E (4 page)

Infuriatingly, she knows exactly how much I earned today, and she
demands all but one coin, which she sees as a generous gift.  Resist as I
may, in the end she snaps, "Do you
know
how much Matthew would give
me for you?  Do you
know
how long you’ll have to pay me
coin-by-coin to make that up?  I'm showing you a great kindness, girl, and
you don't appear to be thankful at all."

I thrust the fistful of coins at her, restraining a punch.  I
force my fingers to open one by one and drop the coins into her greedy,
wrinkled palm.  I swallow down bile and say nothing.  If I say
anything, I will explode. 

"More than this tomorrow, if you want to keep one to eat
with," she scolds as she trudges off.  "Work faster.  You
can make more."

A single coin to my name, I must make the choice between eating
and treating my wound.  I take a moment in the alley to inspect the red,
swollen gash on my foot, and decide it has to be the wound.  My stomach
rolls over in protest.  I limp out of the alleyway and locate the herb
peddler.  She’s a middle-aged woman with graying hair and a square
face.  There are fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and a mark like
mine on her forehead.  Something about her is deeply sad.  She sits
cross-legged on the edge of a blanket that is covered in little bundles of
dried plant matter, all neatly labeled.  I stop warily a few feet off,
keeping my hood pulled down across my face as I try to read the labels. 
Her gaze flicks up to me, but she shows no other reaction.  I see the
bundle I want, point to it, and hold up a coin for her to see.  What if
she refuses to sell to me?  I steel myself to dig in my heels and be
stubborn again if it’s necessary. 

It is not.  She rises to her knees to reach the bundle and
tosses it to me.  I toss the coin onto the blanket in front of her. 
Her fingers scoop it up and pocket it while I retrieve the poultice that landed
at my feet.  I tuck it into my clothing and hobble away.  A lump
rises in my throat as I go.  I am so grateful that something was simple. 
Just one simple thing.

Rather than return to the fire barrels, I follow the back streets
into a more deserted part of the Outpost and find a vacant alleyway that has a
sizable puddle of water.  I soak the bundle of herbs in the water, then
lean against a wall and press the poultice against my wound.  After only a
moment I feel some relief.  I didn't realize exactly how painful my foot
has been until now, with some of the torment fading.  I sigh, and close my
eyes.  I’m exhausted.  I could fall asleep easily, but I can’t sleep
here.  There is a kind of safety in being with the other beggars that
doesn’t exist here, alone in this alley.  I’ll need to make my way back
before darkness comes completely.  But even in the lengthening shadows of
the evening, I feel a vague sense of peace at being alone, away from
everyone.  A rare moment of privacy.  Sharp on its heels is a feeling
of profound loneliness. 

Bitterly, I think of the old woman who is blackmailing me. 
Despite the rage and disgust I feel at what she’s doing, there is also a tug of
nostalgia as I think back on our conversation.  She’s the only person who
has really spoken to me.  Ever.  She’s the only one who sees
me
. 
I laugh-- a short, sharp laugh.  How pitiful have I become?  Surely I
was never like this before.  Again, I remember the cries of the flower
peddlers.  I tremble.  Something dangerous occurs to me.  Why
not find myself?  Is death so much worse than this?  For the briefest
moment I entertain the idea, as though it could really be that simple, then
push it away quickly.  Focus on rearranging the poultice.  Poke at
the gash in my foot.  Concentrate on the pain.  Feel the aching
weariness in my body.  The deep, unsated hunger in my stomach.  There
will be no food tonight, I tell myself, and hold fast to the unpleasantness of
the thought.

In the dipping shadows I hear first, and then see, a small,
darting movement.  I yank myself back against the wall as the rat runs by
me.  It stops at a pile of trash only a couple of yards away, picking
through the filth.  Its eyes are tiny circles, its belly fur wet with
something unpleasant, its tail a pink, dragging, tentacle of fleshy
rings.  I recoil automatically, but then, something else takes over. 
Something entirely unpleasant, but necessary.  My fingers ease around my
metal bar.  I raise it slowly, ever so slowly.  My eyes are on the
rat.  Its eyes are on me.  But it is hungry too, and busy eating
something clutched in its tiny hands, crumbs clasped in the stretched skin
between it bony, clawed fingers.  I can see that it doesn't realize how
long my reach is.  Before it can move on, I bring my weapon down hard.

