,
not group members, but who still manage to make a living.  They’re
well-off, as far as the Outpost is concerned.  They’re clearly eating
regularly.  They sleep indoors, and are dressed in warm clothing with few
holes.  They own things.  They are merchants, or businessmen. 
Or employed by Matthew.  I’m beginning to think this is the entire scope
of life within the walls of the Outpost, when I notice two young men walking
along the broken sidewalk.  At first, I think they're more of Matthew's,
but they’re not.  I realize this because they pass three men who I’ve
already identified as Matthew’s thugs.  As they pass, there’s no greeting
or acknowledgement, just a brief meeting of eyes.  All five faces are
blank.  No one displays aggression, but there is something in it all--
something of a challenge.  The two continue on into Canson's corner
grocery store.  One of Matthew's men glances warily after them, but
Matthew's group keeps moving, too.  As for me, I scramble into position to
find out more.

I'm fishing a tin can lid out of a gutter on the opposite corner
when the two men finally come out, one of them carrying a cloth sack with
something lumpy weighting the bottom.  This one wears a dark blue knit cap
pulled down to his eyebrows.  From under it spills shoulder-length golden
hair, thick and wavy.  He's handsome, with a strong jaw, straight nose,
and broad shoulders.  Classic good looks.  He could be a sun
god.  He's dressed in black pocketed pants and a military-style jacket
over a tee shirt.  His clothes are not particularly dirty or torn. 
Neither are his companion's. 

The other one is wearing a zip-up hoodie, with the hood drawn up
over his head.  They turn away from me quickly, so all I really see of his
face is olive skin and a cap of dark, wavy hair.  I'm oddly disappointed
to miss out on the rest.  As they walk away, I note his lean, muscular
build.  His movement is fluid and feline, full of masculine grace.  I
can't stop watching him.  I have to force my mind back to its analytical
side.  I consider the way that they walk, and the way that people move
around them.  These two are definitely dangerous.  How do they fit
into the scheme of things?  I follow them.  

I keep at least half a block between us at all times.  People
continue to make way for them, water parting around boulders.  They stroll
leisurely down the main street of the Outpost.  They don't stop to talk
with anyone.  For that matter, they don't even seem to be talking between
themselves.  They just head down the street like they know exactly where
they are going, sharp and alert, but with a sort of nonchalance.  The one
wearing the hoodie glances back over his shoulder.  I keep my head tucked,
keep hobbling like it has nothing to do with me.  But when they turn onto
a quieter street, I know I cannot follow them-- not without revealing
myself.  So I continue until I find an alleyway vacant enough that I dare
snatch a few bits of trash before moving on.

When I head toward the market square with three full bags to sell,
the late afternoon sun just touches the top of the concrete wall on the west
side of the Outpost.  I’m hobbling along, trying to ignore the persistent
pain of the wound in my foot, trying to will it away.  Sometimes, I forget
it’s there.  Then sometimes, the endless needling sensation works its way
into my consciousness.  I become aware of every muscle in my body, tense
with agitation.  It’s the kind of pain that drives people crazy-- not from
its intensity, but from its constant, incessant jabbing.  Grinding my teeth,
I try to think of something else-- anything else.  A way to keep some of
the money I will make.  The possibility of food.  But I can focus on
nothing other than the pain. 

Then I hear it, and I stop walking.  I stop, before I even
know what I’m doing.  The pain in my foot is nothing.  My hunger is a
distant unpleasantness.  There’s nothing in my world but this sound
pulling at me like a current dragging me under water. 

"Roses and lilies, roses and lilies!"  There are
two of them-- old women peddling flowers, crying out in this off-key sing-song.
 "Roses and lilies," they cry over and over. 

I am frozen.  I will my heart to start beating again, tell
myself to start moving.  But I stand there and look at them as they wander
across the market place singing their pitch.  I’m incapacitated, but I
can’t say why.  Only that there is something so horribly familiar in their
song.  My insides feel like they’ve been whisked into a froth.  I try
to calm myself, try to breathe.  I start counting backward.  After
two beats I forget to count.  My mind races with questions.  A
chilling certainty creeps into me.  This has something to do with who I
am.  Who I was.  I’m suddenly desperate to know.  But the Tenth
Law of the Covenant states that it is forbidden for an
erasee
to make
any attempt to discover their previous identity.  If I did this-- if I was
caught doing this-- it would mean death.  Was I a flower peddler in my
previous life?  Bitterly, I force the question away.  It is
impossible, I reason with myself.  I could not retain self-knowledge or
memories.  This has nothing to do with me.  It's something
else.  Flowers.  Who buys flowers, anyway, when they could buy
food?  There is no place for such things in this world.  Flowers are
for the dead. 

I make my way to the recycler.  He sees me coming, but my
victory from this morning continues.  He only makes a face of
disbelief.  He upends the contents of my bags, and flings a handful of
coins at me.  I rush to pick them out of the dirt, and beat a hasty
retreat toward the cake-seller, determined to eat before everything can be
taken from me.  I mentally tally my profits and consider their unstolen
potential.  I need food, but I also need to do something about my
foot.  I’m sure now that the wound has become infected.  There’s a
woman farther down from the cake-seller, who peddles herbal medicines and
teas.  I think I can probably just afford to buy a poultice for my foot
and a cake for my stomach, and have two coins left over to pay off that
blackmailing hag.  Surely two coins will be enough to forestall her wrath
for another day. 

Conjured by the thought, she appears about ten yards in front of
me.  My stomach turns at the sight of her, but I change my course into the
mouth of a nearby alley where I can give her the coins privately.  I know
that if people see us talking they’ll be suspicious.  No one talks to the
poxy.  So I retreat deep into the alley until the people in the
marketplace disappear from my view.  A moment later she follows after
me.