The Collector (14 page)

As Neil and Slayter reach the utility truck, Slayter hops in the driver’s seat and leaves Neil on the curb. He wraps up his lesson. “It’s black and white, Neil. That’s the protocol to abide by. Compassion…,” he grunts as he fires up the archaic engine and readies to peel off, “compassion makes us weak.”

The words hit Neil like a ton of bricks, going against everything Inna preached the night before. The two viewpoints couldn’t be more different, with Neil caught somewhere in between.

Just then, each of their PDAs buzz to interrupt – Quado just posted a new RSS feed. They glance it over, reading about Quado’s theory of subliminal messages being inserted in Agency approved music.

“Whoever this is, they’re obviously connected,” Slayter comments, not disputing the post. He shuts off the vehicle’s radio. “Find Quado and you’ll find your link to the Brigade.”

And with that Slayter zooms off, leaving Neil with his new direction. Somehow he is going to have to do what nobody in the Agency has done thus far: identify who the mysterious Quado is. But where should he even start?

Crumbling brick structures stained with patches of calcium enclose each side of Sector A’s town square. A layer of snow on the ground and rooftops would cast a quaint old-centuries feel to the dilapidated square, but snow hasn’t touched these structures in ages. Now it is mostly brick and rebar, reminiscent to a war zone in the aftermath of a bombing, with the majority of stone collapsed to the wayside.

The processing facility can be seen when facing south of town square, situated near the edge of the East Bank of the polluted bay, while located to the north side of the square stands a weathered statue of Octovio Helms. A plaque at the base of the weathered monument briefly describes Octovio as a local hero who helped protect the city when the entire Western region was on the brink of the Water Wars prior to the construction of the Wall.

Neil glances up at the statue with his PDA in hand, scrolling through dozens of past posts written by Quado, mostly short musings and observations, except for one – an old photo posted a little over a year ago. It’s of the same statue – Octovio Helms, standing tall and prepared to lead – which suggests that at one point in time Quado stood in this same dilapidated town square.

Neil glances around for any sort of clue, but all of the falling structures look the same. He knows this is a long shot, attempting to track Quado through an old photo, but at this point all he has are long shots. He already inquired about tracking Quado’s location via his blog posts, but was informed by the IT department that his request was documented in the Agency’s Help Desk system and would be addressed “at a later time”. He already scoured over all past articles looking for a mishap or mistake that could lead to the real identity of the individual, but Quado has been careful not to leave any such clues. No names. No family references. No employers. If it weren’t for the RSS feed indicating new blogs have been posted, it is as if Quado doesn’t exist. So the only bread crumb Neil has been able to find is this photo, a photo of a landmark he recognizes, which makes this dilapidated town square currently his only lead.

As Neil takes a closer look at the photo, he orients himself with the statue to match the angle in the picture. While the direction is correct, facing the front of the statue offset at about thirty degrees, the photo was taken from a downward angle, presumably from higher ground. There was a time when many of Sector A’s buildings stood tall enough to offer this high angle, but nearly all have been beaten down by the hammered blows of time. Dismantled. Collapsed. Destroyed – all except one.

Neil squints as he notices the tip of a giant satellite dish extending high up above all else in the surrounding area – the abandoned
Public Access TV Station
just a few blocks over. With a long lens, Neil estimates the angle from the top of this station pointed toward the statue could match that from the photo.

Within minutes, Neil brushes away cobwebs as he trespasses under the RESTRICTED tape guarding the front doors of the public access station. Though impressive with its large satellite, even in its heyday it couldn’t compete with the larger regional networks. The single recording booth, barebones engineer’s control panel, and lone soundstage suggest this TV station wasn’t the grandest of operations.

Upon reaching the soundstage, nearly pitch black, Neil spots an emergency portable generator off to the side. He cranks the shaft, and though inefficient, after many rotations electricity surges through the wires to bring the soundstage whirring to life.

A
laugh track
echoes through a set of speakers just as half of the hanging mounted lights flicker on, the rest burnt out, revealing the soundstage decorated like an old country farm kitchen with white cabinets, fake hardwood floors, and dozens of images of chickens and roosters adorning the curtains. Whatever was filmed here was set in a forgotten era.

