The Collector (18 page)

“We’re all cogs in the machine, Neil. I’m getting pressure from above,” Mazer justifies. “We need to stop the Brigade.”

Neil plops down in a chair. “Any word on the next batch of recruits? We should show them their scare tactics aren’t working.”

“You think you deserve another rookie?” Mazer asks dumbfounded.

“I know a guard at one of the gates. Zack. He won’t be another Wade,” Neil assures.

“You’re already partnered with Slayter.”

“Slayter twists protocol to justify what he wants,” Neil says.

“Look, Patrick is a great Collector. He’s earned his name by being the best at what he does. The numbers don’t lie.” Mazer refers to the bar graphs pinned to the wall. A line signifies the city’s
carrying capacity (100%)
, while each subsequent vertical bar shrinks – 273%, 271%, 267% – the population reducing over the years.

“I guess numbers are all that count,” Neil laments.

“Neil, think back to that boy you once were. The boy I found in reform school. Do you remember why you were always fighting?” Mazer asks, trying to motivate Neil and remind him why they do what they do.

“I’ll never forget,” Neil responds without hesitation. He knows his brother wasn’t a coward who took the easy way out.

“I need to be sure I have that same boy on my team,” Mazer urges. “The boy who’d do anything to defend his brother’s honor.” Mazer pulls out an Agency stamped form from his desk drawer. It’s Neil’s most recent weekly psychological evaluation. The last box on the bottom of the form is marked: PASS. However, a handwritten note is added beneath the assessment, presumably by the Agency Psychologist. It reads, WITH RESERVATIONS.

“How are you holding up?” Mazer inquires. “Pursuing the Brigade. With Wade. All of it.”

Neil furrows his brow. If he were to speak his mind, he’d say it is obvious he’s holding up just fine. He just captured and delivered Brock, didn’t he? But that’s if he were to speak his mind. Instead, he remains quiet.

“It’s not like we can teach this at the Academy,” Mazer continues. “Are you taking advantage of the services the Agency offers?”

Neil continues to remain silent, unsure why Mazer is asking him any of this. As he searches for the correct response, debating between a simple “I’m fine” versus prodding with questions of his own regarding rumors of the hidden transfer tunnels and rumors of Sage being assisted by someone within the Agency, Garrison interrupts from the doorway.

“Slayter got a name,” he announces. Both Mazer and Neil perk up. “Neil, you’re gonna love it,” Garrison continues, “Claims it’s the guy who tipped them off about your truck.”

“Who was it?” Neil asks.

“Some guy from the slums. Name is Damian.”

Neil’s eyes narrow. “I want this one,” he demands, bolting to his feet.

Mazer smiles like a proud father. Going against every written protocol in regards to Collectors and their mental health qualifications, and going against his own better judgment, Mazer discards the evaluation form without Neil ever seeing it. Perhaps he does it because Neil’s clear determination to go after Damian diminished any and all doubts. Perhaps he does it because he is merely running low on Collectors these days. Or perhaps he does it because he hand-selected Neil and took him under his wing, and no penal code or protocol can truly suppress Mazer’s own fatherly instincts. Whatever the reason behind his choice, even Mazer is susceptible to one of mankind’s fundamental human emotions:
compassion
.

“I’m glad that boy in you still exists,” he gloats.

Neil rides shotgun reading directions from his PDA while Slayter speeds through Sector A, the landscape littered with crumbling brick buildings and the processing facility on the horizon. They pass town square and the dilapidated Octovio Helms statue, then after a couple more blocks, Neil glimpses the restricted Public Access TV Station Quado resides in. Wherever Neil is directing them, it’s deep within the sector.

“You sure he’ll be here?” Slayter asks. “This is a far way from the slums.”

“He’s always here. He’s a drunk who beats on women,” Neil says, a tint of vengeful anger in his voice.

“You know this guy or something?”

“He’s got a reputation,” Neil responds. He glances to the worn Dream Catcher before pocketing it. “He deserves what he’s going to get.”

“Finally…,” Slayter smiles, “you’re learning.”

Neil and Slayter bail out of the utility truck in front of a partially lit sign for
Marty’s Tavern
, the two men on a mission. Slayter squints at the sun just above the horizon, not even at mid-day yet.

