 
Impersonator

Forager Impersonator: Book One

28th September 2018

Peter R Stone

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Peter R Stone

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover Art by Indie Designz

Books in Peter R Stone's Forager Series

Forager Trilogy

Forager

Infiltrator

Expatriate

Impersonator Trilogy

Impersonator

Specialist

Revolutionary

Note – although the _Impersonator Trilogy_ starts three years before the events in the Forager Trilogy, it is not a prequel. It will catch up to, carry on, and draw to a conclusion the _Forager Trilogy_ storyline.

# Chapter One

As soon as Father burst into the flat, I knew something was very wrong. From my vantage point in the kitchen doorway, I saw him put his keys on the hook beside the door with trembling hands and noticed he was breathing rapidly with shallow breaths. I wondered what could have spooked him so badly. He saw me and quickly averted his bloodshot eyes. That was strange. He always greeted me when he came home. Concerned, I watched him closely while wiping sweaty palms on my faded kitchen-apron.

"Finally decided to grace us with your presence, did you?" Mother said. In an open display of defiance, she didn't even bother to rise from the threadbare sofa near the kitchen entrance. Like me, she was three inches shy of six-foot, but was all angles, compared to my still developing curves.

"Remember your place, Wife." Father's voice wavered, and he looked anywhere but at her.

"Dinner was ready an hour ago," she said.

"Hot or cold, with the slop you lot dish up, does it make any difference?"

"Try increasing my housekeeping allowance so I can afford more than just flour and vegetables."

"Stop harping on about money!" He never yelled like that. I wondered if something happened to him today. He was an hour late home, but that happened often enough lately. Sometimes he went to the Worker's Club after work and came home drunk. It's what he did on the other nights he came home late that concerned me. He would be sober, downcast, and his suit reeked of tobacco, although he didn't smoke. Our town, Newhome, banned cigarettes, but according to my twin brother, Brandon, plenty were available on the black market.

Tonight Father was neither drunk nor could I smell tobacco on his clothes. This was something new. Something bad.

"Why do you bring back less than a quarter of what you used to?" Mother spoke softly, but there was an unmistakable edge to her voice.

"I told you about the budget cuts at work. It was 'take a salary cut or get the sack.'" He blinked faster as his eyes darted nervously around the room.

He was lying. I could tell by his body language. I wondered yet again what really happened to his money. Was he blowing it on booze?

As my parents continued to bicker, I ducked back into the kitchen and tapped my fingers against the stained glass oven door. It was no longer too hot to touch. The roast veggies inside would still be warm, but that was a far cry from serving them hot. If we had left the oven on at a low temperature, they would be hotter, but we were going to be hard-pressed to pay the next electricity bill as it was.

"Father's home then?" my sister asked. She was standing beside the bread maker on the kitchen bench. At fifteen, Karen was three years my junior, although slightly taller. We sported the same strawberry-blonde hair and brown eyes, but apart from that, you wouldn't have thought we were related. In respect to my face and figure, I was a true plain-Jane – or plain-Chelsea – if you asked my brother. Karen, on the other hand, turned many heads with her gorgeous curls, defined cheekbones, and fuller figure, which she somehow managed to accentuate even though she wore the mandatory ankle-length dresses. It annoyed me that it was 2120AD, but the law required we wore dresses like those worn in the early nineteenth century. Clothing styles of the past two centuries were banned, as they were deemed too revealing and therefore provocative. Personally, I'd settle for a pair of jeans and hoodie like my twin brother wore.

Another difference between Karen and me was the large purple birthmark near the hairline above my left eye. I used to hate going out in public when I was little because people stared at me, thanks to my mother refusing to let me have a fringe. Then one day my father sat me down and showed me a similar birthmark on his knee. He said it wasn't something to be embarrassed about because the marks made us unique and were not something of which to be ashamed. I believe that's what my mother was trying to teach me; she just didn't put it into words.

"Father, or someone who looks just like him," I replied.

"Is he drunk?"

"No."

"Small mercies, then."

"I don't know. Something's wrong."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"He looks afraid, like he's terrified of something."

"You serious? I thought he'd grown an impenetrably thick skin since the accident."

"Well, something's gotten through to him," I replied.

I grabbed a pair of oven mitts and took out the tray of succulent roast veggies, which included potato, sweet potato, pumpkin, carrot, onion, and parsnip. I dropped the tray on the bench and grabbed a plate down from the cupboard.

We would serve Father first and wait in the kitchen while he ate. Normally my brother dined with him, but we hadn't seen him for a week. He had been stressed out of his mind about something when he came home from work last Thursday. Refusing our attempts at conversation – even mine, he had packed a few things into his new backpack and stormed off. I was concerned, but not overly so. It wasn't the first time he'd gone off by himself. He often stayed at a friend's place for a few days to get Mother out of his hair.

Once the menfolk had eaten their fill, the women would divide what was left between them. This custom was part of the uniquely crafted society handed down to us by the Founders who established this town in the ruins of post-apocalyptic Melbourne, Australia. Just over a century ago, global nuclear war had virtually exterminated the human race and much of the world along with it.

The Founders, in their great wisdom, created a society that would not make the same mistakes our ancestors made. One significant part of their vision was to restore males and females to clearly defined, time-honoured roles. Males became the breadwinners and women the homemakers. Therefore, boys went to school to learn the knowledge and skills required to join the workforce when they graduated, since only men were permitted to work. And girls remained at home while their mothers taught them to cook, sew their clothes, and manage the household.

According to the Founders, the pre-apocalyptic family environment had been destroyed by males and females joining the workforce, resulting in a generation of children raised without proper supervision. Children, who upon reaching adulthood were socially inept and lacking in moral judgment. Only by restoring women to their role as fulltime mothers could children receive the teaching, guidance, and love they needed to grow into mature, responsible adults.

This sounded great in theory, but I couldn't say I was particularly fond of our 'unique' culture, and in fact, spent most of my life quietly bucking it, just like my father did. That was because although women were supposed to be revered as the cornerstone of our society who raised the next generation, they tended to be treated as second-class citizens by the menfolk on whom they waited hand-and-foot.

"Our son home?" I overheard Father ask.

"No," Mother replied.

"Why not?" he demanded. I wasn't sure if he was panicked, angry, or both. I moved back to the doorway so I could watch them argue. Father's eyes widened slightly when he caught sight of me. He looked away again. What was with him tonight?

"How would I know?" Mother asked.

"Because you're his mother!"

"And you're his father." She was angry too now.

"Don't take that tone with me, Wife."

"What tone would you prefer?"

"Do you know if he's even going to work?" he asked.

"Apparently not. His boss rang this morning, asking for him. He hasn't been to work since Thursday."

My hand flew to my mouth in shock. Hadn't Brandon been to work for a whole week? He'd never absconded from work before – he lived for his job and the camaraderie he shared with his workmates.

It suddenly occurred to me that if he didn't go to work tomorrow, it could be my opportunity to escape this prison town and make my own life out there in the Victorian countryside. A life away from the oppressive rules and regulations I didn't agree with. A life where I would no longer live under the threat of death.

"He hasn't been to work? What on earth is that boy playing at? How is he supposed to pay his room and board if he doesn't work?"

I thought it was weird that Father insisted Brandon give him a quarter of his wage every week towards 'room and board.' He was a member of the family, right? Not a stranger who lodged with us.

Father initiated this strange practice after he was accidentally shot, framed as the cause of the shooting, and consequently imprisoned – the event that had inexorably changed our family for the worse.

"Is that all you're worried about, his money?" Mother was flabbergasted.

"He owes me room and board from last week's wage."

"Husband, you're unbelievable! Aren't you worried about where he's been this past week? About what happened to cause him to run off like that? What kind of father are you!"

"Don't be so melodramatic! He just hanging out with his friends, as usual," Father said.

"You ever heard of him ducking work before?"

"No, but can't say it surprises me. The boy's so caught up in himself and his own world he doesn't consider the consequences of his actions. We were too soft on him, that's the problem."

'You didn't see him when he got home from work last Thursday before he ran off. Looked like he was mighty troubled about something," Mother replied.

Mother was right. I'd never seen Brandon so distressed before. And it had annoyed the daylights out of me when he wouldn't tell me what was wrong. He had never kept anything from me previously – well, not that I was aware of. We were like peas in a pod. I hoped he was okay and would hurry back home soon, or at least ring to let us know he was okay.

"Probably fought with one of his workmates. If so, it's time he faced up to it and moved on. If he rings when I'm at work, you tell him that."

Father stormed off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Moments later, we heard him stomping about, throwing things aside, and muttering to himself.

"What's that buffoon doing now?" Mother snapped.

"Sounds like he's looking for something," I said.

I didn't let on that I could actually hear what father was saying, even through the closed door. "Where is it? It has to be here. Where does that idiot boy keep it now? Come on! Don't tell me he took it all with him!"

WasFather looking for Brandon's secret stash? I couldn't believe it – what had gotten into him? I hoped Brandon took the money with him because it sounded like Father was trying to get hold of more than just the room and board.

He eventually gave up and returned to the lounge-dining room. He plonked himself down at the dinner table, looking even more worried than he had before.

I quickly ducked back into the kitchen and glanced at my sister, who had just finished slicing the home-cooked wholemeal bread and was putting it in a woven basket that was fraying at the edges.

"Couldn't you have at least tried to cut the slices evenly?" I asked.

"For whatever reason?" She covered the breadbasket with a check-patterned tea towel.

"You know Father makes a fuss when you do a sloppy job like that."

"You think I care about his childish tantrums?"

"But..."

"But what?"

"You should take pride in your work, regardless of who you do it for."

"We're talking about cutting bread, right? Good grief but you're a waste of space sometimes, Elder Sister."

In our society, family members addressed one another by their titles, not their names. Hence, Karen called me 'elder sister' rather than 'Chelsea.' That was done as a sign of respect. The Founders declared that previous generous of Australians, indeed, of people worldwide, had forgotten the meaning of reverence and respect. Changing the way we addressed our family members was one of many seeds they sowed to correct that mindset. Somehow, I didn't think it was working here, nor when my parents addressed each other as 'husband' or 'wife' in such a manner that it was insulting. Which was most of the time.

"No need to get all personal about it," I said.

"Really? Because I know what you're going say next. First, you nitpick the way I cut the bread; then you move onto the rest of my life. What is it you say? 'You need to put more effort into life, Younger Sister.'"

"I keep saying it because it's true. You don't try."

"Close enough's good enough."

"No, it isn't!" I tried not to let my rising anger get the better of me. Father getting home an hour late, and the state he was in, had set me on edge. "We should always strive to do our best, and then keep improving on that. Then we can feel a sense of accomplishment and hold our heads high."

"Seriously, the stuff you come out with..."

Karen's spiteful reply was cut short when our mother walked into the kitchen.

"You two bickering again?"

"Not me," Karen replied. "It's Elder Sister. Doesn't matter what I do, it's never good enough for her."

Mother fixed me with a withering stare. "Give it a rest, will you? Your father's ready to eat."

I bit back the first response that sprang to mind and served up Father's dinner. I arrayed the roast veggies away from the edges of the plate, with the pumpkin, carrot and sweet potato in the centre, and the potato and onion surrounding them.

My sister shook her head. "Why do you bother, he won't notice."

"So it's just me bickering, is it?" I said. And instantly regretted it. I didn't know why I squabbled with her so much. It was a bad habit we had fallen into and I somehow lacked the ability to end it.

"Eldest Daughter!" Mother said.

"Okay!"

I took the plate into the dining room and laid it before Father. Karen put the breadbasket and a tub of butter beside it, while Mother gave him a glass of light beer. Somehow, he always had enough money for that.

We retired to the kitchen doorway and waited upon Father while he ate. I expected him to complain when he saw the uneven bread slices, but he was so distracted by whatever had spooked him, that he made no comment. He kept glancing at Karen and me, a haunted look in his eyes. Then, when he was halfway through the meal, he suddenly seemed to have an epiphany, though his face remained troubled.

"You're eighteen now," he said.

"That's right." My birthday was last week, something he would have known had he'd shown even the slightest interest in his family.

His hands shook as he cut a roast potato into smaller chunks. "Time to marry you off, then." He risked a quick glance in my direction.

# Chapter Two

My jaw dropped open, and it took some effort to close it again. Though I couldn't say I was particularly surprised by his announcement. It was customary in Newhome for fathers to marry off their daughters as soon as they turned eighteen. I just never expected he would follow that custom religiously. What was I, a costly possession that needed to be disposed of as soon as possible to avoid paying ongoing maintenance costs?

"Don't feel you need to rush into it on my account, Father," I said.

"I'll pop into one of the marriage agencies on my lunch break tomorrow and see if there are any immediately available bachelors with good prospects and connections." He ignored me completely.

That's it. I was out of here. Father's threat to marry me off, coupled with the revelation that my brother was skipping work, made up my mind.

Tomorrow I would masquerade as my brother, head over to his work and go out with his foraging team. Then when their backs were turned, I would make a run for it. From what Brandon said, Melbourne's ruins were like a rabbit warren, so there was no way they'd find me if I ran off during a toilet break.

I looked at my father, who continued to pick away at his meal, oblivious to my presence. I sighed. He hadn't always been like this. Before the accidental shooting, he was warm-hearted and considerate, especially during my younger years. However, the accident and the ensuing short stint in a prison factory, even though he was exonerated, changed him. No – it broke him. I didn't even know who he was anymore.

I cast my mind back to one of my strongest memories. Accompanied by her mother, my Mother had just returned from the market, laden with bags of food and necessities. She found my brother and me, aged four, snuggled on Father's lap while he sat on the sofa. He was showing us flashcards he had made containing simple words. My brother and I took turns reading the words, squealing and giggling with delight every time we did so.

"What on earth are you doing, Husband?" Mother snapped.

"Teaching them to read," Father replied. "I can't believe how quickly they're picking it up!"

"You're wasting your time teaching Chelsea now."

"What, why?"

"She doesn't need to read or write until she has to read recipes and patterns, and that won't be for a few years yet."

"Well, it's too late for that, I'm afraid – they can both read already." Father gave us both a hug and kissed us lightly on the tops of our heads. We beamed back at him.

Mother looked at Father sceptically. "You seriously expect me to believe that? They're only four!"

"Watch this." Father held up the flashcards, and we took turns sounding out and reading them. "Impressive, eh? I've never heard of kids this age picking it up so quickly."

I thought Mother would be proud, but she frowned, clearly displeased. She slammed down the shopping bags and tore me from Father's lap. "Enough of this nonsense, Husband. Come, Chelsea, help me put the food away."