Two mannequins sit at the kitchen table, fully clothed and positioned like they are having a meal. Just then, a voice squawks, as if it comes from one of the mannequins. Neil knows that is impossible, but the voice repeats, muffled mumbling.

Neil tracks the sound to a large rectangular object covered with a sheet situated between the mannequins on the table. He draws his shock baton as he inches closer, on edge as the sounds of ruffled movement beneath the sheet mixes with the crackles of electricity jumping from node to node on his baton. Just as Neil reaches out and yanks back the sheet, the voice strikes again, this time coherent.

“Time to lean, time to clean,” the voice squawks. To Neil’s surprise the voice doesn’t belong to a person, but to a parrot in a bird cage. “Time to lean, time to clean,” it repeats.

Neil stares at the animal, never before seeing something so bright – its feathers a swirled mixture of blues, greens, and reds – a stark contrast to the dusty soundstage. He furrows his brow as the parrot repeats the same words, still not entirely sure what the animal is.

Just then another voice chimes in from behind. “Who are you?” the voice asks.

Neil whirls around to see a teenage girl, only sixteen, thin and pale, her disheveled hair blocking her eyes.

Neil announces himself, “Neil Vaughn. Collector One, Four, Zero, Five. I’m looking for Quado.”

The teenage girl cocks her head as she holds a satchel of goods and supplies. The following two words that come out of her mouth catch Neil completely by surprise.

“I’m Quado,” she reveals.

******

A Natural Creation

How do you walk away from this?

Everything we shared

Never said goodbye to this

Like the wind, without care

How do you let go of this?

When the feeling still lives on

How do you abandon this?

A Natural Creation

-Quado

12

“I
’m Quado,” the parrot squawks, repeating. “I’m Quado.”

Neil stares at Quado in disbelief. He was expecting the mysterious figure to be someone older, not a frail young teenager. Someone with more life experience. Someone more physically imposing. He’s read hundreds of Quado’s posts and never once did he imagine them to be written by a child.

“I’m Quado,” the parrot squawks again.

“Shush you silly bird,” Quado instructs. She sets her satchel on the table and unpacks supplies – a rusty can of beans, a package of noodles, a near rotten apple.

“What do you mean you’re Quado?” Neil asks.

“Lulu Quado. Got wax in your ears?” Quado responds.

Neil pulls up a post on his PDA. “The same who wrote this?”

“No way!” Quado exclaims. “A Collector reads my blog?”

Neil furrows his brow in disbelief.
“Everybody does.”

Just then the lights go out and it is pitch black again. “Rise and shine. Rise and shine,” the parrot squawks out.

Quado cranks the generator shaft and within moments the lights return, followed once again by the eerie laugh track whirring to life.

Neil watches as Quado uses a stone to mash the noodles inside the packaging and turn them to crumbs. She then scoops a handful and offers them to the bird. “You just gonna stare or are you gonna turn me in?” she asks.

“On which infraction? I can name about five.”

“I’m not squatting,” Quado insists. “My parents work at this station.”

The bird waddles over and pecks from her palm.

“And the stray?” Neil asks. “Penal code 12.12.c.”

“It’s not a stray.”

“12.12.b.,” he recites.

“It’s not a pet.”

The bird squawks, but this time changes its voice to mimic an adult male. “Rolling. Rolling.”

Quado smiles, the voice bringing back memories of the past. “It’s family,” she says, until the bird pecks a little too hard and bites Quado’s hand. “Ow! Stupid bird,” she says as she pulls away. It’s a love-hate relationship.

Neil again assesses his surroundings – the homely decorated soundstage, the clothed mannequins arranged around a dinner table, the bird who recreates adult voices. He gets it.

“Did they sell themselves?” he asks.

Quado grows silent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

This time the parrot mimics an adult female, “Pretty bird. Pretty girl.” It’s calm. Caring. Sincere. Quado shushes the bird.

“It’s not about love. It’s loss,” Neil concludes before he quotes the end of Quado’s poem. “
How do you abandon this? A natural creation
.”