I close my eyes and turn my head away as I strike.  There is
a crunch and splat.  The rat squeals.  I peek, teeth clenched in a
grimace.  It is thrashing, rolling on its back with its legs in the
air.  My aim was bad.  I want to puke, but I lift the bar and hit it
again, making sure to get the head this time.  The rat goes still. 
Blood oozes into a puddle around its body, mixing with a grey spatter of
brains.  I stare at it in revulsion.

By the time I make myself move again, the puddle has stopped
growing and the blood at its edges has started to dry.  I stash my
poultice in my bag and rewrap my foot, avoiding thinking about my next
task.  Then I poke the rat’s body with the end of my metal stick. 
It’s limp, blood clotting in the brown fur.  This is food, I tell
myself.  I try to think of it as something anyone would be happy to
eat.  A bird of some sort.  A chicken.  Only, chickens don't
have fur.  I grit my teeth and glance around for something to cut it
with.  Broken glass is everywhere.  I find a large piece and use it
like a knife.  I cut through the fur on the belly of the rat and pull it
outward, like I’m removing its jacket.  There’s a horrible tearing noise
as I do.  I gag, but refuse to let myself stop.  I skin the whole
thing, struggling with the crushed head.  My stomach heaving, I hack it
off completely, and follow by lopping off the tail.  Then I cut deeper
into the belly, open it up, and try to empty the guts out.  Some come out
easily, but not even shaking does much to detach the rest.  I have to use
the glass to scrape the inside, the smell of blood and partially digested
garbage rising into my face, my fingers slipping in the gore.  Again, I
gag.  The whole process is entirely vile.  I’m no longer in the least
bit hungry, which makes me laugh out loud.  If nothing else, I’ve made my
hunger go away.  But I
will
eat this disgusting creature.  If
I don't, I’ve put myself through this for nothing.  I’ve wasted its meager
life for nothing.  And though I can't say I like rats, I can't help but
empathize with it.  We’re too much the same, this rat and I.  It
could be me that someone whaps with a metal bar, guts, and eats.  Couldn't
it?

I return to the fire barrels with the edible portions tucked into
my clothes.  When I get there, I take up my spot along the concrete wall
and pretend to nod off.  But I watch and wait until everyone seems to be
asleep.  Then I jab the carcass onto the end of my metal bar and quietly
sneak up to one of the barrels of fire.  I half expect to be discovered
and chased off, but being a scavenger is tiring work, and everyone sleeps
soundlessly through my rat-roast.  Everyone, but that crazy boy that ran
at me when I first got here.  He watches me, wide-eyed and trembling, from
the place he crouches about fifteen feet away.  I don't feel sorry for him
until I see his mark.  Then, something human, something compassionate,
stirs inside me.  When I think the rat is fully cooked, I go back to the
wall and pick the meat from the bones.  There’s not a lot of it. It’s
tough and rangy, but it’s protein.  I pull off one small chunk, sit
forward, and toss it to the boy, who is still watching me.  It lands
directly in front of him on the pavement.  His eyes turn to it.  He
tenses, but he does not move.  The meat stays on the pavement.  Of
course.  He's crazy, but he's smarter than me. 

Trying not to feel its loss, I turn back to finish the small
portion I have left.  I gnaw on the bones then lick my fingers
clean.  I throw the remains in the fire, return to my spot, and fall
asleep with food in my stomach at last.

***

I am woken at the crack of dawn by the sounds of a scuffle.  Exclamations
of discord.  Boots scraping the pavement.  I pry my eyes open and
locate the source.  One ragged figure hits another over the shoulder with
a metal lid, causing him to fall sideways and scramble away.  Still others
are tugging on opposite ends of a jacket, each trying to take it from the
other.  The fabric starts to tear in the middle.  Another grave
robber is running away with old shoes, being chased by more beggars.  Two
are stripping the corpse of its pants.  As one of them peels the pant legs
off of the stiff appendages, another one is already rifling through the
pockets, searching for anything of value.  I sit up with a start,
wondering if I should jump into the fray, but whatever there was of value is
already long gone.  So this is what happens when someone dies.