Disappointed, I glanced back at Father, Brandon, and Grandmother as I followed her into the kitchen. Far from cowed, my father winked at me and smiled mischievously. I knew he'd keep teaching me my letters when Mother went shopping with her mother on the weekends.

Later, when Father got too busy at work and lost interest in continuing the lessons, my brother took over. Throughout his primary school years, he and I often got up in the middle of the night after our parents fell asleep so he could teach me everything he learned at school that day.

Brandon couldn't be bothered keeping this up regularly once he hit secondary school, saying he was too tired. I figured it was more a case of it being uncool to sneak to the lounge-room to be with his sister every night. All the same, he didn't abandon me. The nights he didn't show me what to do, he left his school bag and textbooks in the lounge-room so I could continue the midnight lessons by myself. The next day, when Mother was out of earshot, he would test me to see what I'd learned.

Of course, there was no point in me learning mathematics, history, English, and the sciences, if I was to remain in Newhome all my life. But as it had always been my goal to escape, I figured the knowledge would come in mighty handy one day.

There was another area in which Brandon helped me. Physical fitness. A couple of years ago he came home one night and showed me his arm. He had been rather slim most of his life, but his muscles had become quite pronounced.

"Check out this, Sis," he said, pointing to his bicep. He was supposed to call me Younger Sister since he was born twenty minutes before I was, but like me, tended to throw a lot of conventions out the window when our parents weren't around.

"It's like a rock – and so big! How did you get it like this, Brandy?" I asked, impressed.

"Been going to the gym after school every day."

"A gym, like where they do gymnastics?"

"No, doofus," he laughed. "A gymnasium, where guys go to pump iron – sorry, lift weights, in girl-speak."

"And of course, no girls allowed."

"Absolutely not!"

"That's so unfair. I want to go too." I pouted.

"Really? Well, in that case, I've got an idea."

"Come on then, out with it."

"As it's not always possible to get to the gym, our instructors have been teaching us how to use our body weight to increase flexibility, balance, and strength. I could teach those exercises to you if you're interested. You can do them anywhere, even your own bedroom."

"Teach me, Mister!" I replied. The stronger and fitter I was, the better my chances of survival if I managed to escape one day.

So Brandon taught me a number of body weight exercises, such as push-ups, reverse crunches, sit-ups, lunges, and my least favourite – burpees. Unfortunately, I had to do these when Mother was not in the room. Otherwise, she'd rant on and on about how inappropriate it was for a lady to engage in such pursuits. Especially since I had to do the exercises in my pyjamas because they were impossible to do while wearing a restrictive ankle-length dress. My sister saw me exercising a few times, but wasn't interested in joining me. She thought I was nuts.

At any rate, I had nicely toned muscles now, was a lot fitter, and felt better about myself. Well worth it.

Coming back to the present, I retired back into the kitchen, lamenting the loss of my father's friendship.

"Why do you get all the breaks?" Karen said. Envy was written all over her youthful face.

"What are you talking about?" I snapped.

"You're getting married soon."

"Getting married wasn't exactly on my list of things to do now."

"It'll get you out of here and away from them." She indicated our parents with a flick of her head.

"By marrying some git twice my age I've never met? By being pregnant, barefoot, and stuck in the kitchen for the rest of my life?" It was common for girls in Newhome to meet their husbands on their wedding day. The lucky ones met them once or twice beforehand.

"It's not that bad, surely."

"Really. What about their marriage?" I indicated our parents again.

"Not all marriages turn out like theirs," Karen said.

"How many good marriages have you heard about in this town?"

"Plenty."

"Really."

"You could strike it lucky. Besides, what do they say? 'You get out of marriage what you put into it.'"

"That's a nice theory, but it takes two to tango. What if I get landed with a controlling, overbearing man who lays down the law and won't put any effort into it?"

"Seriously, Elder Sister, you can be so negative. You have to expect the best out of life," Karen said, shaking her head so that her curls bounced around her face.

"I'd rather not take the risk, thanks," I said.

"You make it sound like you have a choice."

"Maybe I do."

"How so?" she demanded.

I was tempted to tell her my plans for tomorrow but realised I couldn't. She'd tell Mother, who would probably lock me in the closet to stop me going.

Karen said something, but my mind was elsewhere, busily thinking of the things I had to do tonight so I could impersonate my brother tomorrow.

Of course, what I was planning was not without a considerable amount of risk, since it was forbidden for a woman to masquerade as a man. The penalty was a mandatory prison sentence accompanied by a hefty fine. So if my brother's workmates saw through my disguise or caught me out in some other way, I was in for a world of trouble. Similarly, if my brother actually turned up at work tomorrow while I was there pretending to be him...

However, being arrested for impersonating Brandon was the least of my worries. My brother and I had spent the last thirteen years living in fear for our lives because we were mutants.

The law stipulated that no aberrations of the human genome were permitted – it had to be kept pure at all costs. Because of that, foetuses found to contain a mutation, even extra toes or fingers, were terminated, and all child or adult mutants were to be reported to the authorities, after which they were taken away and never seen again. It was rumoured they were euthanised and then dissected in the Genetics Laboratory.

That's the primary reason I've always wanted to leave this town. To get away from the death sentence that hung continually over my head.

Regarding our mutation, my brother and I realised before the age of three that we were different from our parents – and everyone else, for that matter. We could hear things they couldn't. And not just quieter noises, but dog whistles and even bats using echolocation, also known as flash sonar. We also discovered that we could pitch our voices up in the ultrasonic range and that if we did this at night, we could even see in the dark! We kept this secret from our parents, though, because being able to hear them coming from a mile away gave us quite an edge. As such, our parents thought we were little angels since they rarely caught us doing anything wrong.

Unfortunately, our days of enjoying our mutation were cut short. I remember vividly the day when my brother and I were five, and our grandmother and mother took us to the market. Brandon came with us because he hadn't started school yet.

We were standing behind our mother while she and grandmother picked out fruit and vegetables from a green grocer's street stall, when I noticed an old man dressed in a well-worn suit standing close by, watching us. He looked a little freaky – his skin was so wrinkled, and he looked so tired, as though he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He took a step closer, inclined his head, and whispered so softly that Brandon and I were the only ones who could hear him.

"You two are different, aren't you?"

Brandon just stared at him, but I nodded.

"You can hear better than anyone else. And you've got a special high voice your parents can't hear."

This time we both nodded.

The elderly gentleman – I think he was Chinese – reached out and grabbed our arms. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but you children are going to have to hide your abilities. Hide them from everyone, even your family and friends. Do not ever use your high voices inside the town. Don't let anyone know you can hear better than they can–"

"Why?" I asked.

He pointed to a pair of imposing armed and armoured Custodians patrolling the market. "You know who they are?"

"Custodians," I said.

"Do you know what they do?"

"They take away bad people," Brandon replied.

"Not just bad people," he whispered. "They also take away children like you – children with special abilities. They take you away to the Genetics Laboratory to be cut up like a frog. Do you understand what I'm saying? If they discover your abilities, they'll kill you!"

Brandon and I nodded solemnly, so the strange elderly man straightened up and made to leave.

"But why would they do that?" I asked.

"Because you're different, and they're scared of children who are different," he whispered.

"But why?" I asked. I wasn't happy.

He took a step closer, and I saw tears in his eyes. "I didn't think they'd discover you children so early, and I never expected they'd react like this when they did." His face hardened. "Remember what I told you – hide your abilities!"

He turned and quickly threaded his way through the swirling crowd of shoppers.

# Chapter Three

When the old man disappeared from view, I took Brandon's small hands in mine. The look of terror on his face was a perfect match for the one on mine.

That was when we decided we had to leave the town when we were older and find somewhere safe to live. Somewhere away from Custodians and the horrible Genetics Laboratory that the man told us about. Somewhere we could be free to be ourselves.

When we got home from the market, I helped Mother put away the food we bought.

"Mother, when I'm older, I want to leave the town," I said as I put a bottle of soymilk in the fridge door.

She frowned. "Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"I want to explore the city," I said. I couldn't tell her the truth. She'd never let me go then.

"You won't be allowed to do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's too dangerous out there with all the evil Skel hiding in the ruins," she said.

"So no one is ever allowed outside?"

"Only the foragers."

"What are foragers?" I asked. Hope blossomed in my heart. Maybe I had to become a forager.

"Foragers go into the ruins to collect paper, plastic and metals and bring them back to be recycled and used in our factories."

"Then I want to become a forager when I grow up, Mother." I declared.

"Girls aren't allowed to be foragers."

"Why not?"

"You know why, Daughter. It's because men are the only ones allowed to work."

"That's not fair." I pouted.

"It's nothing to do with fair, Daughter. The Founders taught that men and women are different and therefore have different roles to play. When the men work, and the women manage the home and raise the children, there is less conflict in the home, and in society as a whole. It was common for both men and women to work before the terrible war that destroyed the world. As a result, the children felt neglected, behaved badly, did poorly in their studies, and became troubled grownups."

I didn't understand Mother's explanation, but I did remember hearing the Chancellor saying something similar during the Solidarity Festival last month.

I dropped the issue then, but Brandon and I never forgot what that creepy old man told us. From that day forward, we never used our high voices again. And we were careful not to let on that we could hear what our parents said when we'd gone to bed, what our neighbours said when they argued next door, even the ultrasonic sound waves bats made when they flew outside our window at night.

I lived in mortal fear of the brutal Custodians, the town's paramilitary police force. They were renowned for their heavy-handed approach to carrying out the law.

I was eight when I saw them apprehend a woman trying to hide a baby with a cleft lip. It was a Saturday morning, and my grandmother and mother had taken my brother, sister, and me shopping in the market. Brandon and I were playing eye-spy when a young woman ran past us, crying out for someone, anyone to help her.

Five heavily armed Custodians were hot on her heels, shoving aside anyone who got in their way. Eager to catch sight of the fleeing woman, I hesitated too long before moving to get out of one burly Custodian's path. He clipped me on the way past, knocking me onto my back while he lost his balance and landed heavily on one knee beside me.

"Stupid girl!" he shouted, pulling back a fist to smack me out of his way.

But my twin brother, a mere grasshopper compared to the large man, jumped between us and stared the man down, daring him to hit him instead. As soon as it was apparent no blow was coming, Brandon dragged me quickly behind mother, who just realised what happened.

Scowling and muttering under his breath, the Custodian joined his fellows and helped them corner the mother with the baby. When she refused to hand the child over, the Custodian struck her on the side of her head with the butt of his gun, knocking her to the ground. Dozens of bystanders – my family included – watched helplessly as the crying baby and his wailing mother, her face covered in blood, were hauled away. We knew the child would not see out the day.

Needless to say, when I hit my teenage years, I began looking for an opportunity to escape, lest I end up sharing that baby's fate. And now, finally, one had presented itself.

I wished I could run away with my brother. In fact, we originally planned to escape the town together, but after he started foraging and struck up a friendship with his teammates, he changed his mind.

I was on my own.

* * *

Father had a few beers too many during dinner. I could tell by the sound of deep breathing emanating from his room that he fell asleep as soon as he hit the sack.

I wasn't so lucky with my mother and sister. It took Karen an hour to fall asleep, and I had to wait until sometime past midnight for Mother to join her. Like most flats in Newhome, we had two bedrooms. One for the males and one for the females. Sons slept with their fathers and daughters with their mothers. Several times in my younger years, I was woken by the sound of my father coming to my mother's bed, but those are not memories I want to revisit. And as far as I could tell, that practice ceased quite a few years ago. Thankfully.

I waited another hour to make sure Mother was sound asleep and crept quietly out of bed. Then I fetched the notebook I'd been working on for years, recording escape plans and what to do once out of the town. In it I listed all the things I needed to take with me, how to masquerade as my brother, notes on how he talked and walked, his workmates' names, how to grow and care for vegetables and fruit trees, even first aid.

Slipping into Father's bedroom, I turned on his bedside table lamp and took a quick glance at the notebook.

I hurried over to my brother's chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of baggy jeans, t-shirt, loose-fitting hoodie, fingerless leather gloves, socks, runners, and one of his trademark baseball caps. Fortunately, Brandon and I were the same height, of similar build, and had the same shade of strawberry blonde hair. That's why I figured I had a good chance of pulling this off. I couldn't believe I was actually going to do this. It felt surreal, like a dream.

I grabbed one of Brandon's spare backpacks and his foraging pass, which he kept in the top drawer of his bedside table.

Having everything I needed, I headed quietly for the door, catching sight of Father as I passed his bed. Even asleep, he looked troubled, tossing and turning, face twitching and eyelids moving rapidly. I wish I knew what terrified him today.

I mouthed a silent "Goodbye, Father," wondering if he would miss me. Would he see my disappearance as one less mouth to feed, or not even notice?

As I studied him, a memory sprang unbidden to mind.

Brandon and I were five and were in the lounge-room with Father. He'd taken us shopping at the market and bought my brother a minigolf set that had caught his eye months ago. They stood at each end of the room, batting the plastic golf ball back and forth. My brother giggled his head off every time he hit the ball.

Father bought me something too. A set of sparkling plastic bangles that cost about the same as the minigolf set. I wore half the bracelets on each wrist and was walking up and down the lounge-room, delighting in the way they glittered in sunbeams that shone through the windows.

A heart-warming smile rested on Father's face as he played with my brother and watched me strut about with the bangles. I'd never seen him happier.

Suddenly the front door thrust open, and Grandmother and Mother walked in, carrying bags of groceries. As soon as my mother caught sight of Father, her face clouded over.

"You're back," Father said amicably.

"What are you doing, playing something like that in here? You'll break my China!" she snapped. Then she caught sight of my bangles, and she grimaced in disgust. She strode over to me, yanked them off my arms, and flung them in the bin. I glanced at my father, tears cascading down my cheeks, hoping he would come to my defence.

"Do not waste our money on rubbish, Husband!" she said. "The Founders taught us a woman's beauty should come from her inner self and her actions, not from baubles and trinkets!"

The light that shone from my father's face as he played with us went out, and he retired to his room, crestfallen.

Tears fell as the memory slipped away. I realised my father's change in character wasn't only from the accident and the ensuing three months he spent in prison. My mother's endless tirade of criticism and disapproval wore away at him over the years, chipping away at his person, his individuality, his character. Long before the accident, he had already faded from life, and from us. The accident and what followed were merely the straws that broke the camel's back.

