Authors: David Luna
Wade points to his PDA to clarify his statement, reading from the screen, “
How do you let go of this? When the feeling still lives on. How do you abandon this? A natural creation.
” His eyes return to Neil. “It’s a little more cryptic than usual, but it’s about love.”
“Why would Quado write about love?” Neil asks. “It’s probably a jab at the Agency.”
“Interpret it how you will, but not everyone is so openly against us. Especially Quado.” Wade continues with his line of thought, reading the last line again, “
A natural creation
.” He lingers on the words, smiling. “That’s love. Love is the most natural thing.” He points to an older couple at the next booth over. “Behind you, they’re in love. Even the waitress over there.”
He refers to a waitress named Paiton, twenties, her hair tied back and the pink hue in her cheeks matching her lips. She’s full of life as she serves the customers, a stark contrast to the dreariness cast over the city.
“She’s glowing. Only love can make someone that happy.”
Neil doesn’t care. He focuses on his meal.
“Don’t you think we could do our jobs better if we were allowed that?” Wade questions.
“I do my job just fine,” Neil counters.
He finishes his water, then heads for the register. Wade follows. Within moments Paiton rings them up. Wade was right, up close she is glowing.
“Is that all for you boys today?” she asks enthusiastically.
Neil nods. She hands him a pen, “If I could get your badge numbers…”
Paiton waits while Neil writes on the back of the bill. She smiles at Wade, tucking her hair behind her ear. There is a slight sense of familiarity between them, like two kids with a shared secret and the joke is on everyone else.
Just then, a Bearded Bum alone at the counter causes a fuss as Neil and Wade prepare to leave.
“How come they don’t have to pay?” the Bearded Bum speaks out.
“They’re Collectors, sir” Paiton responds.
“Without my tax dollars they wouldn’t exist, so how ‘bout I get some more water here?”
Wade taps Neil for them to intervene, but Neil continues out.
“Sir, just calm down,” Paiton tries to diffuse the situation, but the Bearded Bum works himself up.
“It’s the most expensive thing on the menu!” he exclaims.
Outside on the sidewalk, Neil brings up their next assignment on his PDA. The only information they are given is a name, location, and Collection Date & Time.
“We just gonna let him start a riot?” Wade asks.
“It’s not our job.”
Wade’s eyes plead, still a rookie. Neil relents. He flags down a Security Enforcement Officer patrolling nearby.
“Hey, bearded guy inside at the counter. Get him out of there.”
The SEO nods before heading inside. Neil turns back to Wade. “Happy?” he asks.
Wade reads over the receipt from their meal. “Somebody is. Look. She drew a heart. See, she must be in love.”
“Or she wanted a tip,” Neil quips.
Wade shakes his head in disbelief. “You sure are cold, Neil.”
They pass a brick wall covered in graffiti on their way to the parked utility vehicle. Standing out from the collage of artwork and Sector gang names – each spray-painted over one another throughout the years – are two words bolded beneath the image of a black silhouetted figure: WHO’S QUADO? The same image can be found sprinkled throughout the walls in many Downtown alleyways.
Just then, sounds of a scuffle steal their attention as across the street, another SEO splits up a young man and young woman holding hands.
“Penal code 11.15.b, no public displays of affection,” the SEO announces. He continues with the proper protocol, “Papers. C’mon, hand ‘em over. Let’s see some ID.”
The couple obeys, but the young man fidgets as the officer reviews their documents.
“This is expired,” the SEO exclaims. He immediately cuffs the young man’s hands. The young woman protests, but the Enforcement Officer whirls around with steel eyes, “Watch it or you’re coming too.”
Wade glances back inside the diner, still within sight, where Paiton buses a table, also able to glimpse the skirmish through the window. Their eyes meet, a sense of sadness between them, until Neil obliviously interrupts their hidden exchange.
“C’mon, back to the slums.”
******
Diversity
Many think the Sectors are split up and divided by population when in fact they are designated by geography. Think about it, Sector A is the old industrial zone near the mountains, the slums surround the landfill on the west bank, and Downtown is all flatlands covered in concrete. I heard about a sector hidden in the dead forest, but can’t confirm. For being an enclosed city we sure do have a lot of areas! I bet if we had a desert it’d be designated as its own sector too!