The tavern isn’t particularly fancy or particularly crowded at this hour, just the obvious handful of regulars. Damian is one of them, here so often that half of the makeshift award plaques near the dart board have his name scribbled on them. Currently he plays cards with three goons at the center table, rising when he spots Neil descending the wooden stairs.

“You should really stop traveling alone. Wouldn’t want something to happen to you aga—” he stops once he sees Slayter lumbering down the stairs behind Neil, recognizing the hulking legend. Neil nods to confirm it’s him. Damian changes his tune. “I didn’t think Collectors were allowed to drink?”

Slayter storms towards him. “We just need to ask you a few questions,” he says, before
WHAM!
He bashes Damian’s head into the table, chugging the rest of Damian’s drink before hitting him with the mug.

The three goons rise, but back off once they spot Neil threatening with his shock baton.

Slayter lifts Damian and punches him in the stomach, then restrains both arms behind his back. “Neil, here,” he shouts. “Make an example of him.”

Neil leans in close to examine Damian bleeding from his nose.

“I know about you and that slut,” Damian threatens. Neil’s face turns cold. Damian tries to turn back to Slayter, “Has Neil told you about his girlfri—” when suddenly,
CRACK!
Neil rears back and breaks Damian’s ribs with the butt of the shock baton to shut him up. Slayter catches him and holds him upright, leaving him open for more.
WHAM!
This time Damian falls, but Neil stays on top of him, clobbering him again.

The other patrons watch in horror as Neil loses it.
WHAM! THWACK! THWACK! WHAM!
Damian cowers in the fetal position as Neil completely unloads, Damian’s blood splattering across his face.

Two more hits before Neil drops his weapon and steps aside for Slayter. He sits at the table, eyes wide, snapping out of whatever came over him. It was absolutely ruthless and reminiscent of Slayter’s violent outbursts.

ZAP!
Slayter lives up to his reputation as he shocks Damian’s defenseless body with a bolt of electricity, without mercy. He presses the edge of his boot against Damian’s throat and prods him again with the electrodes, smiling through his clinched teeth as Damian’s body convulses. Slayter circles his wounded prey, relishing in the moment like the predator he is, then spits on Damian and shocks him for a third time, this time directly in the neck. Foam gurgles from Damian’s mouth as his body goes limp.

Neil continues to catch his breath at the table as he replays Slayter’s words from earlier to justify his actions, “You break penal code or aid someone breaking code. You die.”

And that’s exactly what happened to Damian for assisting the Brigade.

With the sun teetering on the opposite edge of the horizon, Inna’s silhouette sifts through a mound of trash at the landfill. She rises when she spots Neil approaching, two black shadows in front of the setting sun.

She touches the gauze covering his arm badge, his grazed wound not even a full day old, as he whispers to her, presumably informing her of the news. Instead of a dance of joy or a hug like he expected – Damian no longer a threat in her life – Inna instead breaks into tears and pushes Neil away.

“You ruined it!” she cries. “You ruined it! How could you?”

Neil can’t get a word out as he tries to console her.

“You ruined it!” she shouts again, hitting him. Neil bear hugs her to keep her flailing arms under control.

“Inna, calm down. I did it for you,” he explains.

She finally pauses to catch her breath. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she mouths between hyperventilating breaths. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“He assisted the Brigade, not you. You won’t be punished for his actions,” Neil says, still oblivious to her worries.

“No, Neil, don’t you get it? This isn’t about what Damian did. It’s about what I did,” she says. Neil stares at her, not following her thought process. Never would he guess the next statement coming from her mouth.

“I’m a volunteer!” she reveals.

******

Anger Management

Do SEOs have to undergo regular psychological evaluations? If not, they really should! I saw an SEO go off on a woman today for no reason, unless you call brushing your fingers through your partner’s hair a crime. I mean, they’re assigned partners, right? How is that a public display of affection?

-Quado

15

I
’m a volunteer
. Those are three words Neil has never heard from someone he actually knew. Three words he never thought he would hear Inna ever say. His eyes go wide, demanding a million answers.
“Why? Since when?”