Sniffing back tears, I retreated to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of Brandon's plastic foraging bottles. Their filters strained out silt and dirt when filled with water from natural water sources. I also grabbed three slices of bread left over from dinner, encased them in cling wrap, and nabbed a bag of dried fruit. I popped everything in the backpack and then crept back to my room, where I added a bag with the assortment of seeds I collected over several years. Pumpkin, carrot, turnip, parsley, wheat, orange, mandarin, and apple seeds, to name a few.

I planned to find an abandoned farm in the country, plant the seeds, and make a life for myself. Until those seeds produced a good harvest, I would have to live off the land. Brandon told me what wild fruits and berries to look out for in the bush, even bringing samples back so I knew what they looked like. I don't know how long I planned to live alone. Maybe once I had settled in, I would scout around to see if I could locate any small towns or villages that had managed to avoid the Skel by sticking together.

Finally, I added a few rolls of toilet paper and sanitary pads, and then hid the bag and the clothes under my bed.

I stood there for a moment, looking at the sleeping forms of my mother and sister, just visible in the pale moonlight coming through the cracks in the worn, floral print curtains. It felt cruel to acknowledge it, but neither of them would miss me. All my mother had ever done, as long as I could remember, was criticise and put me down. She seemed to carry a massive chip on her shoulder against everyone and everything. Except for Brandon, perhaps.

I was never close to my sister, either, partly because we had absolutely nothing in common, but mostly because Brandon and I lived in our own world most of the time.

Thinking of Brandon, I was sure going to miss him. Our deep and meaningful conversations, camaraderie, the ability to know exactly what each other was thinking without saying a word. Downhearted, I climbed into bed and tried to sleep.

# Chapter Four

Such was my state of mind that I didn't fall asleep until the sun rose, at which point my mother shook me awake a few minutes later.

"Up you get," she said.

"I'm not feeling too well," I groaned. It was true. I felt emotionally and mentally exhausted from having had little sleep.

"Are you sick?" Mother asked.

"I feel terrible."

I could feel Mother glaring at me. "Get up as soon as you're able."

She woke Karen, who dutifully climbed out of bed to attend to her morning duties. "What about her?" she asked as she followed Mother from the room.

"Not feeling well. Apparently."

"She was fine last night." Karen frowned at me, not wanting extra kitchen duties.

"Quit fussing and help me get breakfast. Your father will be awake soon."

I slipped out of bed after they closed the door, and to the sounds of my family preparing breakfast, became my brother, following the steps laid out in my notebook.

The first thing I did was bind my breasts flat. Fortunately, I wasn't abundantly blessed in that department; otherwise, I would have been in trouble. After that, I dressed in Brandon's jeans, t-shirt and hoodie.

Next problem was my hair, which was a good six inches longer than his was. It required some amount of dexterity, but I soon trimmed it to the right length. That done, I tied my hair into a ponytail, put on the baseball cap, and pulled the hair through the hole at the back. That was the way my brother wore his hair, which was lucky for me because it was easy to imitate. I would keep the cap pulled low to hide the large purple birthmark above my left eye and to shield my face. Not that hiding my face particularly mattered, because I was the female version of my brother anyway. All the same, if anyone who knew him got a good look at my face, they might see through my ruse.

To complete the transformation, I had to dirty myself up. Since he was a forager, it didn't matter how often Brandon showered and scrubbed; he was never entirely clean. I went over to one of the potted plants on the windowsill and using a mirror, smudged dirt on my face. Next, I scraped dirt under my fingernails and into the grooves around their edges. My fingers were finer than his, but once I put my hands in the fingerless gloves, I doubted anyone would notice.

Checking my appearance in the full-length mirror in the wardrobe, I was shocked. I really did look like Brandon. The loose-fitting clothes concealed my feminine figure, and with the cap and dirt, I believed I could pass myself off as him for a few hours. That was all I needed to make my escape.

Not wanting my family to fret because they didn't know what happened to me, I wrote them a short note:

_Dear Family, please don't worry about me_ – I'm OK _. I've impersonated Brandon today and will run away in the ruins while foraging. Don't take it personally; I've been looking for a chance to escape for years. Brandon will explain more when he comes home. Love, Chelsea._

I hid the note under Mother's mattress, so she would find it when she washed the sheets on Sunday. That done, I skimmed through my notebook to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything, and then popped the book in the backpack.

Now I had to escape the flat without anyone seeing me. Having enhanced hearing at times like this was a bonus. I waited until I heard Father go to work and the sound of my mother and sister returning to the kitchen to have their breakfast. Then I made my move.

I exited the bedroom and moved as furtively as I could, darting through the lounge-dining room and slipping out the front door. As I stood on the walkway outside, it hit me that I was embarking on a foolhardy venture guaranteed to fail.

There I was, a young woman, outside my apartment and without a chaperone. It felt completely inappropriate; going against everything I'd been taught. Waves of guilt and tangible physical discomfort washed through me. Newhome law stipulated that girls and younger women – women under thirty-five – were not permitted outside without a suitable minder. That would normally be their mother, mother-in-law, or one of the men of the family. This was done to protect women, preserve their reputation, and prevent men and women falling prey to sexual temptation. Those who committed adultery or fornication were executed or consigned to hard-labour prison-factories.

Standing on the walkway, I felt exposed and self-conscious, convinced that everyone in the adjacent apartments as well as the two men behind me, knew I wasn't actually a guy, but a girl in disguise. I froze on the doorstep and held my breath as a middle-aged man from several doors down caught up with me. He was dressed in a black business suit that had seen better days and his grey eyebrows needed trimming. I kept my head forward and my gaze averted, but my hands shook so severely that I had to grip the doorknob to hide it.

This _is so not going to work!_

"Morning, Brandon," the man said as he passed me, inclining his head slightly.

"Hey," I replied in my deepest, most Brandon-like voice.

_Yes!_ _H_ _e bought my ruse!_ He thought I was my brother! Maybe I could pull this off after all?

I hefted my backpack over my shoulder and followed the man towards the elevator, concentrating overtime as I struggled to walk like a guy. I tended to sway my hips slightly when I walked, which most definitely would not do.

The apartment blocks, which housed most of Newhome's inhabitants, were ugly ten-storey affairs. They had flat roofs with open walkways on one side and windows on the other. They were built in great rows, one after the other.

It wasn't like that for the more fortunate people who lived in the walled-off exclusive district of North End. Their apartment blocks, which towered over the wall that divided North End from Newhome Proper, were a beauty to behold. They were constructed from red, brown, and black bricks and tiles rather than ugly slabs of grey concrete.

Only the V.I.P.s and their families lived in North End. That included the Chancellor, councillors, geneticists, scientists, other council officials and senior business managers. And their families, of course. It was said they had no curfew, better schools, playgrounds, cinemas, even colour-brick roads! It was even rumoured that if you were able to attain a high enough position in a Newhome Proper vocation, you could earn a free ticket into North End.

Taking the elevator down, I took care to keep my cap down and gaze averted. All the same, I almost bumped into two guys loitering outside our building. One was slightly obese and towered head-and-shoulders above me. The other was just shy of six-foot, with swept back greying hair and a neat goatee.

I stepped around them and continued on my way. When I passed the next block of flats, I scowled at the massive billboard mounted on the wall facing.

'Report the Mutant!' read the caption in bold, red lettering over three-feet tall. The accompanying image depicted a man with a cleft lip as well as six fingers and toes. He looked mournfully at his two children, a young boy and girl, who were tarnished with the same deformities. They stared dejectedly back at him, their pitiful lives the result of no one having had the courage to turn him into the authorities before he procreated. The sign's message was clear – if mutants were not dobbed in, their children would pay the price.

How I loathed that billboard! Cleft lips were correctable with surgery, and so what if they had six fingers and toes? That was a bonus as far as I was concerned – just think of the advantage that would give them with improved grip, balance, and dexterity. The father and his children were in no way less human than normals and had just as much right to live peacefully as everyone else. I utterly resented the town's practice of terminating unborn babies, children or adults found with mutations.

I forced my mind onto more positive thoughts and continued to the Recycling Works. My brother had given me an impromptu guided tour of the town last week when we turned eighteen, and it had granted him the authority to act as my chaperone. One of the places he took me was his work, which was perfect timing, as I now knew where it was. Unfortunately, he wasn't allowed to show me inside the facility.

It took twenty minutes to walk there, but felt more like an hour, because of the fears and doubts that assailed my mind. Where was I supposed to go once I went through the gates? Would my disguise fool Brandon's teammates? I knew who they were, of course, as they had dropped into our place to visit Brandon many times. But what if they asked me questions about things they'd done with Brandon? There were so many ways this could go pear-shaped even before we got out of town to go foraging.

The wooden gates of the Recycling Works stood wide open, so I took a deep breath and walked confidently into the yard. A dozen foragers milled around three beaten-up trucks. Behind them was a massive warehouse with a corrugated aluminium roof, and on my right was the office, a two-storey building with a glass foyer.

My heart thumping wildly, I looked about for Brandon's teammates, wondering what to do if I couldn't spot them. I worried needlessly, though, for three foragers strode straight for me as soon as they saw me.

They were three of Brandon's teammates. Con Dimitriou, the team leader, bore down on me like a bull at a gate. He was overweight, with a round face, beady eyes, and flat, oily hair. Matching his pace was Matt Bancroft, a tall guy with a head of curly red hair. A couple of steps behind came Jack Kwan. He was my height, had a buzz cut, and an impressive muscular build. Of the three, he was the least intimidating. There should have been another guy, Dan Smith. He was relatively new to the team if memory served.

"Who the blazes are you?" Con asked when they reached me.

# Chapter Five

The greeting on my lips came out as a muted squawk. They didn't recognise me – I was done for! My plans to escape were already ruined.

"Hi, I'm Matt. You must be the new guy," the tall redhead said. He reached out to shake my hand.

I was too stunned to react. I was wearing Brandon's clothes, cap, and backpack – who did they think I was?

"Nice of you to bother turning up again, Brandon," Jack said. I risked a glance at him and saw a hint of mirth in his eyes.

Oh – they were teasing me! The feeling of relief that accompanied that revelation was so powerful my legs almost buckled.

"Where the blazes you been this past week, you gutless wonder?" Con asked. He stepped so close that his forehead almost bumped the rim of my cap. His beady eyes transfixed me with such intensity it felt like I was under the scrutiny of a search-light.

"Been sick," I said, sticking to the plan I'd worked out in advance, doing my best to copy Brandon's voice. Something I'd spent hours practising in front of the mirror.

"Sick? You never get sick," Con said.

"It was something I ate. Spent six days with my head in the can."

"Your absence had nothing to do with what happened last Thursday?" Con mocked.

"This is me you're talking to, remember?" I snapped as my mind went into overdrive. What happened last Thursday? Whatever it was, it must be what upset Brandon so much he left home that night and skipped work ever since. Did they bully him? No, that didn't make sense. He was close friends with Jack and often spoke of Matt. Con, not so much. I so wanted to ask them what it was, but that would have given the game away big time.

"Looks like you've shed a few kilos. You okay, mate?" Jack asked, clearly concerned. He flashed an irritated glance at Con.

"Yeah, had to take a stupid pill to make it stop," I replied.

"Did you see a doctor? Could have been gastroenteritis," Matt said. "If so, good thing you took that pill. Gastro can severely dehydrate you if you let it go too long, and that can be fatal."

"If we needed a biology lesson, we would have asked for one." Con glared at Matt.

"Just saying," Matt replied.

"You're always saying," Con replied. He turned his penetrating gaze back to me. "Still think your timing's sus."

"Good for you." I gave him my best Brandonesque sneer.

"Look here, you little runt," Con blustered.

"Knock it off, Con, you can see how pale he is," Jack said, coming to my rescue again. I guessed being the youngest in the group explained Con's patronising attitude and Jack sticking up for me.

"Whatever." Con backed off.

I started breathing again. I hadn't even been aware I was holding my breath. I just wished we could get in the truck and out of town so I could get this escape attempt over and done with.

We wandered back towards one of the battered trucks when a tall, handsome, lanky guy strode into view, accompanied by several other foragers. He looked about my age.

"Great, here comes his Royal Highness, Ethan flippin' Jones," Con growled.

I studied the guy carefully, and something about him struck me. He seemed unpretentious, determined, yet haunted. I wished I could talk to guys without waiting for their permission to speak because I wanted to know who this guy was. Then it hit me. Right now I was a guy, so didn't need permission to speak. This was so weird!

"You don't like him?" I asked Con.

"He's a loser who'll be the death of his teammates," Con replied. "Who cares if he's only seventeen and helped his team take out three groups of Skel slavers."

"He did what?" I exclaimed, only just remembering to keep my voice an octave lower. Brandon told me about the Skel. They were the scourge of Melbourne, skulking around the ruins looking for victims to slaughter or enslave. They were said to be lawless nomads who dressed in suits of armour made from the bones of the dead. No one knew where they came from, only that they'd been around for decades. They were survivors of the Apocalypse too, but unlike us, had turned their backs on civilisation, choosing to live as lawless barbarians. Brandon said that although all foragers lived in fear of them, he'd never seen one.

"Barfed your memory down the loo too, did you?" Con snapped.

"I thought he only took out two Skel teams," I replied, hoping it was a good enough save.

I fell back a step and looked at Jack. "How come Jones gets all the fun – why haven't we seen Skel?"

"Hello. 'Cause Jones' team drew the short straw and got the eastern suburbs," Jack said.

So most encounters with the Skel occurred in the eastern suburbs. That was a relief – Brandon's team worked in the northern areas.

"How'd he take them out, anyway?" From what I heard, Skel were supposed to be invincible.

"What's with your head today, Brandon?" Jack gave me an inquisitive look.

"Let me rephrase that," I said, hastily trying to dig myself out of the hole I was burying myself in. "How do you reckon he does it? Everyone I've spoken to has a different version." I hoped that was true!

"I don't know. His teammates reckon they never get jumped by Skel if Jones is with them. He somehow spots their ambushes before they spring them. And if they can't get away, he creeps behind the Skel and ambushes them."

"What a load of bull," I said, hoping I wasn't coming on too strong.

"Yeah, maybe."

Ethan Jones and his team climbed into their truck, and they were off, the noisy truck engine roaring as they drove out the gates. I wished I could join them instead of getting stuck with Con. Just being near him made my skin crawl. Besides, there was something about Ethan that intrigued me. Not to mention that I wanted to see him in action.

"Okay lads – and child," Con said, looking at me, "the boss wants to see us."

We went through the automatic glass doors and headed upstairs worn smooth by countless boots over the decades. Con took us to a cramped office where logbooks and pieces of paper crowded the desk and lay heaped in piles on the floor.

