Authors: David Luna
“Don’t.”
“But the flowers?”
she thinks to herself.
“They’ve adapted to survive. We haven’t yet. It’s still poisoned,” he explains.
Inna wipes her hands and falls back into the orchids, now fully illuminated by moonlight. Neil lies beside her.
“Why are you a Collector?” she asks.
“Mazer found me,” Neil says.
“But why become one?”
“My brother.”
“He is one too?”
“No. Sold himself when the Agency first formed.”
Inna looks away, clearly sorry to hear this.
“That song of yours. The one your Grandma taught you. My mother used to sing it when we were kids. It reminds me of him,” Neil explains.
“It’s funny how music can mean different things to different people. I suppose that’s why it’s banned,” Inna says.
A moment of silence falls between them.
“Everyone has a choice,” Neil reminds her. He says this to also remind himself, something he does on a daily basis to mentally handle his job. When the Agency first formed, and still to this day for some, those who sell themselves are labeled as cowards. While the Agency advertises the system as the honorable thing to do to provide loved ones with rations while simultaneously lowering the city’s overall numbers, some choose to deride those who sell themselves as taking the easy way out. Neil knows his brother wasn’t a coward. He knows his brother wouldn’t abandon him and leave him alone in this world to be sent to reform school just to take the easy way out. No, everyone has a choice. His brother had a choice, and for whatever reason behind it, it’s that choice that sent Neil down the path to one day become a Collector.
“Maybe everyone does have a choice,” Inna concedes, “but it’s a shame when it feels that choice is easier for us than them. Just look at the slums. Flyers everywhere. Ads on the SectorLink. Sales reps going door-to-door. I bet a child could point out the Agency’s logo over the city’s emblem. Did you know it’s based on an extinct bird?”
Neil doesn’t respond. He’s seen people work themselves up like this before. In his experience the best thing to do is to either have them detained or let them get it out of their system and calm down. With no intent of arresting Inna, he rises to explore the church ruins while she continues.
“Do they squeeze the wealthy like that? Choke them with distribution lines? Enforce penal codes hoping to suppress our tenacity to love? Everything they do is designed to make it feel like we are out of options. Like being from the slums is some curse we need to rid ourselves of.” She takes a deep breath as she watches Neil climb to an upper balcony. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you look at your volunteers as weak?”
Neil raises his brow. He’s never heard such nonsense. “They’re heroes,” he counters. “Giving up life so others can live. It’s the most honorable thing someone can do.”
“What do you say to them?”
Neil shrugs.
“You’re one of the last faces they see, one of the last people they get to talk to. Why not try something compassionate?” Inna suggests.
Neil leans over the balcony rail and mulls it over.
“Come down here,” Inna says as she looks up at the ledge in concern. “If that breaks…”
“You afraid I’m going to fall?” Neil jokes.
“No, I’m afraid I won’t have a ride home,” she quips back.
Neil hops over the railing and climbs down the pile of stones.
“It seems the dam changed both of our lives,” Inna returns to their previous topic. “If it never broke, your brother would be alive and you wouldn’t be a Collector.” She naturally gravitates closer to Neil as she continues, “And Tess would be alive and I wouldn’t be paired with Damian.”
“We also never would’ve met,” Neil reminds her.
Inna blushes and turns away, but her eyes soon come back. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she says.
They share a long moment, two unauthorized bodies under the moonlight, until it’s interrupted by a noise coming from outside. Neil is the first to notice as his ears perk up.
“What is it?” Inna asks.
He shushes her as the noise is accompanied by a flashlight.
Outside, the light belongs to an SEO investigating Neil’s utility truck parked nearby the restricted structure. As the SEO moves towards the broken stone steps leading down into the poisoned garden, Neil and Inna slip out from the church’s crumbling backside and flee down the mountainside on foot. They sprint through a maze of withering trees towards the base of the valley, barely able to suppress their laughter.
“Why are we running?” Inna shouts.
“I don’t know,” Neil laughs.
Eventually they pause to catch their breath.
“Don’t you outrank him?” Inna asks. “Or you too embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“This seemed like more fun.”
