He took a few more steps and emerged onto the town square. The fading light could not disguise the grime, the slowly rotting buildings and quickly rotting people. A pair of glassy eyes, half full of question half of sorrow, were staring at him and he dwelled there for a second seized in the orange flicker of her sadness.
She was pretty but bony and had the kind of withered face that comes from huffing solvent. A small boy was clutching at her knee burying his dirty face into the folds of her flowing dulled white dress. The boy took a glance from behind it with thumb in mouth before swiftly returning to safety. The woman's hand lay behind his head stroking the blonde hair he had inherited from her with a gentle yet frantic thumb.
'Francisco, is that you?' She said through tears.
Scott's motionless silence was her only answer. He had little sympathy for any huffer and it wasn't him whom she was crying for so he resumed his slow march in the squeaky fanfare of his suit. A tickertape parade of trash swirled around him caught in the warm evening wind. Scott was distant to any of the addicts whether their vice be alcohol, meds or solvent. He hated them all but most of all it was the huffers that repulsed him. It was the way that the solvent sent their skin gaunt and withered and the way their eyes yellowed and bulged. He didn't really see them as human any more and would be happy to see them all gone. Then of course, there was the sex fiends and those who looked for it with children and usually these were the children of the huffers. This was easier to ignore though for him and everyone, hidden away in back rooms, away from eyes and away from minds. Looking away is the easiest of things to do.
A few of the huffers and assorted drunks lay littered around the town square, collected in the shadows to morbidly watch the parade of volunteers. Other people were simply making their way home, taking fleeting guilty glances towards Scott. He hopelessly searched their faces for someone, anyone to take his place in that truck. There was no one kind enough or more realistically, that stupid. They didn't want to help. They didn't much care. They wanted water.
It was the height of the water shortage but then it was always the height of the water shortage, the perpetual and incrementally worsening water shortage. A water shortage that Scott could not remember the start of and was sure he would never see end. The growing need for water followed the growing heat and the growing desert. With the moisture collector yield, almost zero it was now the job of volunteers to search the abandoned cities for above all else water before the towns supply ran dry.
The huge and hugely complex apparatus sat in front of Scott on the town centre square and its tethered Balloon wavered high in the air above him. It seemed to taunt him, flying free while he was trapped. A pipe runs down from the balloon to the main body of the machine where any water vapour is condensed into drinking water after a filtration and decontamination process. In addition, a buried pipe sucks moisture from deep within the earth. It should have been the main source of water for the town but it was seemingly always under repair.
I could fix it, he thought, I know I could, it's a machine and I know machines. I know how they work and I can learn if I have the chance. I could do it. It was too late for those thoughts now he was marching towards the truck.
Scott walked on and the orange reflection in the woman's eyes slowly grew to cover all. The buildings and people all lit up under the lowering fiery ball apart from the picking truck which seemed to absorb all colour and show itself in its true unceasing grayness. It was an old armoured truck with huge wheels and thick metal plating. A relic of the military, still going after the guns it was designed to withstand had stopped.
Standing next to the open side door of the truck was a tall skinny man beckoning Scott forward. He was dressed in a similar suit and mask to Scott's but his was green and clean. Hollowly and simply, he was known as the picking supervisor but every night he sent man after man and woman after woman to their deaths. As he was always masked and suited, no one knew who he was. He must have lived in town, shopped, ate and drank beside everyone else but at night, he pushed pickers out into the wastes to die. There were so many theories and wild accusations as to his identity but no one knew the truth but a select few. It was not wise to pry into the identity of a state employee anyway and really, what difference would it make. He like everyone else was just following orders.
Scott's hands were shaking faster than ever, his pulse raced and his feet stumbled with almost every step and before he realised he was already staring into the dark doorway of the truck. He seemed now fixed to the spot with a series of increasingly desperate ideas fluttering through his mind before flying away scarred by rejection. It was too late he had been chosen and the only road back was in that truck.
Scott placed his foot on the step and pulled himself into the dim red light of the truck. Two steel benches facing each other lined the rear of the truck with the shadowy shapes of the first four pickers sat waiting with eyes glued to the floor. Scott stepped forward and pushed himself through the thick anxious air. He noticed that one of the pickers was not facing down but looking right at him and in contrast to the motionless sombre trio flanking him he was fidgeting.
'Hi Five,' came a muffled shout followed by a short chortle from the man in seat two.
Scott looked at him plainly and was unable to form a word.
'It says on your suit, five... hi five. Get it?' He paused before laughing and continuing. 'I'm 2,' he laughed again, 'Number two, that's how they see us, I think we should all be marked number two, don't you?' said 2. Scott glanced down to see an upside down stamp of the number five on his chest. That was what he was now—a number.
2 thrust his hand out in front of Scott. 'Good to meet you, under the circumstances,' said 2, 'I'll not tell you my name, not being rude—it's just easier that way. Just keep to the numbers, trust me, you will be thankful of not having to remember the names of the dead, if you make it back.'
Scott ignored the hand and offered no response as he looked where to sit but 2 continued pecking at the awkward silence with muffled chirpy words. 'We're about to be emptied out into who knows where but if we are lucky we can make it back here kid. Can't we?' He placed his hand on the back of the neck of the picker next to him and tried and failed to shake some exuberance into him. 'We can all make it back, back to the honey bucket, hey?' he continued laughing. 'Honey buckets are for number two's, get it? Don't worry kid, just sit down' said 2 winding down his laughter.