Two men were in the office. One was an older, balding man, starting to pile on the kilos. His nametag said 'Trajan Barclay, R.W. Manager.' The other man was only a few years older than me. His gaze was fixed on the floor, and he didn't look up when we entered. I wasn't sure if he was not happy to be here, or just not happy full stop. He was six-foot, with short brown hair, a handsome angular face, and an impressive muscular frame.

Aware I was staring at him, I quickly averted my gaze. All the same, I wished I could have met him before today. Not because he was handsome, but because I suspected there was a tragic story hidden behind his sad demeanour. Mentally kicking myself for staring at him again, I suddenly felt somewhat guilty for harbouring desires inappropriate for an unmarried girl. Yet, if I was about to leave town for good, were those restrictive, suffocating rules still relevant? Besides, I was a boy now, right?

"Decided to grace us with your presence again, did you, Brandon?" the boss snapped as soon as he saw me.

"Uh, sorry, Boss. I was laid up with a stomach bug," I said.

"Really. Well, here's a little news flash for you. Next time you get sick, use the blasted phone! Was I supposed to guess where you were?"

"Sorry, Boss."

"Was beginning to wonder if I needed to replace two workers instead of one."

I glanced at him, wondering what he meant. Which forager needed replacing?

"Right lads," the boss continued. "This here is Ryan Hill. He's Dan Smith's replacement."

I looked up in surprise. Dan's replacement? That's why he didn't meet me with the others. Did he quit, was he hurt, or did he run away?

"Hey mate, welcome to the team," Jack said to the newcomer. "I'm Jack – come to me if you ever need help with anything. That's Con, the team leader. The tall ugly one is Matt..."

"Ha-ha," Matt said.

"And the kid's Brandon."

I nodded in greeting.

"Ah; yeah, hi," Ryan replied, glancing at us before returning his gaze to the floor. I saw a glimpse of the deep inner pain he was trying to hide, confirming my initial impression that he was distressed.

Con stepped closer to him. "You'd better pull your weight, Hill. I don't know what you've heard about foraging, but it's not a cushy job, and Dan will be a tough act to follow."

"That's enough!" Trajan Barclay stared twin laser beams at Con. "And take better care of him than you did Dan, or you'll be spending the rest of the year sorting through scrap. Got me?"

Con glared at the boss but then nodded, though I could tell he wasn't cowed in the slightest. More hints about Dan, though. Did he have an accident? One that should have been easily avoided? I wished I could just out and ask, but then they'd know I wasn't Brandon. Anyways, in a couple of hours, I would be hightailing it through Melbourne's ruins, and none of this would matter anymore.

"What was your last job, Hill?" Matt asked.

"Automotive factory," he replied.

"Maintenance or manufacturing? I've got a cousin who's–"

"Why'd you leave?" Con said, interrupting.

"Personal reasons."

"Did they sack you?"

"No!" Ryan frowned at Con, resenting the accusation.

"Why'd you quit then?"

"As I said–"

"Alright you lot, I'm sure you've got better things to do than stand in my office making idle chit-chat. You know, like getting out there and doing your jobs?" Trajan Barclay said.

"Sorry, Boss," Con said. "We'll get out of your hair."

We traipsed down the stairs after Con, the new guy coming last. I peeked up at him, but he broke eye contact as soon as our eyes met. I wondered what his story was. Did he live at home or have his own place? He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so he wasn't married. That was nothing out of the ordinary, though. Guys in Newhome tended to marry between twenty-five and thirty, and Ryan Hill looked to be in his early twenties.

I was so busy reflecting on these questions buzzing through my mind that I didn't even realise we reached our truck until Con stuck his face in mine.

"You drive," he said, handing me the keys.

# Chapter Six

My face blanched and my heart missed a beat. I'd never even ridden a bike, let alone a truck. My mind went into panic-mode as I sought a way out of this disaster. "Ah, Con? I'm well enough to come back to work and all, but I'm still a bit woozy. I need to sit by a window and breathe in fresh air. If I drive, I might barf all over the steering wheel."

"Maybe you should've taken a few more days off," Matt said. He took a few steps back, eyes wide with alarm.

"I'll be okay, just don't make me drive."

"Fine. I'll drive, you big wuss." Con snatched back the keys and climbed into the cab. Matt jumped in beside him.

Jack, Ryan and I got in the back. The engine turned over with a loud bang, and we were off, driving through the streets of Newhome heading for the eastern gates. I lowered my window, which was quite a challenge for it was almost stuck fast. Then I went through the pantomime of breathing in fresh air and watching the view as it whistled past.

The twelve-foot tall gates were made of iron and still looked impregnable even though the black paint was peeling off in patches and rust was working its way into the metal. The walls were even more imposing than the gates. Constructed from thick slabs of concrete that curved outwards, they were topped with razor-sharp coils of barbed wire.

Five heavily armed Custodians decked out in helmets, and bulletproof vests stood at the gates. More occupied the outward facing guard tower atop the wall.

I sat there, glued to my seat as the guards approached the truck. I wondered if these were the same men who checked Brandon's papers every day. Would they only check if the papers were valid, or would they examine us as well?

"Papers," the sergeant snapped, reaching up.

We handed our papers to Con, and he handed them down to the Custodian, who matched our faces with the photos. For a horrible, panic-stricken moment, I was sure he would ask me to remove my cap. If he did, my subterfuge would be revealed; for there was no way anyone could mistake me for my brother if they saw the birthmark. Keeping my eyes down, I sat on my hands to stop them shaking. This wasn't going to work! A procession of images fled through my mind. I saw myself in one-piece blue overalls, slaving away in a textiles prison-factory, surrounded by hostile inmates.

Just when I convinced myself it was all over, the guard abruptly handed back the papers and the gates swung open on well-oiled hinges. They fell for my ruse! They too thought I was Brandon. I sagged into my seat as a palpable sense of relief flooded through me. This was going to work – I was actually going to escape today!

The truck roared through the gates, and we crossed the open area devoid of cover that surrounded the town. From there we drove east into a street lined with houses over a century old. Windows were shattered, wooden window frames were rotten, aluminium guttering hung to the ground, and doors smashed off hinges gave haunting glimpses into darkened interiors. For the most part, houses built of brick were relatively intact, while those constructed from wood were dilapidated ruins. Some terracotta roofs had gaping holes, and the occasional aluminium sheeting used on flat roofs had collapsed or been blown away. Nature was also in the process of forcibly reclaiming everything. Clumps of grass grew out of the cracked and pitted asphalt roads and concrete sidewalks. Waist high grass, bushes and trees flourished in the median and nature strips, as well as in the once well-manicured front yards lining the street. Vines and creepers fought their way up walls and fences, even through smashed windows.

Small numbers of rusted-out wrecks of cars and trucks littered the road, reminders of a time when every family had their own transportation. As opposed to Newhome, where the only vehicles belonged to Custodians, hospitals, government officials, and businesses.

However, it wasn't the scene of utter devastation that impacted me the most. It was the eerie silence – a silence punctuated only by the rustling of the wind through the trees, twittering of birds, the unmistakable cawing of crows and the cackle of magpies. I could easily imagine the ghosts of our ancestors haunting the ruins, still trying to go about their daily lives in a city destroyed by their generation's excesses and utter stupidity. Why did they build such weapons, let alone use them?

A shudder wracked my slim frame, and then again when I realised that Skel could be hiding anywhere, waiting for unsuspecting travellers or foragers to nab and haul away as slaves.

After driving for thirty minutes, Con took us into a street crowded with run-down houses and backed the truck into a driveway on the opposite side of the street.

"Everybody out," he barked.

We tumbled out of the truck while Con grabbed a saw from a toolbox behind the cab as well as a stepladder from the back of the truck.

He thrust the items at the new guy. "All right, Hill, this is where you show us if you've got the stuff. At the back of that house, you'll find plastic downpipes outside the toilet and bathroom. Cut them down and throw them in the truck."

Ryan stared at him for a moment, and then glanced at the rest of us. "By myself?"

"You got a problem with that?"

He shook his head and looked at the saw Con gave him. "Wouldn't a wrench be better?"

"No one's touched these pipes for over a hundred years. They're stuck fast. You'll have to cut them." Con spoke down at him, as though the answer was obvious.

Ryan shrugged, trudged up the driveway, and disappeared from view through the half-rotten side gate that led to the backyard.

"Right lads, gather round, real quick like," Con said.

"What's up?" Jack asked as we moved in closer.

"Anyone else smell a rat?" Con asked.

"He don't look like your typical forager recruit," Jack said.

"Agreed," Matt added. "Doesn't have that no-hoper, nonconformist look to him. Holds his shoulders back like he's still got pride."

"Brandon?"

"Seems okay to me," I said, not having the foggiest idea what they were alluding to. Besides, there was something about the guy that appealed to me. I didn't want to bag him.

"'Seems okay to me.' You idiot." Con gave me a clip over the ear. "The guy's a Custodian informer if I ever saw one."

"Oh great," Jack moaned.

"You don't think the Custodians bought our story about what happened last week? I thought our alibis were rock solid," Matt said.

What happened last week? Rock solid alibis? Were they talking about Dan Smith? It sure sounded like he was injured due to an error on their part and they were lying to cover it up. If that was the case, I guess it made sense for the Custodians to slip an informer into our midst to root out the truth.

I'd give my right arm to know what happened to Dan. Maybe then I could figure out what upset my brother so much that he ran away. Not that it really mattered, since I was going to make my break for freedom the first chance I got today.

"So what's the plan?" Jack asked.

"We get rid of him," Con replied.

"But don't you think they'll–" Matt began.

"No, not like that – are you nuts?" Con glowered at Matt so fiercely he took a step back. "We freeze him out. Give him all the rubbish jobs. Make him work harder than the rest of us. If we have to speak to him, talk down to him like he's trash. Then informer or no, he'll quit in no time."

"Got you," Matt and Jack chorused.

"Brandon?"

"What if you're wrong about him?"

Con stuck his podgy face in mine. "I'm not."

"You know..." Matt said slowly, thinking aloud.

"What?" Con snapped.

"Someone needs to watch him. Make sure he doesn't spy on us when we're...you know."

Con's penetrating gaze bore holes through me again. "You reckon you can do that, Boy?"

"Who you callin' boy, Mister?" I shot back at him. Brandon hated it when people called him that.

"Oh, pipe down. Can you sort it or not?"

"Whatever." One of Brandon's favourite responses.

"Okay, so grab some tools and get over there. Remember, he's the enemy, so don't go making friends with him. Got me?"

"Yeah, yeah." I went over to the toolbox and stared at it in dismay. What tools was I supposed to grab? I didn't even know what I was looking at. Then I remembered Con giving Ryan a metal-framed saw with a fine-toothed blade, so I grabbed one just like it. After that, I fetched another stepladder and headed around the back of the house.

The backyard was an overgrown shambles which included the rusting frame of a trampoline and swing-set overgrown by vegetation.

I spotted Ryan immediately. He'd discarded his jacket and was studiously sawing through a plastic downpipe outside a small rectangular window. I staggered to a stop when I noticed his biceps rippling as he used the saw. His tight t-shirt also did wonders for his muscular torso. Blushing in embarrassment for entertaining such improper thoughts, I shook my head and approached him.

"Thought I was working alone," he growled.

"Change of plans."

"Why don't you work next door or something," he said.

"Con told me to help you."

"So help me by working next door."

"You got something against me personally?" I asked, lifting my head slightly so I could meet his gaze.

He sent a glance in my direction but yet again averted his gaze the moment our eyes met. "Something against people in general."

His attitude confirmed my earlier appraisal. He wasn't a happy guy, but what had put him in such a frame of mind? Problems with his family? At his last job? The latter was quite likely, considering he quit of his volition.

I also concluded that as he was trying his darnedest to push me away, Con's theory that he was a Custodian informer was way off the mark. If he was, he'd be making every possible effort to be everyone's best friend. He wouldn't be telling me to nick off.

"Well, that's too bad," I replied at last. "'Cause foraging's a team effort."

"Where exactly is the team then?"

"I'm here, ain't I?"

"And the other three?"

"Beats me."

"Great operation you guys run here."

"I just do what I'm told," I said.

"Humph."

Handsome guy, but what a grouch!

Ryan suddenly stopped sawing and turned towards me. "You going to work or are you leaving it all for me?"

I glanced at the saw in my hand. "Okay, I'm on it!"

I looked at how Ryan set up his stepladder and observed the way he sawed the top of the downpipe. I set up my ladder in the same fashion and got stuck into the adjacent pipe.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I looked through the small rectangular window behind the pipe, wondering what it was like inside the house. Unfortunately, it was too dark to make out much of anything. I was about to turn away when it occurred to me that I wasn't in Newhome and that it was, therefore, safe to echolocate.

And so, feeling extremely self-conscious and glancing at Ryan to make sure he wasn't watching me, I sang out a series of short notes – almost like pulses – in the ultrasonic range above what dogs can hear. The darkened room immediately lit up as bright as day, though in an almost ethereal manner. Colours were washed out, but every object was clearly defined, right down to its shape and texture. Some objects even became semi-transparent, like the plastic buckets on the floor. The room was a laundry, with a battered old washing machine beside a filthy tub half-filled with leaves, dirt and disintegrating plastic pegs. Behind that was a cupboard and a rusty old clothes-dryer. The porcelain tiles lay loose on the floor.

The ability to echolocate was awesome, so why on earth did the Custodians consider it such a threat? Surely the ways in which it could be put to practical use were many and varied. Foragers could use it to spot items in darkened houses; doctors could use it to see inside patients rather than waiting for the results of x-rays or ultrasounds, security forces could use it to detect dissidents taking advantage of the darkness of night.

I wished I could use it in Newhome without the fear of Custodians dragging me away to the Genetics Laboratory.

That brought back a memory of when Brandon and I were eleven. He had been playing outside, but suddenly came bursting in through the front door.

"Son, how many times must I ask you not to leave the door open!" Mother said. She was sitting with Karen on the big sofa, teaching her how to darn a sock. I was on her other side, crocheting a new doily for the kettle.

"Sorry!" Brandon said. He skipped over to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me over to the lounge-room window, which he opened. "Look outside," he whispered.

A workman in one-piece overalls was standing on an adjustable ladder, affixing a rectangular plastic device to walkway ceiling between our flat and the adjacent one. I saw that he had already fitted another one several flats further down.

"What are you doing, Mister?" Brandon called out.

"Me job."

"What's that thing you're putting up?" my brother asked.

The man looked at Brandon's young, eager face and sighed. "Smoke detector."

"Never seen a smoke detector like that," Brandon said. "They're normally round."

"It's a new model," the man said.