Quado looks as if she wants to wrap the white dusty sheet around herself and hide under the table, completely exposed.

“There’s no shame in what they did,” Neil says. “Your parents,” he clarifies.

“They didn’t sell themselves, okay?” Quado fires back.

“Then where are they?”

“Disappeared,” Quado claims. Neil cocks his head as she explains, “Ten years ago. They were in Sector B researching a segment. Something newsworthy. Something important.”

Neil knows what this means. Sector B took the blow when the Strasburg Dam collapsed, and Quado’s parents are just two of the many thousands caught in the flash flood.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Quado quickly snaps. “Their bodies were never found.”

“Most weren’t recovered,” Neil reminds her. Quado remains silent. “And even then, ten years. There are bounty hunters. Diseases. Some just…run away,” he explains.

“Not without me,” Quado defends. “There’s nothing you can say that hasn’t already crossed my mind, so don’t bother.”

“How can you keep hoping after all this time?” Neil asks.

“What’s the alternative?”

Neil’s encountered this before, someone who holds onto hope for so long that they can’t face the real world and instead retreats to an imaginary place. From the looks of the abandoned station and homely set pieces, Quado has done just that – and more.

“I’m not here to interrogate you about your personal life,” Neil says.

“But you are here to interrogate me.”

Neil hesitates. That’s exactly what Slayter would do, exactly what he is now expected to do, but interrogation is not his preferred method of choice. “Quado seems to know a lot about this city,” he says. “How?”

Quado reveals a batch of Eternity Flowers from her satchel. Neil recognizes them – the same style of decorative fake flowers the Agency stages in the Collectors’ apartments.

“Even your people like to hope and pretend,” she says, revealing that she is the source of the flowers. “There’s a lot of foot traffic where I sell these. A lot of gossip.”

“So you post it online?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” she asks rhetorically. “This bird can only say so much.”

“Time to lean, time to clean,” squawks the parrot.

Quado rolls her eyes.
“See what I mean?”
she thinks to herself. “So I write stories,” she explains.

Just then the lights shut off. As before, the parrot squawks at the darkness, “Rise and shine. Rise and shine,” while Quado cranks the shaft on the power generator to bring them back to life. This time Neil breaks out in laughter and adds to the eerie laugh track.

“You find my stories funny?” she demands.

“Do you have any idea what kind of influence your little stories have?” Neil nearly shouts, more upset at himself for believing the stories than at Quado for writing them.

“Not everything about them is made up,” Quado scoffs, offended. “Some are true.” Neil brushes her off, but Quado tries to prove herself. “I know that the Agency uses a seventy-five point questionnaire when they pair someone with a partner.”

“Anyone who’s been paired could tell you that.”

“Well 99% of Collectors are orphans,” Quado states.

Neil points to himself. Who does she think she’s talking to?

Quado tries again, “Leon once trained to be a Collector before he was discharged.”

“More like kicked out.”

“The old leaking reactor is haunted,” she claims.

“There we go, back to stories.”

“The dam collapse was sabotage. It was planned,” she announces.

“Says you and all the conspiracy theorists,” Neil counters. “What a waste of time.”

Quado blocks Neil’s path as he turns to leave, dismissing all of her information as rumors. “The Black Market uses unmarked tunnels to move around,” she blurts out. Neil immediately stops. Considering his own recent investigation at the Archives, this gets his attention. Quado blows the hair out of her eyes as she grins at her small victory. “You’ve heard about that too, huh?” she taunts.

Neil furrows his brow. After hiding anonymously behind a computer for so long, he recognizes Quado’s need to prove herself in person. He decides his best bet to filter through the stories and learn anything worthwhile is to attempt to exploit this weakness and use it against her. “You’re just a kid peddling flowers on a street corner,” he says, masking his sincere interest in her information by brushing it aside again as nonsense.

Quado’s eyes go wide, hand on her hip, now truly offended. “
Just
a kid?” Her untied laces in her ankle boots clack against the soundstage floor as she paces, working herself up to a frenzy. “What about what they do with the bodies? Or the rations that aren’t released to the public?”