Chapter 3: Kindred
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. Fr
om 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.
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 its 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.