"Really?" Brandon pulled me back a step and spoke quietly. "He's lying. I had a look in his toolbox. One of those devices was in two pieces, and I saw what was inside it. It had two round components with wire mesh on top. Like something I saw in a library book."

"So – so what?" I whispered

"They're ultrasonic detectors, and they're putting them up all over town." He grabbed my hands. "Sis, we gotta be real, real careful. The Custodians are trying real hard to catch people like us. You don't ever echolocate, do you?"

I shook my head. "You know I don't, Brandy. Not since we were five."

He squeezed my hands and beamed at me. "Just making sure."

It suddenly felt like my world was contracting like a fisherman drawing in his nets. And my brother and I were the fish.

Ryan suddenly cleared his throat and gave me a pointed look. I snapped back to the present.

Right – I was supposed to be working. I grabbed the saw and began to hack away at the downpipe, the fine metal teeth making short work of the century-old plastic.

As I worked, I considered announcing a 'toilet break' as this was the perfect moment to make my escape, but the sound of footsteps coming up the driveway put paid to that idea.

"Everything shipshape here?" Con asked when he joined us, his voice monotone.

"All good," I replied, turning to face him. He was looking at me, still sceptical of my story that I was sick last week.

"Hill?" he asked.

"Like he said." He flicked his head in my direction.

"Don't let me catch you two slacking off." With that, he was gone.

So much for this being the perfect opportunity to escape, it wasn't going to work if Con was watching us. But no matter, for I guessed I had the rest of the day to escape. Furthermore, it was intoxicating standing this close to Ryan. Something drew me inexorably towards him. Perhaps it was his air of self-confidence tarnished with the deep inner pain he was trying to hide?

At any rate, this was the first time in my life I had an opportunity to spend time with a guy one-on-one without the danger of getting arrested or being accused of behaviour unbefitting a single woman. Why did the Founders insist on forced segregation of males and females to maintain sexual purity? Surely people were more than capable of exercising restraint and self-control?

I realised I wanted to talk to Ryan and find out more about him, but as a girl, couldn't do so without his permission. Suddenly it dawned on me yet again that those suffocating rules no longer applied, since I was masquerading as Brandon.

"You worked in an automotive factory before this?" I asked.

"Yeah, so?" he replied.

"How long were you there?" I paused in my dismal attempt at sawing through the downpipe. I'd made very little progress, and my right arm was starting to ache.

"Too long."

"What was it like?"

Ryan had almost cut through the top of his pipe.

"What is this, question and answer time?"

"No need to get all defensive, I'm just curious about what it's like to work in a factory. I signed up for foraging as soon as I left school a year ago, so it's all I know." This was Brandon's past, of course. I resumed my assault on the pipe.

He looked at me and frowned. "What on earth are you doing? You don't hold a hacksaw like that."

# Chapter Seven

"Is that right? How would you hold it, then?"

"Here, let me show you." He reached out to my hand. "Put your fingers like this and your thumb here."

I felt a thrill chase up my arm from where he touched me and held my breath in an attempt to slow my racing heart. His hands were strong, but not calloused like my brother's were.

Shaking my head to focus my thoughts on the job, I went back to sawing the pipe using the technique he showed me. It made quite a difference.

He signed. "And you don't saw the top of the pipe first."

I realised then that he'd already cut through the bottom of his pipe, just above where it jutted out of the concrete.

"Right." I moved the stepladder aside and got stuck into the bottom of the pipe instead.

"You've been doing this for a year?" His expression was one of pure scepticism.

"That's right." I put on an air of indignation.

"Could have fooled me." He rolled his eyes and went back to work.

"I can only do what I'm taught."

"Ever heard of common sense?"

I wanted to tell him that I could darn socks faster than my mother, design and make a full-length dress of superior quality to those in the shops. That I could bake a mean shepherd's pie and oven baked chicken roast, not to mention dozens of other recipes. Of course, that would be kind of giving the game away.

After what seemed like forever, which included pulling out plastic pipes from inside the bathroom, kitchen and laundry walls, Jack popped around to tell us it was lunchtime. The three of us picked up the pipes we had liberated so far and carted them out to the truck.

"That's all you two have done? Hill, you're flippin' useless," Con spat when he saw the results of our endeavours.

Ryan didn't reply.

"It's my fault, Con," I said. "Ryan did twice as much as me."

"How's that possible?" He came closer, his beady eyes squinting. I so hated the way he invaded my personal space when he spoke to me. Was it a conscious act on his part to intimidate others, or something that came naturally? The guy was so creepy that he made my skin crawl.

"Hmm, maybe it's something to do with me not eating for six days 'cause I was puking my guts out?" I shot back. Not the sort of thing I would have said to a guy, but my brother was full of lip.

"Pick up your game, Brandon Thomas. I have no time or patience for a fifth wheel," Con snarled. Then he whispered in my ear. "Stick up for him again, and I'll bust your chops."

I noticed Ryan looking at me with a strange expression, as though no one had ever stood up for him before. What on earth happened to him at that factory?

Everyone fetched their backpacks. Con, Matt and Jack turned their backs on Ryan and deliberately sat on the curb a good ten meters down the road from where he was sitting. If he was upset by their very obvious snub, I couldn't tell, since he wore that wounded, bitter expression all the time.

As I had only a few slices of bread and dried fruit to sustain me when I escaped, I sat on the curb near Ryan and sipped from a water bottle.

"You're not eating?" he asked.

"Didn't have time to grab something this morning."

He scooted closer to me. "That's no good. Considering how sick you've been and the strenuous nature of this job. Here, have a sandwich."

"What? No, I can't!"

He pushed the sandwich into my hands anyway. "Yes, you can."

"But–"

"Eat it!"

"Okay! And – thanks, mate." The sandwich was chicken, lettuce and mayonnaise. I couldn't remember the last time I had meat, so I ate slowly, savouring every bite.

"Something wrong?" Ryan asked. He sounded hurt.

"No! It's fantastic." I saw Con and Matt staring daggers at me. I sighed with deep regret and decided it was time to end my dalliance with Ryan and make my escape.

"Really?" He didn't look convinced at all.

"It's just that–"

"Just what?" he snapped.

"It's the first time I've had chicken in ages."

Surprise replaced the wounded expression on his face, which was followed by revelation when he realised what I was telling him – my family couldn't afford chicken.

I finished the sandwich, sculled more water, grabbed my backpack, and stood. "Toilet break."

He shrugged but didn't look at me.

I made a b-line for the house adjacent to the one we had been working in. It was a two-storey brick-and-mortar affair. The external blinds hung off their frames in tatters. A tree in the front yard had thrust a branch through a top floor window, dislodging a host of roofing tiles as it continued to push skyward.

I pushed open the cracked wooden door and threaded my way quickly through the house, using echolocation to see in the gloom.

As I went, the enormity of what I was doing hit me. This was it! The moment I'd been anticipating for years had arrived – I was escaping Newhome and the oppressive atmosphere and tyrannical rules that treated girls and women as second-class citizens. No longer would I have to watch my step or what I said, nor worry my mutation would be discovered. Of course, I'd have to keep my wits about me as I passed through the ruins lest I run into Skel, but with my sensitive hearing and ability to use flash sonar, I figured I'd be safe.

I had no idea how long it would take to find an abandoned farm near a water source. But I figured if I stayed on a major road as I left the city, I'd have plenty of suitable venues from which to choose.

Passing through the kitchen, I saw a selection of stainless steel knives in a plastic bench top display. Anticipating their usefulness, I put two smaller ones in my backpack, and threaded the longest one in my belt. Not much of a weapon, but it would have to do.

That done, I popped out the back door. An in-ground swimming pool that had seen far better days dominated the backyard. Ceramic tiles lining the edge were cracked or missing, and branches, leaves, dirt and brackish sludge covered the bottom. This would have been a nice place once. I wondered if the Founders were on the ball with their claim that the old world had too many freedoms – freedoms that contributed to the global nuclear war that almost wiped humanity off the map. I couldn't comprehend how people could be so stupid as to destroy their own world.

I started to pick my way carefully around the pool when I heard hushed, guttural voices coming from the adjacent property – the house Ryan and I worked in only moments ago. Curious, I moved as quietly as I could to the intervening dilapidated fence. Crouching down, I looked through a gap between two sagging wooden planks and then slapped my hand over my mouth to stop myself squealing in terror.

Three Skel – massive, hulking brutes that looked more like skeletal zombies than people – stood behind the house, examining our stepladders and hacksaws. I had heard many tales about these barbarians, including some from my mother who used them as bogeymen to scare my brother and me when we wouldn't behave.

All the same, nothing prepared me for the reality of their horrific appearance. Like apparitions from my worst nightmares, they were decked head to foot in suits of armour made entirely of bones. Human bones, for the most part, including modified human skulls that served as helmets. One helmet was even adorned with twisting cow horns, giving the impression the Skel was a devil escaped from the depths of hell.

I noticed how wires held the bones together, while smaller bones and resin filled the gaps. The Skel all carried menacing black crossbows. Two also had metal clubs, and the third a baseball bat.

As I watched, a fourth joined the others from the direction of the street. He made almost no noise as he walked, confirming the tales I'd heard that they excelled in stealth.

"Well?" demanded the largest Skel, the one with the baseball bat.

"Scavengers from Newhome, just like we figured. Blighters are lounging on the curb without a care in the world. One in front of this house, the other three on the far side of the truck."

Every second word spoken by the Skel was accompanied by a profanity so foul that my face burned with embarrassment simply from hearing them talk.

"Let's give 'em something to care about, then," the leader growled.

"You only mentioned four, Weasel. Where's the fifth? They always run in teams of five," the one with cow horns asked.

"Didn't see 'im."

"Right, let's do this, but keep ya eyes peeled in case there's another one having a dump somewhere," the leader said. "Crank – circle around to the left. Weasel, Jingles, go right and get close to the truck. Wait five and then drive them away from the truck and into Crank and me. And remember, we want 'em alive. Shoot to wound if they run. Now go!"

I dropped onto my belly in the tall grass as Weasel and Jingles moved quickly but quietly through a gap in the fence not far from my position. With speed and stealth that I wouldn't have thought possible for men encased in bone armour, they went past me and disappeared into the backyard of the neighbouring house.

Clambering back onto my knees, I peered through the gap in the fence in time to see Crank rush off in the other direction while the leader stole furtively into the house.

I remained there, frozen in place, frantically debating what to do. The wise thing to do was run, to get as far away as I could, never once looking back. What could I possibly do against such armoured monstrosities anyway? The most I could hope to achieve was warn the others of the impending danger, which could quite likely result in me getting captured along with them. Besides, I was here to escape, not play the hero. Not to get dragged off by those brutes to be their slave.

Yet even as I debated this, I couldn't get the image of Ryan's face out of my mind. I didn't know what his story was apart from the telltale signs he'd been deeply hurt. And in spite of that, he shared his lunch with me, an act of kindness that took me by surprise. Then there was the matter of Con, Matt and Jack – my brother's best friends.

I couldn't disregard the fact that they deserved better than getting rounded up like cattle to be driven away to the slaughter. I realised I already knew what I had to do, regardless of what it would cost me – I had to warn them. No, that wasn't enough – I had to save them. And only then, should the opportunity avail itself, make my dash for freedom.

Time was of the essence, so I dropped my backpack and forced my way through a gap in the fence. Grabbing a steel leg that had fallen off the trampoline, I darted as quietly as I could into the house, following the Skel leader.

Using echolocation to illuminate the gloomy interior, I crept through the laundry and kitchen, and into the dining room. The Skel was in the lounge-room – I could hear him breathing as soon as I entered the house.

Watching carefully where I put each foot, I skirted around decaying chunks of plaster and disintegrating insulation bats fallen from the ceiling, wooden chairs with fraying upholstery, and shattered crockery fallen out of a buffet-and-hutch that had tipped over.

Entering the lounge-room, I spotted the Skel immediately – he was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the street. His loaded crossbow rested against the wall beside the front door, and he gripped the baseball bat with experienced hands.

I picked my way across the floor until I stood directly behind him, only to quail in fear when I realised he towered over me by at least a foot. What was I thinking? What could I do against a massive brute encased in bone and resin?

Glancing at the steel bar in my hands, I realised my intention of using it to knock him out was wishful thinking. It would just bounce off his skull helmet after which I would be at his mercy.

Laying the bar quietly on the floor, I pulled the long kitchen knife out of my belt, a sick feeling invading my stomach. As I had never hurt anyone before, what I was about to do went against every fibre of my being. Even though I was only going to give him a taste of what he planned to give my companions.

I considered knifing him in the back, but flash sonar revealed the futility of that action. Not only were there no gaps in the armour, but the bones themselves had been hardened with resin. Which meant they were probably impervious to knife thrusts. A feeling of hopelessness threatened to overwhelm me. I was almost out of time. Desperate to find a chink in his armour, I took a step back and gave him another once over with flash sonar.

To my surprise, I found two weaknesses. There were no bones covering his neck or the back of his knees. Unfortunately, he was too tall to stab in the neck, and at any rate, I refused to kill him. That left only one other choice – I had to go for his knees.

Afraid I would hear cries of terror from my companions at any moment, I gripped the long knife firmly and slashed it as hard as I could across the back of his right knee. The blade cut deep, severing tendons and muscles. The Skel bellowed in agony and reared back.

I sprang away from him immediately but was still too slow. With a speed that belied belief, he whirled around, swinging his baseball bat with murderous intent. Luckily for me, his knee gave way as he turned, eliciting an even louder cry of pain as he collapsed to the floor with a crunch of bones.

His bat still connected with my stomach, sending me careening backwards to slam awkwardly against the side of a dirt-covered armchair. The wooden armrest dug into my back, sending waves of intense pain coursing through me. My knife also went flying from my grasp. All the same, I appreciated the hours spent doing sit-ups and burpees. Otherwise, that blow to my stomach would have incapacitated me.

"You stinking varmint, I'm gonna gut you and string your entrails up for the crows!" the Skel hissed. Grimacing in pain, he clawed his way onto his knees and lifted the baseball bat.

I tried to ignore the pain lancing unmercifully through my torso and rolled quickly aside. The bat smashed into the chair, splintering the wooden armrest. I glanced at my fearful opponent and panic ripped through me – it would only take one solid hit, and it would be all over.

I rolled under another swing and regained my feet. Picking up chunks of plaster and discarded DVD cases, I flung them at the Skel in quick succession. They ricocheted off his helmet, but he kept coming.

Remembering his weakness was his right side, I feinted to my left. As I expected, he lunged for me but then collapsed to his hands and knees when his injured leg gave out. Seeing an opportunity to escape, I jumped to the right and darted past him, making for the front door.