I realize quickly that I don't want to know what happens to the
body.  I struggle to my feet and hobble off, leaving the chaotic scene
behind me.

I spend the day collecting refuse once again.  This time I
decide to make the extra effort of taking several trips back to the recycler in
the hopes of concealing my income from the old woman.  However, on the
first trip I realize the futility when I notice her sitting in the mouth of a
nearby alleyway, where she can see what happens in the marketplace.  She
must sit there all day, a jackal watching for prey.  This is how she knows
exactly how much money I make.  And probably how much money others make as
well.  I try to think of an alternative way to sell my goods, but there is
none.  I have to make peace with the idea that I cannot hide my income
from the old woman.  She will take everything from me, except for that one
coin, if she is feeling generous.  This will happen every day.  One
coin is all I will ever have.  One coin to buy a small, crumbling, stale
cake that will not make up the energy I've lost trying to find things to sell.

I can't stand the idea that, after all my effort, I'll have no
more than I have now.  I will have nothing to save.  No way out of
this life.  This is unacceptable.  I cannot continue down this
path.  I have an alternative.  I don't like it, but it's better than
rotting in this rut.

I take to the quietest back alleys in my search for things to
sell.  I walk silently.  I pause and listen.  Hunting vermin is
not easy, but the rewards are better than any I've found so far.  I
reserve one of my sacks for rat meat, and fill the other two with trash. 
When I return to the camp that night, I eat three rats.  I feel almost
full for the first time I can remember.  And I have one coin tucked into
my clothes.  The next night I have two coins.  The night after that,
three.  I reuse the poultice on my foot.  It's not as potent, but it
still seems to help, and the swelling is going down, the redness disappearing. 
On the fourth day, I realize that rat hunting does not bother me as much as it
did before.  It's becoming normal.  I can almost ignore the smell of
blood.

During this time, I continue to keep my eyes and ears open. 
I catch occasional glimpses of the two mysterious young men I saw walking
together, and sometimes-- probably too often-- I follow them.  They seem
to have a deal with some of the merchants in the marketplace.  But I learn
that they are not the only exceptions to the rule.  There are other small
groups of loners that walk the Outpost untouched.  They also look
dangerous, and probably are.  This is how they survive.  They're too
much trouble to be worth the effort.  One day I watch a group of three sit
on the edge of the sidewalk sharing a lunch of bread and cheese.  All
three of them are armed to the teeth.  Two of them seem to defer to the
third.  She is young, built broad and stocky, and I think she could
probably take a boy in a fight.  There's a fierce glow in her eyes that
reminds me of the old woman.  I immediately dislike her because of
this.  But I watch her as much as I can.  I study her actions and her
body language.  I wonder, could I do that?  Could I pull that
off?  Look scary enough that everyone would leave me alone?

My stash of coins slowly builds up, and as it does, I begin to
think of my long-term plan.  What exactly will I do when I have
enough?  How much will I need to buy a new life?  There are no
certain answers to these questions.  But one day I sit on the curb in the
cold, in front of the Rustler, a bar that reminds me of an old-style cowboy
saloon.  The bar is a hub of news and gossip, so it's worth hanging around
out front, but I don't spend a lot of time here because the place is usually
crawling with Matthew's thugs and other scary characters.  As I pause for
just a moment today, I can see through the open front doors to a table where a
group of men are playing cards.  I watch them briefly, and as I do,
something clicks inside me.  I can see the cards of the man whose back is
to me, can read the faces of his opponents.  I know exactly what I would
do if I held those cards.  He does something different.  The others
take his money.

My heart skips a beat.  My body turns, unconsciously, toward
the door.  I watch them deal the cards for the next hand.  The man's
cards are good this time.  Bet more, I'm thinking, but he doesn't. 
He wins, but he could have taken a bigger pot.  My mouth is hanging open
as I watch them deal the third hand.