-Quado
3
T
wo of the four misfit kids sword fight using various junk objects, while the leader of the group squats down doing his best to draw the outline of a winged horse in the dirt with the tip of a bent antenna.
“Why can’t we still be the Vipers?” the fourth member asks, referring to the sketch.
“Pegasus is better,” the leader defends. “It’s what they first called themselves.”
“How ‘bout the Cicadas?” the fourth member suggests, posing with his broken rake handle high in the air like it is some magnificent weapon. “We’ll swarm everyone!” He jabs at the leader, who in turn parries before joining in on the mock battle. Even in the perpetual state of despair ravaging the slums, kids will still be kids.
The sword fight continues until the misfits notice Neil’s truck approaching in the distance. As they pause, the leader of the group converts his bent antenna sword into an imaginary rifle and tracks the truck, then pretend fires – not just a kid being a kid, but a future Brigade member in the making.
Once parked in front of a dilapidated shack, Neil and Wade follow Loraine Wells through a porch screen door nearly off its hinges. Wade carries a black flag. Compared to Samantha the day before, Loraine keeps her composure.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she says without much concern, like this is an ordinary house call.
Neil sticks to protocol, cold and callous. “The Agency appreciates your sacrifice.”
They enter a two room shanty where along one wall is a homemade contraption designed to purify water. Dozens of urine jugs are stacked nearby, but the treated water is far from clean.
“We do our best to filter it, but sometimes the kids still get sick.” She motions to Ben, age six, lying on a cot faced towards the wall, his stomach severely bloated.
Sounds of children playing come from the other room. Wade notices.
“How many kids do you have?” he asks.
“Four, including Ben here. God knows I love my children, but I didn’t ask for triplets.”
“That’s a lot of thirsty mouths,” Wade responds, much more warm and personable than his stoic partner.
“Well thankfully the neighbors help some, sharing their rations and all.” She points to the purifier. “And we got this. It’s too bad nothing can filter water from the bay though.”
The Collectors sit on a rotted sofa, while Loraine sits opposite them in a wooden chair.
“If only the Agency could see what families like us have to go through,” she continues. “I was penalized when the triplets were born for going over the limit, can you believe that? More mouths, less water. Tell me how that’s fair.”
“Times are tough for everyone,” Neil interrupts before her emotions get the best of her. He’s seen this happen many times before. “But as long as people do their part.”
“I suppose so,” Loraine relents.
“Is your partner late?” he asks, returning to the task at hand.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The appointment said noon,” Neil clarifies. “For James.”
Loraine caresses her naked ring finger on her left hand. Her eyes move towards another black flag already hanging on the wall.
“James has been gone for two years. Sold himself to y’all, though the money didn’t last long.”
Wade scrunches his brow. “So who are we here to collect?”
“Jimmy!” Loraine shouts.
Within moments, Jimmy, a lively ten year old full of energy, dashes out from the other room.
“This is Jimmy, named after his father.” Loraine hugs her son and faces him towards Neil and Wade. “Jimmy, meet your Collectors.”
Neil remains stone-faced. Wade not so much. “How old are you?” Wade asks.
“Ten,” Jimmy responds proudly.
Neil takes Jimmy’s blood sample and confirms it with the database. He nods to Wade.
“You do know what’s about to happen?” Wade asks.
“Course he does,” Loraine chimes in. “It was his idea.” She pulls Jimmy into her lap. “Jimmy’s always looked out for his younger brothers. We couldn’t be more proud of what he’s doing.”
“I get to see my dad.” Jimmy carries the biggest smile only a ten year old can have. He spots the black flag. “Is that for me?”
“It’s for your family,” Neil says.
Jimmy runs over and grabs it. “Look mom, just like dad’s.”
“Run along and tell your brothers good-bye. These men are busy, we don’t want to waste their day.”
Jimmy wraps the flag around him like a cape and dashes off. His voice echoes from the back room, “Michael! Thomas! Look what I got!”
Loraine forces a smile. Tears finally well up in her eyes. “Don’t think of me as a bad mother,” she pleads. “What else am I supposed to do? If I go, who’d look after the triplets? Who’d take care of poor Ben?”