Ignoring his injury, the Skel twisted around and swung his bat with all his strength. It clipped my left thigh with enough force that I was sent sprawling against the wall beside the door, my shoulder smashing through the powder-like plaster sheeting. With freedom only a few steps away, I pushed myself off the wall and limped through the open doorway as fast as I could, grabbing the Skel's surprisingly heavy metal and wood crossbow on the way out.

# Chapter Eight

Now that I was in the front yard, I saw our truck parked in the driveway to my right. Con, Jack and Matt must have heard the Skel bellowing when I wounded him, for they were on their feet, looking in my direction, clearly alarmed.

"Skel!" I screamed as I limped/ran.

"In the truck, quick!" Con shouted. He didn't need to say it twice. The three of them were off like a shot, faces white with terror.

My heart missed a beat when I realised I couldn't see Ryan on the far side of the truck where he had been sitting for lunch.

"Where's Ryan?" I shouted.

Con was already in the cab, turning the key in the ignition and pumping the accelerator as fast as he could. Jack ripped open the passenger door and flung himself inside.

"Forget him!" Matt snapped. He reached for me, eyes wide. "Get in!"

I stepped back, shaking my head. "Which way did he go?"

"Just get in!"

Con was already backing the truck out of the driveway.

I saw Ryan then, emerging from further down the driveway from between two bushes, pulling up his zipper. He realised something was amiss because he was running full pelt towards us. He wasn't going to make it, though. Weasel and Jingles chose that moment to spring their ambush, jumping out of shrubs on the other side of the road, sighting down their crossbows.

"Look out!" I called out to Ryan while lifting my stolen crossbow and firing it at the Skel. The bolt went wide, but they ducked their heads down all the same.

Ryan realised the danger he was in and ran faster. As though watching in slow motion, I watched the Skel sight down their crossbows again. One aimed at Ryan, the other at me.

I threw my weapon aside, and ignoring the stabbing pain that accompanied each step, darted for Ryan. I echolocated as I went, singing out staccato musical notes, hoping to detect the speed and direction of the bolts when they fired them. Ryan ran towards me with his head cocked to one side, completely baffled by my actions.

When I was only a few paces away, the Skel fired. Jingles wasn't following his leader's instruction to wound us, either – his bolt was going straight for Ryan's head. Weasel had fired at my legs.

I realised I had only one chance to get this right. Even the slightest miscalculation and I'd be down, and Ryan would be dead. I considered calling out to him to duck, but if he didn't duck low enough...

Intercepting Ryan, I grabbed him and pushed him one way while leaning backwards so that there was a gap between us. One bolt flew past me, the feathers brushing against my leg as it did so. The other passed between us, missing Ryan's head by an inch.

"What the..." Ryan stammered when he saw the bolts fly past and he realised what I had done.

"The truck!" I yelled. The Skel had already reloaded their bows and were frantically winding back the strings.

Ryan and I reached the truck a moment later. Matt leaned out and gave us a hand into the back seat.

"Go that way!" I shouted to Con, pointing at the road where Weasel and Jingles were still winding their bows.

"Are you nuts?" he shot back at me.

"There's another Skel waiting for us back the other way. If you go that way, he'll have a shot at the windshield – at you," I said.

He didn't need to be told twice. He floored the accelerator, and the truck lurched up the street. "Get down!" he said as we passed the Skel. Just in time too. A couple of bolts hit the side windows, shattering them and showering us with splinters of glass. Con kept driving.

When the Skel were far behind us, I sat up, brushed off the glass, and sank back into my seat, utterly spent now the adrenalin rush was over. The pain that had been clamouring for my attention at the edges of my consciousness sprang to the forefront with such intensity I had to concentrate on my breathing to ride it out. My stomach felt like it had been hit by a pile driver, and my ribs felt worse. Every breath sent waves of pain stabbing through my back.

My leg was starting to stiffen up too, so I slowly stretched it out and rubbed it, gritting my teeth as agony shot up and down the limb. I couldn't let it seize up. If I couldn't walk when we got back to Newhome, and Con insisted I got my injuries checked out, I'd be spending my next few birthdays behind bars for impersonating a man.

_Back to Newhome._ The implications of that thought hit me with the force of a sledgehammer, causing the physical aches and pains to diminish in comparison. My escape attempt failed. If not for the Skel, I'd be happily traipsing through the empty streets by now. Free from the town's rules and regulations, free from living in fear for my life, free to choose my own destiny.

Now, before I could even consider another escape attempt, thanks to leaving my backpack behind, I had to replenish my collection of fruit and vegetable seeds. And they took me years to collect. That meant I would have to go to the market and buy them, which created new problems. If I bought the seeds tomorrow, I wouldn't be able to go to work as a forager. If I went out as a forager, I wouldn't be able to get the seeds. Of course, I could get the seeds on the weekend, when the foraging teams didn't go out. Except I had no money with which to buy seeds unless I was stupid enough to go out foraging again tomorrow. If I did, I would be able to collect Brandon's pay, since he got paid every Friday. My life seemed so simple this morning – why did those Skel have to go and throw a wrench in my plans.

For now, though, I had to go back to Newhome, to oppression, my mother, and her endless tirade of criticism and condemnation. Not to mention the trouble I would be in the moment I stepped through the front door, since I had been absent all day and was wearing Brandon's clothes. And if Mother caught sight of my bruises? I settled further back into my seat, crushed, sore and too tired to contemplate returning to that life.

I wished Ryan knew what I'd given up to save him. I glanced at him, but then shrank back, uncertain and confused. He was looking at me, but not with appreciation for saving his life. His glance was wary, as though he couldn't work out if I was a friend or an enemy. My face blanched with fear when I realised I might have given the game away that I was a mutant when I helped him dodge the bolt. I looked away quickly, heart thumping. I thought he'd thank me for saving him, not react like that.

I stared out the window, wishing I was already home so I could put this behind me. I wondered if I'd ever have the courage to attempt to escape again by impersonating my brother. Today was a disaster, with Con's attitude, Matt trying to leave Ryan behind, the Skel, and the injuries.

"That was too close!" Jack said after we'd been driving for several minutes.

"Too close doesn't even begin to cut it," Matt replied.

"What the blazes are Skel doing in the northern suburbs anyway?" Con asked.

"No reason for them not to be. They're nomads, right? The foragers we've bumped into from other towns said they raid all over Victoria," Matt replied.

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself asking the question that immediately sprang to mind. There were foragers from other towns? Where were these towns and what were they like? Were they like Newhome? I recall Brandon mentioning there was a Japanese colony over near Inverloch, but surely that was too far away to send foragers to Melbourne?

"You want to tell us what happened, Thomas? How come you knew where they were?" Con asked. I looked up to see him staring at me in the rearview mirror, his beady, dark eyes like twin holes to the abyss.

# Chapter Nine

"Hey, the kid just saved our butts. How 'bout you cut him some slack?" Jack said.

"Answer me," Con said.

"I was taking a dump–" I began.

"TMI!" Matt protested.

"–when these four Skel suddenly appeared next door and started planning their ambush. When they split up, I rushed back to the truck to warn you."

"Is that right? Care to explain how one moment we heard a Skel screaming and the next you come running out of the house with his crossbow?" Con growled.

"I took a shortcut through the house but bumped into a Skel. He tried to catch me, but I stabbed him in the back of the knee with a knife I found in the kitchen–"

"You did what?" Jack asked, eyes wide.

"Let him finish!" Matt snapped.

"After that, he couldn't catch me, so I grabbed his crossbow and ran outside. You saw the rest."

"No, I don't think they did," Ryan muttered under his breath. He stole a glance at me, distrust, or was it disbelief, framing his handsome features. I was so glad the other three didn't see my little 'dodge-the-bolts' sideshow. That would have taken some explaining. Thankfully, Ryan was keeping quiet about it. Maybe he figured no one would believe him even if he did share it. Maybe he was having trouble believing it himself.

"We're gonna have to start calling you Ethan Jones the Second," Jack said. At least he was impressed by my exploits. I could see why Brandon liked him so much – he was cool. Why he liked Con and Matt, I couldn't fathom.

"You hurt, Brandon? You were limping when you came out of the house," Matt asked.

"Nah, it's nothing."

"All the same, get that leg examined when we get back to base," Con said.

"Seriously, I'm fine."

Con clearly didn't believe me, but he let it drop. Maybe it was a guy thing to hide the extent of your injuries. Brandon sure did. He came home from school once with his knee half scraped off, didn't go to sickbay or anything, just put up with it like a little Aussie battler.

"So what do we do now – go home?" Jack asked.

"And why would we do that?" Con snapped.

"Uh, Skel?"

"The Skel are back where we left 'em. We'll hit another suburb and get back to work. We have a quota to meet."

"Party pooper," Jack muttered.

"Excuse me?"

Jack acted all innocent-like. "I didn't say anything."

"I heard somethin.'"

"Just clearing me throat."

"Well, keep it to yourself next time."

Con drove west for another twenty minutes, putting as much distance between the Skel and us as he could without crossing into the foraging area of the western suburbs' teams. He eventually settled for a picturesque street with a median strip and opposing nature strips overgrown by native gum trees.

I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to stop myself crying out when I climbed out of the truck; such was the pain in my leg. I massaged it gently, trying to restore some flexibility.

We couldn't cut down any more downpipes, thanks to leaving our tools behind, so Con sent us searching houses and backyards for hard plastic chairs, tables and stools.

"You two do that side of the road, we'll do this one," Con said as we climbed from the truck. He handed us a couple of machetes from the toolbox. "Think you'll need these for this street."

Searching every darkened window and shadow with echolocation for hidden Skel, I followed Ryan down the first driveway. He bashed down a rickety wooden gate, and we entered a backyard buried in waist-high wild grass and even taller blackberry bushes. We used the machetes to hack a path through the vegetation to get to the back of the house. There we spotted a pile of plastic garden chairs stacked haphazardly on the patio beside a matching table with two broken legs.

I kept glancing at him, hoping he'd talk to me, hoping he'd saying anything, but he remained as mute as a fish. I tried to respect his unspoken request to refrain from talking, but the silence ate away at me until I couldn't take it any longer.

"You okay?" I finally asked. I was trying to separate a pile of plastic chairs so I could carry them in several loads. I didn't get very far, though. I tried to push and pull the chairs apart, but it felt like someone was plunging knives through my torso.

"I..." Ryan snapped off a table leg but didn't look at me.

"Yes?"

"I didn't want this stupid job. Scavenging for junk, close encounters with Skel, jerks like your teammates." He flung the table away from him. It hit the other stack of chairs, snapping off legs and sending up a cloud of dust. I could feel the anger radiating from him.

I took a step back. "Then why–"

"It's the only job I could get!" He still wouldn't look at me. I recalled what he said earlier, that he'd left the automotive factory for personal reasons, that he didn't get the sack. I wondered if he was honest, though. If he had been given the flick and word of his sacking spread to the other factories, that could explain why no one would employ him. And everyone knew that foraging was considered the dregs when it came to career choices, due to its inherent risks.

I was about to ask him something else, but he held up his hands, stalling me. "Just back off and give me some space. Like I told you before, I prefer working alone."

Hurt, I did as he asked. For a moment I entertained the idea that his personal issues were the only ones bothering him, but then I recalled the doubt in his eyes after I saved him from the crossbow bolts. No, something else was bugging him.

I wish this day would hurry up and end!

And then I remembered my father's plan to marry me off as soon as possible. Then I wished the day would never end. Pregnant, barefoot, and in the kitchen at eighteen, and married to some git I'd never met before, was not the future I'd signed up for. There had to be another way.

Sadly, the day did come to an end, and we drove back to Newhome. As soon as we got back to the Recycling Works, we knew something was wrong. A Custodian G-Wagon was parked ominously outside the office doors. The mere sight of it caused Con, Matt and Jack to fidget nervously and exchange worried glances.

Con backed the truck up to the warehouse, and we jumped out. Well, they jumped out, and I climbed out like an old woman, holding my breath and biting my tongue to keep from crying out.

"Hill, Jack, unload the truck," he barked. "Matt, see if you can find out why they're here. Report the Skel attack while you're at it."

Jack and Matt bounded off like dutiful hounds obeying their master. Ryan trudged after them with a scowl marring his tanned face.

Once they were out of earshot, Con grabbed me by the collar and pulled me behind the truck, where we were out of sight of the office. He stuck his face in mine.

"What were you doing, you stupid little idiot?" he whispered harshly.

"What?" I so wished he wouldn't invade my personal space like that.

"We had a perfect, justifiable opportunity to leave that stinking informer behind and get him out of our hair, and you blew it!"

"I don't know about you, Con, but I want to be able to look myself in the mirror when I get home tonight," I replied.

"What the blazes are you blabbing about? Do I have to remind you what happens if they find out what we're doing out there? Hello – the death penalty sound familiar?"

I faked a cough to hide my stunned reaction as my mind span in circles trying to work out what he was talking about. What were they doing in the ruins that warranted the death penalty should it be discovered? Whatever it was, my brother was obviously up to his eyeballs in it. A pang of worry wormed its way through me – what had Brandon gotten himself into? I knew he wasn't a poster boy for the Founders' ideal society, but I couldn't see him doing something illegal. Well, not _that_ illegal.

"Well?" Con hissed.

"Ryan's not an informer," I said.

"And you know this how?"

"'Cause I figured informers would pump you for information, and Ryan's spent the whole day telling me to rack off because he prefers to work alone."

The sound of approaching footsteps ended the conversation. Con looked around, startled, eyes wide in fright. I knew it was Matt, but I copied Con's reaction to hide my advanced hearing.

Matt walked around the truck. "There you are."

"Find out something?" Con demanded gruffly.

"Custodians are up there with the boss and the eastern suburbs metals foraging team," he replied.

"And?"

"Jones is gone."

"Gone? Gone where – home, to the toilet, to the afterlife?" Con snapped.

"Gone as in disappeared while foraging. One minute he was with them, the next he wasn't. They searched high and low, but nada," Matt said.

"What do they think happened?" I asked, concerned.

"They've got no idea. They were in the middle of debating whether it could have been Skel or him going AWOL when they saw me. When they asked why I was loitering there, I told them of the Skel attack on us today. Now they're thinking Skel must have grabbed Jones in a revenge attack."

Con relaxed visibly. "So they're not here for us. Man, that's a relief."

More riddles. What were these guys up to? I wish my brother still confided in me like he used to. Since he met these guys, he closed up like a clam.

The office doors opened, and five grim-faced Custodians tramped down the steps with an apologetic Trajan Barclay on their heels.