“Three weeks ago,” she explains. “Before we even met.”

“Three weeks?”
Neil thinks to himself. He crunches the numbers. A volunteer is only allowed a Collection Date of up to twenty one days from enrollment, which would put Inna’s date at any time now. He sucks a vial of her blood with his sample device and runs it through the identity database. Within moments, his scrolling PDA locks onto a match:

Name: Inna Klein

Age: 25

Sex: Female

Height: 163cm

Weight: 52kg

And written in what seems to be bold letters:

Collection Date: +1 Days

Which means Inna is scheduled to be processed tomorrow, and today it is already nearly nightfall.

“Why would you do this?” Neil demands.

“I’m his second partner. You only get two,” Inna says, wiping her tears as she continues to justify herself. “He’ll be left by himself. What’s worse in this world than being alone?”

“So you give your life to punish him?”

“Everyone volunteers for their own reasons. You should understand that.” She turns her back and sulks. “But now you ruined it. You ruined everything.”

It’s true, he’s heard a hundred reasons why people volunteer, but it’s usually with noble intentions or because the person lost all hope in life. He’s never seen someone do it out of spite.

Neil crouches beside her, still taken aback by the revelation. Silence falls between them, their bodies blending in with the mountainous landfill.

Back on the second floor of Inna’s antique shop, Neil pours hot water from a kettle above an open flame.

“It takes knowing you’re going to die to really start to live,” he says, quoting her from when they first met out back in the junkyard. “That’s how you were able to be so cheery?”

“What was I supposed to do?” she asks rhetorically. “Kill him? If I did that he wouldn’t suffer. Or kill myself? You know the rule on suicide. It’s a loophole. He’d just get reassigned another partner. We’re surrounded by the Wall so there’s nowhere to run.” She sips from the hot water trying not to revert back into tears. “No, I knew if I volunteered he’d be forced to live out the rest of his days alone. Days where he couldn’t beat anyone. Days where no one would be here to take care of him when his arm won’t allow it. To cook for him even though it’ll never compare to Tess and how she did it. To pleasure him. To mask his loneliness with a fake smile.” Just then her own face turns sour. “He has no one else in this world and to me there’s no greater punishment than that.”

“But now you’re in the system,” Neil explains the cold hard truth. “Regardless of what happened, there’s no going back.”

“So that’s it then? You take away my reason for volunteering and I’m still left to die?”

“You knew the end result when you signed up,” Neil responds. Even he realizes how harsh that sounds. Protocol can be brutal.

“Who’s going to Collect me?” she asks, not wanting to continue with her follow-up question but she needs to know. “Is it you?”

“We’re not issued our assignments until the day of,” he says, his eyes breaking away. “It could be me.”

Her head falls to her hands, the realization hitting at last. She’s going to die and there’s nothing she can do about it. She sobs.

Neil awkwardly places his arm on her shoulder. His voice cracks as he attempts to hum a piece of her melody, something that always makes him feel better. It draws a smile through her wall of tears.

“You still have the right to live for one more night,” he says.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers.

Neil resumes the melody. With a soft touch, he brushes the hair from her eyes, then wipes the tears from her cheek. What he does next goes against all better judgment, all protocols, all penal codes, and all common sense. For the fundamental trait that makes us human, reawakening deep inside ever since Neil met Inna in the junkyard and now finally bursting through its shielded cage upon the revelation of her doomed fate, Neil is compelled to take that next emotional leap. He extends his thumb, index, and pinky fingers into the hand signal he learned back at the Bayou Sector from Elijah and Abby.

“It means…,” Neil begins to explain.

“I know,” Inna interrupts, returning the hand signal, their fingers intertwining, each confessing their true feelings without words. She takes his hand and holds it against her face. “Stay with me tonight,” she asks.

Neil kisses her, tinder and passionate, then holds her in a tight embrace, the first real intimate moment either of them has ever had.

Morning comes, and Inna sleeps curled up on the cot, the same cot Neil recovered on after the Brigade’s IED explosive demolished his utility truck. Rays of light trickle through the white curtain covering the window, though it can’t block out the constant barrage of dust filtering in from the dry outside air.