Inna furrows her brow. She thought Collectors weren’t allowed to have fun. Before she can get out some sort of quip, Neil hears another noise in the distance. This time it’s different. “Now what?” Inna asks, but Neil is already off to investigate.
With their roles reversed from the landfill, Inna can barely keep up as she follows Neil between the increasing number of thick, wiry bald cypress trunks desperate for a drink, soon stumbling upon a lively
backwoods bayou
– the Bayou Sector – where dozens of shacks are built side by side, each decorated with rocking chairs, crates, and barrels outside on their porches. Up above, a web of wooden bridges suspended in the air link multiple tiers of forts and wood housing within the upper levels of the treetops, while crisscrossing dead vines form a net in the top canopy of the forest. This, combined with dense patches of hanging moss, helps keep the community secluded.
A fire burns in an open clearing in the middle of the sector where dozens of residents convene around the blaze, dancing to a three-piece band on makeshift instruments – a banjo, drum, and even a wailing harmonica – their arms interlocked while line dancing in unison.
Those not participating contribute from the sidelines. Residents stomp their bare feet to the beat of the drum, others sway on the suspension bridges up above, while even more cheer from their windows high in the trees, not a sour face to be had. It’s a true bayou hoedown, only without the swamp water, the lively celebration a harsh contrast to the parched dead forest.
Neil tenses as he and Inna infiltrate the party, used to those participating in unauthorized activities fleeing at the sight of his uniform, similar to insects scurrying when a light is turned on. Except here nobody flees. Instead, one man wraps his arm around Neil and rocks back and forth to the music, while another grabs Inna and twirls her in circles.
“Neil!” she squeals.
Their eyes find each other as they are separated, each at a loss of what this place could possibly be.
The man passes Inna off to another dancer, then another, each one dipping and twirling her, a choreographed routine in sync with the music. Her squeals become more childlike and playful as all inhibitions are tossed to the wayside.
Neil meanwhile is handed one, two, three drinks in succession. “No…I can’t…,” he claims. But the residents force the liquid down his throat. To his surprise, it’s clear and pure. His eyes search for Inna again. “It’s water!” he exclaims.
Neil’s interrupted as the women take their turn with him, dragging him into the circle and bouncing him back and forth between their bosoms like a pinball. One woman drapes a handmade pendant around his neck before passing him off to the next in line.
The repeated dance routine continues to unfold. Before either Neil or Inna can gain their bearings, they find themselves cycled through partners and paired back with each other, face to face in front of the fire. They do their best to remain in sync with the others, picking up the moves as they go along, all laughs and smiles as the harmonica wails at its peak.
The crowd cheers and clinks mugs as the harmonica transitions into another tune. Neil pulls Inna away for a breather.
“You ever do that before?” she asks.
“It’s a standard at Agency parties.”
Inna furrows her brow.
“Really?”
she thinks, though his smirk gives away the joke. She hits him. “I liked it better when you didn’t mess with me.”
They stare at the Bayou Sector in wonderment as they continue to catch their breath. So much happiness. So much joy.
“This is crazy,” Inna says. She notices the pendant around Neil’s neck. “What’s that?”
Neil examines the intricate design – a small circled hoop decorated in the center with webbing – unsure, until a voice interrupts from behind.
“It’s a Dream Catcher,” says the voice.
Neil and Inna whirl around to see Abby, in her twenties, cool, calm, and collect in the hyper party environment. She is also very pregnant.
“There’s an old legend about a Spider Woman who took care of the people. The children, the adults, everyone. But as the people began to spread out, the Spider Woman couldn’t reach them all at once, so dream catchers were used in her place. They’re believed to filter out the bad and leave only the good – like we try to do here.” She refers to the communal celebration, the participants living life and dancing without care.
Neil thumbs the webbing before smelling his fingers. The moss, carefully braided together to form the delicate cordage that makes up the inner web, carries a distinct musty smell. It’s an odd dichotomy as the moss feels alive while the smell is reminiscent of the past.
“I hear the Black Market sells them, but they’re knock-offs,” Abby says, then points to the bayou. “This is the only place to find these materials.”