"Time to be somewhere else," Con said hurriedly. He and Matt immediately rushed off to help the other two unload the truck.

The Custodian sergeant, a tall, ugly man with a pockmarked face, caught sight of me and paused. Panicking, I put my head down, my pulse soaring. In my mind, I saw him stride across the yard and bail me up, having seen right through my disguise.

The sound of an engine roaring to life snapped me out of my fearful reverie. I looked up in time to see the G-Wagon speed out of the yard. The tension fled out of me, and I gasped for breath. I hadn't realised I'd been holding it.

I turned to hurry off after my companions but paused when the boss called out to me.

"Brandon, wait up." Trajan Barclay hurried over to me, his face still pale after the grilling he'd no doubt received from the Custodians.

Seemed I wasn't out of the danger zone yet. "Yes, Sir?"

"Hear you raised the alarm today and saved your team," he said when he reached me.

Figuring he may recognise I wasn't Brandon if I met his gaze, I kept my head down and pretended to watch my foot as I drew lines in the dirt with my sneaker. "Just did what I could, Sir."

"Just don't go doing a Jones on me, okay? I warned him not to fight them, that he'd just got lucky, but he wouldn't listen. You encounter Skel, Brandon, you run. You got me?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm down two foragers in a week. First Dan Smith's crushed to death by a collapsing wall, now Ethan Jones has vanished, probably thanks to Skel. I don't want to be down a third. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I got you, Sir."

"Good. Carry on, then."

The boss walked back to the office, but I remained there, rooted to the spot. Dan Smith was killed when a wall fell on him? What a terrible way to go. A shudder wracked my frame. No wonder no one wanted to be a forager.

With a flash of revelation, I realised Dan's death must be the reason Brandon ran away from home and work. He probably saw it happen, in all its horror, and it must have shaken him up something chronic. Maybe he was afraid it could happen to him and couldn't face going back to work because of it.

Another, more insidious thought snaked its way past my mental defences, causing the blood to drain from my face. What if Dan died because one of the others made a careless mistake? What if it had been Brandon? If so, that would explain everything.

I wished I knew the truth and where my brother was. Letting out a long sigh, I joined the others in unloading the truck.

# Chapter Ten

I dragged my feet all the way home, every step a nail in the coffin of the doomed attempt to escape this horrid town. Ever-lengthening, oppressive shadows from ten-storey apartment blocks cast the streets into gloom, adding to my miserable frame of mind.

I wondered if I could ask my father to delay his plans to marry me off. I doubted I would consider trying to escape if I had a husband, even if it was a prearranged. I wondered if Brandon might come home today. If he did, and he gave Father money for his room and board, maybe that would make him back off his plans. I was not something to be disposed of like a commodity as my Father saw fit.

In spite of delaying my arrival home as long as I could, I was soon confronted by our front door. It was dinted and scratched, the brown paint flaking off to reveal the original blue colour beneath. I strained my ears, trying to ascertain if my mother and sister were in the kitchen, but I couldn't hear anything.

I considered going for another walk and coming back later, but then I'd arrive after Father got back, and that was a confrontation I wanted to avoid.

Sucking in a deep breath, I opened the door and slipped quietly into the lounge-room, which was lost in semi-darkness as the lights were off.

"Brandon?" Mother asked. She sprang off the sofa like a jack-in-the-box and flicked on the light. What was she doing, sitting in the gloom like that?

"No, it's...me." My voice wavered as I spoke. So much for hoping I could sneak in without being seen.

"Where the dickens have you been all day – and what are you doing dressed like that! Are you bereft of your senses? Running around without a chaperone, and dressed like a boy what's more! Did you stop and think what effect your disappearance would have on me? Your sister and I searched everywhere we could think of, trying to find where you'd gone. I even considered reporting your disappearance to the Custodians, only refraining from doing so because of our history with them. You had me so worried I haven't been able to eat, not to mention causing this terrible headache!" She stomped over to me, features contorted in a barely controlled fury.

I contemplated telling her the truth, for about a millisecond but decided to go for safe instead. "I was looking for Brandon."

"Dressed like that? Oh, of all the stupid things to go and do! What if you'd been caught? Did you think of that? They'd have brought you before the magistrate, and he would have thrown you into prison for what, three years? Eldest Daughter, did you stop and think about the effect that would have had on our reputation? You would have disgraced our family name! The neighbours would have spoken behind our backs, and the stallholders would have treated me like a leper. It would have destroyed your chance at marriage, and damaged your sister's prospects for a reputable husband! How could I look anyone in the eye if she had to marry someone below her station because you were in prison! I know you can be foolish, but this – this takes the cake!"

"So it all comes down to how my dishonour could have affected you?" I know I should've gone for the olive branch, but I'd had enough of her selfishness.

"Excuse me?" She was quivering with rage. Major warning sign to back off. I ignored it.

"Did it even occur to you that I could have been in trouble? Or were you too wrapped up worrying about how my disappearance could affect you personally?"

"How dare you! You know how distressing it's been for me this past week with your brother running away and skipping work. How could you add to my woes by doing the same, not to mention flaunting the law and our customs without a second thought! Everyone will think I did a lousy job in raising you!"

The kitchen door opened and my sister came out, wondering what all the shouting was about. She took one look at me, and her mouth dropped open. For once in her life, she was speechless. Maybe this day hadn't been a complete waste after all.

Mother suddenly grabbed me and forced me towards the bedroom. "Get out of those clothes and clean yourself up – you're filthy! What have you been doing, rolling in the dirt? And hurry up about it, your father's due home any minute. Last thing I need is him badgering me for letting you carry on like this."

"Mother, why is she dressed like that? Where's she been all day?" Karen demanded as I did my absolute best not to limp as I brushed past her.

Not wanting to hear Mother's answer, I disappeared into my bedroom and closed the door. Of course, with my hearing, that made no difference. I still heard every disparaging word she said to my sister as she launched into an attack on my character.

I looked at our bedroom and exhaled, depressed. I was supposed to be halfway to the country by now, not back in this house, this room, this prison.

Getting Brandon's clothes off turned into an exercise in pain. Every extension of my arm, each twist of my torso, sent waves of agony searing through my stomach and back. When I finally stripped off the tank top, my hands flew to my mouth in shock. An ugly black and blue bruise dominated the right side of my stomach, and the one on my back looked even worse. I wriggled out of the jeans and examined my left thigh. It was marred by a large yellow and purple bruise.

I unwound the cloth that bound my breasts flat, put on a bra, and was struggling to slip a camisole over my shoulders when the door burst open, and Karen charged in.

She saw the bruises and her mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water.

"Please, don't tell her," I pleaded.

"Mother!" she called at the top of her voice.

"Oh, thank you very much." I gave her my best death stare and tugged the camisole down to my hips, a cry of pain escaping my lips.

Mother rushed into the room. "What?"

"She's got these massive black bruises on her back and stomach. And look, there's one on her leg too!" Karen tripped over her words in her haste to get the words out.

"Show me!" Mother demanded.

Having no interest in receiving another grilling, I grabbed my beige dress and pulled it on, face contorted in pain at the effort.

"I said show–" Mother began, but stopped when we heard the front door open. "Oh great, your father's home. Quickly, wash your hands, face, and put up your hair. We'll come back to this later, young lady."

I bit the insides of my cheeks as I pulled out the scrunchie. I tried to twist my hair into a bun, but lifting my hands was agony, so I abandoned the attempt.

"Can you?" I asked Karen.

"Tell me what happened."

"I...I can't."

"Did someone attack you?" She came closer.

I had to give her some kind of answer, it seemed. "I tripped and fell on some rocks, that's all. Now please, my hair?"

"You think I'm stupid, Elder Sister?"

"What?"

"You fell on rocks that bruised your stomach, back and leg at the same time?"

"Not at the same time–"

"Why don't you ever trust me?" She crossed her arms and glared at me.

"I do." And I did. I trusted her to go and blab everything I told her to Mother.

"No, you don't. You've never let me into your world, you or Brandon, with your private jokes and ability to read each other's lips."

We couldn't read lips, we just whispered below everyone else's hearing range.

"Younger Sister, we don't have time for this now. Father's home."

"How convenient."

"Please – my hair?"

She relented and twirled my hair around and into a neat bun with nimble fingers. That done, I rushed towards the bathroom.

But then I froze, puzzled. I could hear Father talking to someone in the lounge-room. Which was weird, because Mother was in the kitchen, preparing his dinner.

"Mother, who is Father talking to?" I asked.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped. I'd forgotten she couldn't hear him. "Hurry and get your face washed, for goodness sake!"

I heard the phone clink back into its cradle as I popped into the bathroom, and my bewilderment magnified tenfold. Did father talk to someone on the phone? He never did that. Not ever.

Shaking my head, I thoroughly washed my face and hands. Going to the kitchen, Mother gave me a plate of roast veggies to serve Father.

However, when I entered the lounge-dining room, I almost dropped the plate in shock. Father was limping across the room, grimacing with each step. He also laboured to breathe, and his face was pale and pinched. In fact, he looked just like I felt if you were to magnify it by a factor of ten.

But that wasn't what nearly caused me to drop his dinner. It was his eyes – they were vacant, lifeless, as though someone had sucked out his very soul and left nothing but an empty shell behind.

"What's wrong, Father? You don't look well." I asked, concerned.

He didn't reply, just kept giving me that blank stare.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on."

He looked at me, and I saw a momentary flicker of life, but then I heard the unmistakable sound of several pairs of boots tramping down the walkway outside, heading in our direction. Custodians – a whole squad of them. _Please tell me they're not coming here_ , I begged.

As if in response to my plea, they stopped directly outside our door. There was a loud thumping. Custodians never simply knocked.

Mother rushed into the lounge-dining room. "Is that our door?"

I didn't move, just kept looking at Father. Were the Custodians here for me? Or was it something to do with him?

"Oh, shall I get it?" Mother asked as she marched impatiently to the door and swung it open. Upon seeing five Custodians in full armour, she fell back in alarm.

I jolted when I saw that the leader was the tall, pockmarked sergeant I saw at the Recycling Works this afternoon. His pitiless eyes swept the room and paused on me.

The dinner plate slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. Father's roast veggies went flying in all directions

They were here for me.

# Chapter Eleven

To my surprise and heartfelt relief, the Custodian turned his piercing gaze to my mother. "My name is Sergeant King. I have a search warrant for these premises."

"To search for what?" Father asked, suddenly coming to life as he rose stiffly from his chair.

"We have received an anonymous tipoff that there is contraband on these premises." The sergeant and his men stormed into the apartment. So they weren't here for me. But for what, then? The contraband books Brandon occasionally brought back with him from the ruins? If so, they were wasting their time because he never kept them here for long. He wasn't that dumb. So what were they searching for? And who dobbed us into the Custodians anyway?

The sergeant remained near the door while his four men spread out. One attacked the buffet-and-hutch, pulling out all the plates, saucers and cups, and none too gently. Wringing her hands together, Mother stepped hesitantly towards him as one, then two more of her precious plates cracked or shattered.

One Custodian went to the television cabinet. He yanked out the drawers, tipped them upside down, and searched the DVDs. The other two Custodians went to the sofa. They pulled off the cushions, unzipped the covers, and flung them aside when they didn't find anything incriminating.

Having ascertained that no contraband was in the lounge-dining room, one went to the kitchen, another to the bathroom, and the other two to the bedrooms. I followed them at a distance, my hands shaking; scarcely able to comprehend this was happening. The Custodians proceeded to tear those rooms apart with ruthless dedication. Cupboards and drawers were opened and their contents scattered on the floor, clothes were removed and pockets checked, books were examined, and finally, the beds as well. Pillows and doonas were pulled from covers, sheets were stripped off mattresses, and the mattresses themselves tipped off the beds. It was fortunate I removed the note I hid there this morning. That would have been hard to explain.

"Got something, Sir!" shouted the Custodian who had just tipped over Father's mattress.

Sergeant King stormed into the men's bedroom.

"If you wouldn't mind stepping in here, Mr. Thomas?" he bellowed.

My father limped into the room. I followed a step behind, and my hands flew to my mouth when I saw the plastic packet with a dozen white pills nestled between two of the wooden slats of the bed. Drugs.

"Who sleeps here?" the sergeant demanded.

"I do," Father admitted softly.

"And there?" the sergeant pointed to Brandon's bed, although I couldn't see any contraband there.

"My son – but he's got nothing to do with it. The pills are mine."

"Isn't your son Brandon a forager?"

"Yes, but what of it?" Father became even more animated. "The pills are mine."

"Where did you get them?"

"I...I didn't see his face. It was dark, and over quickly. I haven't been coping very well lately. The pills help."

I gaped at him, along with my mother and sister. My father was taking drugs?

I knew he'd been struggling since the accident and that he came home from prison a broken man, a shadow of whom he was before, even though he had been exonerated. It pained me to see him like that, but I guess I didn't realise just how low he was feeling. For that, I felt guilty. I had – we had – let him down.

But surely there were other ways of dealing with his condition than taking drugs! He could have opened up to us, to Brandon and me if not Mother. We would have spared no effort to help him get back on his feet. Doctors also offered medications, and there were psychologists and counsellors trained to help people like that. He probably would not have had to pay for it either, considering he'd been a victim throughout the whole affair.

On the other hand, I couldn't quite believe it. I had never seen Father 'high' on drugs, nor desperate to get a fix. The only question mark was the nights he came home late. He could have taken the drugs then and we would not have been any the wiser.

"Malcolm Thomas, you are under arrest on the charge of possessing contraband Elatyon drugs and will accompany us to Custodian Headquarters," the sergeant said. He clipped handcuffs on my father as he spoke.

My father nodded and limped after the sergeant, the other Custodians filing out behind him.

"What happens now?" I said when they got the door. I knew the penalty for smuggling drugs into town or supplying them was the death sentence. I wasn't so sure when it came to individual usage.

"He will be brought before the magistrate tomorrow," Sergeant King said, barely pausing in his long-legged stride.

With that, they were gone, leaving my mother, sister and me standing in the midst of a flat torn to pieces. We were stunned into immobility by the revelation that our lives had just been destroyed with even greater finality than the flat.

"Now what do we do?" Karen asked. She sat wild-eyed amidst the crockery, napkins and tablecloths the Custodians had strewn all over the floor. "If Father goes to prison and Brandon doesn't go back to work, who's going to provide for us? Where will we get money for food, water and electricity?"

Tragically, Karen had a point, thanks to the Founders' absurd ruling that women were not permitted to work.