Scott hated being called kid. The word stung and poisoned the sentiment turning the encouragement into a suggestion of weakness. His face was hidden but it was obvious he was young in the oversized suit. Scott's suit puffed up around him as he parked himself on the section of bench marked with a 5. He puffed out his cheeks in a sigh.
2 immediately leant in engaging Scott in conversation, 'I know you're confused kid but stay positive, I made it back before, many times and you can too, can't you? Stay positive, that's my advice.'
Every cheerful word shanked Scott. He wanted to feel sorry for himself, wanted to wallow, wanted to be alone but 2 was poking at his sorrowful bubble with sharp optimism. He had already resigned himself to his fate and wanted to just curl up in a ball and cry. Hide from the reality of where he was. Call for the mother he could barely remember.
2 paused in astonishment as another number climbed in to the truck rocking it side to side. If Scott was buried in his hazmat suit then surely 6 was about to burst out of his. The straps of his suit were unfastened and dangled uselessly around him. He squished down beside Scott without a word and adopted the same pose as the other hopeless pickers. Apart from 2 who seemed to had re-gathered his liveliness and immediately spoke.
'Whoa, you're a big'un aren't ya?' he said to no response.
Scott had never seen the figure of 6 before and it would have been difficult for him to miss. His flowing gut spilled over onto Scott as 6 occupied the next two seats along. Scott wondered where he had come from and how he could have ended up sharing the same fate as him. Anyone that size must have paper so why hadn't he bribed his way out of this death truck.
Fuckin' Gordo thought Scott, how much food and water had this guy wasted. Though their bodies were pressed tightly together in the truck, Scott felt the division. Even through the airtight suit filled with a hundred repugnant odours, he was sure he could smell it—the paper. He couldn't help but think about the food and water that 6 must have consumed to get that size. Scott stewed in a hateful anger directed squarely at the man to his right.
Unprompted, 2 burst back in to life, 'I used to do this you know, before it changed to mandatory service. It was different then though, picking was an easy ride really. I loved it. We found everything—canned food, cigarettes, whisky. Then the valuable stuff like electronics, motorbikes, cars, even guns. We would get a decent share of the spoils too. I had so much paper at one point I didn't know what to do. Me and the gang used to go to Roy's every weekend without fail. You know Roy's cantina, right?' he finally paused for response but more to catch his breath.
'Yes,' punctuated Scott.
'Well, when we finished we would wait for him to open at 8 am,' he continued in a more animated fashion than before becoming engrossed in his own story. His arms started to wave motioning every word of his memory, 'we would bang on the shutter shouting, "Roy, get up you old bastard," until the lazy fucker got out of bed.' His words grew into a small chuckle until his memory strained and he was soon squashed under the weight of the present, 'but it's different now.'
2's effervescent voice fell into a dark whisper as if speaking of secrets, punishable secrets. 'As soon as the moisture collector yields went down we had just one thing to collect—Water. There was more and more pressure on pickers which meant the number of volunteers dropped. Then when the first few empty seats came, back volunteers dried up as quicker than the poor bastards left out there. Then when they made it mandatory it just got worse, so many dead now. I said, "You can't just send anyone." No experience, no training, no nothing, you need to know where to look. I told them but would they listen? No.'
His voice rose seemingly forgetting where it was and who could be listening. 'No wonder people come back with nothing, its wrong. I've even seen Ex-pickers executed, non-compliers they call em. Like they were shirkers or something and didn't want to find water—callin them traitors. If they couldn't find water then there's none to be found. I'm sure of that. And no one really cares either unless it's was a family or whatever. People are worth more dead than alive these days.'
He was right; Scott didn't care about the hundreds before him. Not until his name was chosen—as long as he got some water. Maybe that was why 6 was there, worth more dead than alive. His hatred towards 6 cooled into pity. They were all in the same position; the same truck; shared the same fate.
'Everyone's blind to it. All Just buy that bullshit line "it's for the good of the town." That's the point of all this now I reckon. Population control that's what it is, so there's more water for them with paper. That and the harvest, all those bodies. Where do they all go?'
'Francisco,' shrieked from outside, 'no, I won't let them take you.' This stole everyone's attention and all faced towards the doorway.
'Hey! You! Get away from here,' commanded the supervisor.
'It's OK, remember I love you' said a man's voice softly and calmly. It had to be 7 and the woman his wife or girlfriend and the little blonde boy their son. The thumping boots of approaching Policia gradually overtook her hysterical cries.
'Please don't hurt her,' pleaded the man to the sound of shuffling feet and scuffed dirt. She let out a blood curdling scream.
'I love you Bobby,' he shouted, clearly fighting back tears, 'be a good boy for mommy.'
'Get in the truck,' ordered the supervisor.
The woman continued to shriek and cry out for her man as her voice faded away into the distance. 7 entered the truck and took his place on the bench immediately bursting into tears. Not even 2 offered a humorous greeting to him instead just leant over and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. An awkward silence filled the room while tears fell.
The eighth and final person entered the truck and sat down with relative simplicity. The door slammed shut and the supervisor stood in front of the eight reluctant volunteers. Scott and all looked towards him, the man who would be sending him and them all to their deaths. The shudder of the engine starting rattled through the truck and spiked Scott's heart rate. This was it; this was real.
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Thank you so much for continuing to read. Again, i really appreciate your feedback and I am open to any suggestions you have. i really believe in this book and hope you enjoy reading it as much as i love writing it. Please remember to vote and share.
chapter 3 available on January 11th