E Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.