“Why give me a gift?” Neil asks. “Why not—”
“Run?” Abby finishes his question with a question. “Why, because you’re a Collector?”
Neil nods. That’s pretty much what he’s used to.
“We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You should brush up on the codes,” Neil says.
Abby stares out at the twirling and stomping crowd. The dance picks up its tempo. “Have you ever snapped your fingers? Or walked with a skip in your step? Or had a melody in your head and hummed it out loud?”
Neil and Inna exchange glances, both guilty on the last part.
“There are just some things that are inherently part of who we are. Loving. Caring. Self-preserving,” Abby explains. “Everything we do is aimed to remind us of this and connect us to our roots. The trees for our huts, its fibers for our rope, the moss to kindle our fire. All you see is made by hand, made from what we have. We’re not forced to rely on anyone but ourselves. Beneath the trappings of civilization we are creatures of the Earth, and this lifestyle connects us to the generations who lived before us.”
“Reclaiming lost heritage,” Inna chimes in. She completely understands this ideology considering her preservation and restoration activities in the landfill.
“Exactly,” Abby confirms.
Just then Elijah, also in his twenties, stumbles into them with three mugs of water and passes them out.
“No empties allowed!” he commands.
“Who would give away so much water?” Neil asks.
Elijah places his arm around Abby. “Consider it a celebration of life,” he smiles proudly.
“Congratulations on your baby,” Inna says.
Elijah hesitates. That’s not quite what he meant. Neil gets it.
“The Agency thanks you for your sacrifice,” he says grimly.
“Oh please, don’t be so serious,” Elijah counters. “You should be off the clock by now.”
Neil raises his mug and drinks to acknowledge the sacrifice.
Just then, a Dancing Resident places her arms around both Elijah and Neil. “C’mon you scoundrels,” she shouts. Elijah kisses Abby before he’s dragged back out into the dancing circle. Neil eyes Inna as he’s also whisked away.
“Wait, he’s selling himself?” Inna asks Abby. “He’s abandoning you while pregnant?”
“We’re going together. The three of us, as a family,” Abby clarifies.
“You and your partner must really love each other,” Inna says.
Abby smiles as she watches Elijah enjoy his last night alive. “He’s not my partner.” She points to a different man dancing with another woman. “That’s my assigned partner – with his wife.” Her finger moves to another couple, “And Elijah’s partner, with her husband.” She turns back to Inna. “Everyone here loves who they want.”
Inna’s taken aback, completely speechless.
“Make no mistake, none of us are against the Agency or what they do,” Abby says. “Well…most of us,” she corrects herself before continuing. “This just allows us all to be together in the type of life we choose.” She caresses her pregnant stomach. “Our forest is dead. The trees aren’t coming back. It’s only a matter of time before we all wither away. But this way we’ll be together forever. None of us will ever be alone.”
Inna’s brow scrunches like she’s fighting off an upset stomach, unsure how to react to all of this.
Meanwhile over in the dance circle, Neil focuses on the stomping feet around him, attempting to move in unison to a new routine. He’s considerably less stiff and more relaxed the second time around. He catches a glimpse of Inna and Abby in deep conversation, but is forced to pick up the pace as the circle rotates about the fire.
“Pretty girl you got there,” Elijah says as he dances next to Neil.
“Collectors aren’t assigned partners,” Neil responds.
Elijah eyes Neil knowingly. “No offense to the Agency,” he says, “but not everything can be controlled.”
Just then a group of men bombard Elijah with grunts and cheers with their free drinks in hand before continuing on, eliciting hoots and hollers from the circle of dancers all together. Elijah keeps his focus on Neil throughout the rowdiness. “Why are you with her tonight?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“And you’ve been with her before?” Elijah asks. He reassures Neil, “It’s okay, I’m not the Collector.”
Neil nods yes.
“Why?”
Neil hesitates. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” Elijah says. “With these kinds of things, we never know. And that’s how you do know.”
Elijah and Abby glance to one another from afar. He extends his thumb, index, and pinky finger in a hand signal. She returns it.