***
Dead of night. Everyone is still, lying in piles— some closer to the fire barrels than others. Only the scurry of disease-carrying rodents and broken rustle of cockroaches disrupt the silence. In the broken light of the fire I inspect the slash between my toes. A little prodding and I feel the hard chunk of glass in my foot. Grinding my teeth and refusing to make a sound, I try to get at it with my fingers, but I can't get a hold of it. I dig and dig, but in the end I only make the wound sting like fire and restart the bleeding. I sit and watch the fat red drops fall, sucking down to black spots in the dirt. There's nothing to do for it. I wind some of the rags from my legs around my feet, which at least will keep more glass from cutting me tomorrow. A rat skitters between bodies and runs past me. I retract my limbs, shivering in repulsion. A sort of shell-shock hits me as I realize fully where I am. Drops of rain start plopping into my lap. Only, it's not rain; it's tears. And once I realize I'm crying, there's no stopping it. I rock forward, grabbing my knees, and weep silently.
When dawn's light spills through the ruins of the overpass, I calm my breathing and wipe my palms over my eyes. I cannot show any weakness.
Movement. It's the old woman with fingers twisted like tree roots. She's holding something, and when she's about ten feet away, she flings it toward me.
I flinch as the object skitters across the broken concrete and hard dirt. Then I see what it is. I scramble for the bread crust and seize it, stuff it greedily into my mouth. It sticks in my throat, but even the mold tastes good. The old woman hobbles off, studying me over her shoulder. Now, she looks away.
I tremble, moved by her act of kindness. Some day, I will repay her.
I head into the heart of the Outpost to find a way to survive. My foot is far more tender than it was the night before. I step on my heel only. I need to remove the glass, sooner rather than later. That means I need some sort of tool. But before that, I need more food, and water.
The water turns out to be the easiest part. I find rain collected in an old tire leaning against a wall. Food is more difficult. I wander the back alleys, looking for scraps, but the only thing I find in the trash is clearly unsuitable for consumption. A chicken carcass with some meat on the bones sprays a load of tiny flies into a black cloud when it's touched. White maggots writhe in and out of the flesh. I drop it and move on. In another trash barrel, a scoop of beans smells like shitty death.
Surely there's a better place to look. After some wandering, I find a row of buildings that, though still dilapidated, are larger, at one time dignified. I avoid a Sentry and move toward a side street. Just as I turn away, something small and pink runs across the street. A pig? I do a double-take, and see nothing. Perhaps erasure damaged my brain. The alley in back hosts a row of ragged beggars, hunched in a line like carrion birds. Their presence here means I am right. Food will be discarded. And it's right about lunch time. I grip my metal cane and go to join their ranks. I'm about two-thirds of the way down the alley when one of them springs into motion. Jumping from his perch, he draws something out from under his rags, winds his arm back, and hurls the object at me. I dodge sideways. The rock just misses my face. My shoulder slams into the alley wall. I stumble, trying to stay upright. While I do, the other beggars fling more things toward me. Chunks of metal. Broken bottles. More rocks. I spin away, folding in on myself. My back takes the brunt of the assault. Something heavy strikes above my hip, just to the side of my spine, sending a jolt of pain and a wave of nausea through me. I run, though every step is like a dagger in my foot. Though doing so exposes more of me as a target. Trash pelts against my back. I'm almost to the end of the alley when I hear their attacks turn against each other. I glance back. Blood spurts from an exposed arm. The victim screams. Just around the corner comes the sound of metal footsteps. I almost faint. Almost freeze. Instinct alone drives my body into motion.
I shoulder through an old back doorway, slamming it behind me. Inside, in a dusty grey half-light, I huddle down, and don't breathe. Outside, the Sentry's footsteps move by. More screams join the first one. I can't listen. I scramble away, limping further into the dilapidated structure. Bursting from room to room, I find an external door on the opposite side. I slam through it into the open air, running. Crashing by people, sprinting for all I'm worth, I'm halfway down the street before I realize I'm losing my costume. I force myself to slow, grabbing at my rags. Ducking my face, I rewind them carefully about my head. I take one alleyway, then another, wanting to lose myself. Wanting to hide. For hours, I glance behind me to see if anyone is following. I cannot shake the feeling of being stalked.
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 p
oxy," 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.