Suddenly Wade rises and storms outside for air. Neil lets him go.
Painful silence fills the air of the utility truck as Neil drives and Wade rides shotgun. The quiet tension is only broken up by an Agency infomercial coming from the radio, “Appointments can be made up to three weeks in advance. You’ll be approved in minutes and receive your life quote—”
Click
. Wade shuts it off. More silence.
Neil’s eyes drift to the rearview mirror, spotting Jimmy in the back of the truck on a side bench where he scratches off pieces of chipped paint, not a care in the world. Neil shakes his head. At least the kid is oblivious to where they are going. He finally turns his attention to the elephant in the air. “Look, I put my neck out for you once, but I won’t do it again. Mazer is asking questions. Just do your job or you’re done.”
Wade remains quiet, secretly thumbing a sliver of paper to help calm him down. It’s the receipt from the diner with Paiton’s name and the sketched heart across the top.
Suddenly their bodies whip back and forth as
CLANK CLANK CLACK!
A row of homemade metal spikes spring upwards and shred the front tires, jerking the truck violently up and down before it grinds to a halt in a ditch.
Neil and Wade instinctively bail out, guns drawn, taking cover behind the doors.
“Where are they? I don’t see ‘em,” Wade shouts from his side of the vehicle.
Neil scans left, then right before spotting the group of misfit kids fleeing down an alley in celebration. “Pegasus flies!” their leader shouts.
“Damn kids,” Neil mutters under his breath.
They rise and holster their weapons.
“At least it wasn’t the Brigade. It could be worse,” Wade says. He looks over the destroyed tires, but his optimistic attitude disappears upon discovering a severe oil leak. “Or not…”
Neil picks up the strip of metal spikes, each over eight inches in length. “Clever little monsters,” he says as he returns to the cab to start the truck.
Wade follows. “I don’t think it’ll drive.”
Neil moves only inches before
screeeeeeeech
, the truck’s steel rims grind into the dirt and gravel, unable to make it out of the ditch let alone out of the slums. He shuts it off.
“You going to call it in?” Wade asks.
Neil furrows his brow. “And say we got ambushed by a group of kids?”
Wade just stares at him. That’s what they are supposed to report. It’s protocol.
Neil seems to read his mind as he refutes this thought, “Slayter would have a field day. The last thing we want is to get on his radar. We’ll have to deal with the locals.” Neil notices Wade’s lingering concern. “It’s just tires,” he adds to try to diffuse the situation.
Just then Jimmy bangs from the rear of the truck.
“What do we do with him?” Wade asks.
The banging strikes again. “What?” Neil shouts.
Jimmy’s muffled voice barely reaches them, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Neil rolls his eyes. “We’ll take him with us.” He then steps forward and places his hand on Wade’s shoulder, dead serious. “Wade, I need to know you got my back. We’re a team, remember?”
It takes a moment, but Wade nods.
******
No Vacancy
Carrying Capacity is the maximum number of people our city can hold given the limits of our resources. Have you read the Agency’s annual report? While still above capacity, we are on a positive downhill trend.
But wait…if our numbers are shrinking, how come our rations aren’t increasing? And why are they calling for more and more volunteers? Is there ever light at the end of the tunnel?
-Quado
4
F
rank’s machine shop in the slums has been under the same ownership for three generations. Ever since his father died, Frank has taken over the day-to-day activities and does his best to continue to adapt to the ever changing world. The shop used to be an auto repair shop, but with the slums becoming denser and poorer, very few can afford the general upkeep of a vehicle, let alone the necessity of a vehicle has diminished. With the opening of the SectorLink line some years ago, cars in the city have become something mostly reserved for the wealthy as the general population adopted the cheaper mass transit system, even if they have to put up with random identification checks and crowded trams. A working vehicle nowadays places the owner under immediate scrutiny, which is a position nobody, not even a Collector with their ominous utility trucks, likes to be in. Frank’s father converted the shop into a computer repair shop, but with the deteriorating electric grid due to no funds (or desire) to rebuild it, power is inaccessible in the slums. Thus the computer repair business fell to the wayside. Nowadays Frank spends his time welding. In his mind, as buildings continue to fall there will always be scrap metal readily available in the slums, which means there will always be some sort of business.