"He's been taking drugs?" Mother said, finally finding her voice. "The fool's been wasting all his money – the money we needed for food and necessities – so he could get high instead of facing his problems? How could he be so selfish? Couldn't he see what he was putting me through these past months? Going to market at closing time to buy the dregs left over at closeout prices, buying food past its expiry date? And still barely having enough money to do even that!"

"That's a little harsh, Mother. He's been through a meat grinder lately,–" I began.

"Harsh? I'll tell you harsh. It's getting criticised by him day after day for serving 'slops' for dinner because I had no money to buy anything better, when all along he spent that money on drugs! It's hearing other mothers mocking me under their breath because they see me turn up to market when the stallholders have started packing up. It's–"

"This isn't all about you, Mother!" I snapped.

"Then who is it about – that loser I've put up with for twenty years?"

"If you'd actually given him some emotional support instead of criticising everything he ever did, maybe he wouldn't have stooped so low that he thought drugs were the only way out!"

"Don't try to put that on me, Daughter. Look around you. This is all his doing. And you think I let him down?"

"We all failed him, Mother. None of us helped him when he got out of prison."

"Rubbish. He chose to react like that, getting drunk, moping around the house – taking drugs! He could have snapped out of it and pulled himself together at any moment. He just chose not to."

There was a knock at the open door followed by a man clearing his throat. Putting our argument on hold, we were surprised to see the building supervisor hovering in the doorway.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked. He was a short, stick-thin man with greying hair. He was looking around the room with his mouth open in dismay. He expected his tenants to keep their properties in better condition.

"Sorry, Mr. Hinchcliffe. My husband is not home at the moment," Mother said warily.

"I know. I just witnessed Custodians whisking him away in handcuffs." He stared at my mother in disdain. "Which brings me to a most unfortunate topic, one I've been putting off. But considering this scandal, I now have no choice but to inform you that unless you pay your outstanding rent in full, I will have you evicted from this flat within twenty-four hours." In witnessing our horrified expressions, the supervisor looked most pleased with himself. He was enjoying this.

"What outstanding rent?" Mother asked.

"The eight weeks back rent you owe."

"Eight weeks? But how is that possible – hasn't my husband been paying you?" She reached out a hand to the dining room table to steady herself.

"Obviously not. Now, if you don't mind, I will be on my way. Remember, twenty-four hours." The arrogant little man turned to leave.

"Mr. Hinchcliffe, you can't give us twenty-four hours notice. You have to give us three warnings!" Mother said as she hurried towards the door, her countenance framed with determination and building rage.

"I already gave three warnings to Malcolm. Didn't he tell you?" The supervisor said.

Mother looked at me, dumbfounded. I could read her mind. First drugs, now this? What had Father been doing?

"How much do we have to pay to avoid eviction?" I asked before he could get away.

"Sixteen-hundred-and-twenty, but as I'm not an unreasonable man, a thousand-and-eighty will give you another month's grace. You have twenty-four hours." That said, he strutted down the walkway like the chicken that ruled the roost.

"This just keeps getting better and better! What else has that man hidden from us?" Mother righted an upturned dining chair and sat heavily upon it – I'd never seen her so weary.

"What's going on?" Karen asked. I'm not sure she understood everything the supervisor said. She was too shocked by the virtual destruction of our flat and belongings.

"Do we have any money, stashed away somewhere, for emergencies like this?" I asked hesitantly.

"Your Father already used it."

"What happens if we get evicted? Where can we go?" I asked.

"Nowhere!" I could hear her heart rate accelerate. She was beginning to panic. "Grandfather passed away, Grandmother's in the home with Alzheimer's, and Nanna lives in a one bedroom flat with her sister. Not to mention she hasn't spoken to us for a decade." And we had no friends thanks to Father's gradual withdrawal from the world and Mother's acerbic tongue.

Pushing herself off the chair, she grabbed me by the shoulders. "Eldest Daughter, the time for misplaced loyalties is over. Stop covering for your brother and tell me where he is. You saw him today, didn't you, when you went out looking for him? I'm sure he has enough to cover this debt."

"I have no idea where he is."

"I don't believe you."

"Seriously, I don't." Which was the truth. He gave me no indication of where he was going when he walked out on us last Thursday.

"Oh, this is ridiculous! He must be staying with one of his friends. You know, those four simpletons who pop in here to see him from time to time. What are their names?"

"Con, Jack, Matt and Dan," Karen said. She had a slightly dreamy look on her face when she mentioned Jack. She liked him, which was a pathetically pointless exercise since we had no input on who we would marry.

"He's not with them–" I began.

"And how would you know?" Mother barked.

"Because I spoke with them today. Well, not Dan. He passed away last week. In an accident."

"What? How's that possible? I thought you went looking for Brandon today?"

"Actually, no," I said quietly.

"Then where did you go?"

I held up my hand. "I, ah..."

"Answer me!" She took a step towards me.

I searched her face, seeing brown eyes the mirror image of my own. I saw her desperation as she frantically tried to hold herself and her world together, a world that was rapidly slipping through her fingers. Karen, meanwhile, looked both bewildered and alarmed. More vulnerable than I had seen her before.

At that moment, I realised that in spite of how badly they treated me, I didn't want to see them suffering like this. They were my family. And if we got evicted tomorrow, what they were going through now would seem a picnic compared to how they would feel then.

There was a way I could help them, although it was the last thing I wanted to do. I could continue impersonating my brother and go back to the Recycling Works. Not just tomorrow to get paid and buy seeds so I could try to escape again, but for as long as was necessary so I could provide for my mother and sister.

That meant I would continue risking discovery masquerading as my brother, cop more of Con's destructive, condescending attitude, and risk bumping into more Skel. There was one plus – I'd get to see Ryan again. However, that might not be such a good thing, considering the way he reacted when I saved his life and his desire to be left alone.

"Come on, answer me! Where were you today?" Mother asked again.

"I impersonated Brandon and went to work as a forager. That's why I know his friends don't know where he is. They thought I was him and were angry I hadn't been to work since last Thursday."

"You did what? Have you lost your mind?" My mother's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

"Tomorrow's payday, Mother. If I masquerade as Brandon again tomorrow, I'll bring back a week's wages – from the days he worked last week, plus the day's I've worked. That may get the supervisor off our backs."

"Daughter, that's a man's world out there! You could be injured, killed, caught by Skel, and who knows what else! There's no way I would let you do that. I can scarcely believe that you did it today and got away with it!"

From there we argued back and forth for an hour. I kept pointing out that we had no other choice, with Father going to prison and Brandon missing. Mother kept bringing up the same points over and over again. The dangers to my person, dangers of being caught, and how that would disgrace the family – or rather, her.

Finally, I laid my hand on her arm. "Mother, if I'm caught and have to go to prison, it's a price I'm willing to pay if it means we can keep the flat and have food on the table in the meantime. And what is the point of keeping our honour intact if we are starving?"

At that, she finally relented, though begrudgingly. To be honest, I think she gave up because she had no energy left to argue

"Right, then, we need to tidy up the flat," I said.

# Chapter Twelve

In a whirlwind of activity that helped keep our minds off our woes, we cleaned up much of the mess. We were in the kitchen, washing and drying all the pots, pans and plates, and putting them back in the cupboards when there was another knock at the door.

"Oh for goodness sake, who is it now?" Mother exclaimed. A glance at the clock revealed it was nearly seven. Two more hours until curfew. That was another aspect of the Founders' vision. Everyone had to be home by nine o'clock to maintain public order and reduce crime, which according to the Founders, tended to be more prevalent at night.

"More Custodians?" Karen asked, wide-eyed.

"I don't think so," I replied. I had not heard any boots tramping down the walkway outside.

I hurried to the door and opened it a crack, and almost did a double take when I saw Jack's smiling face. Matt was behind him, looking over his shoulder, while Con leaned back against the railing.

"Ah, hi Chelsea, how are you?" Jack asked, blushing. He looked at my birthmark but quickly returned his gaze to my face.

"I'm good, thanks." I forced myself to smile. It took a conscious effort to use my normal voice and not speak an octave lower like I had today.

"That's great. Hey, is Brandon in?"

"Sorry, he's not feeling well," I said, thinking that would get rid of them.

Con pushed off the railing. "Tell that wuss to get his butt out here on the double, or we're coming in to get him."

"Don't speak like that around Chelsea!" Jack hissed behind the back of his hand.

Con stared daggers at him.

"We're throwing a celebration in Brandon's honour tonight, so it ain't gonna work if he's not there," Matt said.

"Celebration in his honour?" I asked.

"You know, since he saved us from the Skel today," Jack said, beaming. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Brandon saved you from Skel?" I acted suitably surprised.

Jack filled me in on their miraculous escape from the Skel, embellishing it in the process. I had to suppress a laugh, for his rendition had me overcoming the Skel with scarcely believable combat skills.

Con pushed Matt and Jack aside. "You sending him out or are we coming in? We're wasting precious time, curfew's only a couple of hours away, and we've got a lot of drinking to get done before then."

There was no way I could let them in, so I lifted a hand to stall his approach. "I'll go get him."

I closed the door and headed for the bedroom. Seemed I would be donning my Brandon persona sooner than planned.

Mother caught me halfway across the room. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I have to go with them. As Brandon. Otherwise, they'll find out, and I won't be able to go to work tomorrow."

"I don't like this, not one little bit," she growled.

"I'll be careful. Can you please help me change?"

"If you want to break the law, don't expect me to–"

"Come on; I'll help," Karen said.

I didn't see that coming.

* * *

"Come on, little buddy. This is your night, so live it up!" Jack beamed. He opened the door to the Forager's Club and gestured me inside. Even Con and Matt deferred to me. I was way out of my depth, and I knew it, but it was too late to back out now. The charade had to continue for my family's sake.

The club was nothing like I expected after hearing my brother's stories about what went on here. I'd always envisioned a brightly lit room with neat rows of tables and benches with the foragers sitting and occasionally chatting politely with each other.

The reality was a large, poorly lit room with dark grey walls, black ceiling, and white-flecked black marble floor. Black netting hung from the ceiling and all sorts of memorabilia from pre-Apocalypse days adorned the walls, brought in from the ruins. Wooden wagon wheels, rusted and pristine hubcaps, shredded tyres, exhaust pipes, engine blocks, defunct computers and plasma-screen TVs, and on it went. Entertainment was three pool tables, a selection of painstakingly restored pinball machines, and of course, a bar at the back.

Round, knotted wooden tables were spaced haphazardly around the room. These were frequented by rowdy men of all ages who laughed raucously while engaging in animated conversations. Without exception, every forager present, which had to be just about all of them, had a stubbie – a glass beer bottle – in his hand.

An old jukebox in the centre of the room pumped out songs from the late twentieth century – those with lyrics approved by the Custodians, of course. Songs that promoted sex, drugs or seditious messages were banned.

I was impressed and mightily jealous. All the men in Newhome frequented clubs like this pretty much every evening after work, while we women had to sit at home twiddling our thumbs, doing cross-stitch, or watching TV. This so wasn't fair. All the same, even with these freedoms, the men were still just as trapped here as the women were at home.

I glanced about quickly to see if Ryan was here, but couldn't locate him. That was no surprise, considering he preferred to be alone.

Jack moved to put his arm around my back, intending to shepherd me towards an empty table.

"No touchy! Sore back! Had a tussle with Skel today, remember?" I blocked his arm and stepped forward. If he put his arm around me, there was no way he'd miss my narrow waist hidden beneath my brother's baggy windcheater.

Con grabbed my shoulder. "Thought it was only your leg that got hurt?"

Didn't that guy miss a thing? "Okay, so I downplayed my injuries a bit."

"It's 'injuries' now?" He stuck his chubby face closer.

"Seriously, Con, you need to chill out. I got a couple of bruises, that's it. And before you say more, yes, I had them checked out. No broken bones." And that was true, after a fashion because Karen applied a herbal balm on the bruises when she helped me don my Brandon disguise earlier.

"Come on, Con, what's with the third degree? He's fine." Jack pulled Con's hand from my shoulder.

Con complied with a scowl, but couldn't resist leaving one last barb. "Next time you get hurt, you tell it like it is. You may be a pain in the neck, but you're one of my team. My responsibility. Got it?"

"Got it."

"I think that's Con's way of saying he cares about you, but don't quote me on it," Jack whispered just loud enough for us all to hear. Con rose his eyebrows.

"First round's on me," Matt said when we got to a table. He disappeared towards the bar and returned with five chilled stubbies. Officially, I'd never had beer before, but Brandon had slipped the occasional bottle to me when no one was looking, which was lucky. If I didn't drink tonight or couldn't hold my liquor, they'd ask too many questions.

All the same, the other three went through several stubbies each in the time I consumed just the one. Fortunately, they were too busy yabbering and laughing to notice. Many other foragers dropped by our table and congratulated me for owning that Skel today. I played along as though I knew them, and no one caught on.

My friends were tipsy or well on the path to getting drunk when Con suddenly straightened up. "Here's trouble," he said.

We looked over to the door and saw four neatly dressed men enter the club and check it out.

"What the blazes are they doing here?" Matt snarled.

"Who are they?" I asked.

"The tall, bald one is Richardson; he's the supervisor of one of the appliance manufactories."

The men split up, approached four different tables, and started chatting up foragers. Something was up, though, for they spoke furtively, often glancing towards the door.

Our table was the second one Richardson visited. He was probably around fifty, like my father, though the ageing process had been kinder to him except for the lack of hair.

Three foragers followed him over and gathered around our table. One looked thoughtful, the other two sceptical.

"Hiya, lads. Like what you've done with the place," Richardson said. He was all smiles and sunshine, as though he was our life-long best friend.

"This ain't the Workers Club, Richardson." Con spoke without warmth or welcome, though he nodded amicably at the foragers who came with the newcomer. "Gerry, Anton, Bird." They nodded in reply.

"Nice to see you again too, Dimitriou." Richardson laughed, a little too forced.

"Why are you here?" Con asked.

"I need a reason to be?"

"This is the Forager's Club."

"Good point." Richardson laughed again, and then leaned closer, suddenly serious. "Look, Dimitriou, lads, the reason my friends and I are here is to let you know that a group of us are coordinating a stop-work protest next Wednesday to demand certain concessions from the Chancellor and councillors–"

"What group?" Matt asked.

"A group of concerned citizens like us. Primarily from the manufacturies, but we're reaching out to other groups, like you lot tonight."

"What concessions?" Con demanded gruffly.

"I'm glad you asked. For starters, we want all citizens to have access to the privileges enjoyed by the residents of North End. This includes the option to apply for jobs there; our apartments renovated to the same standard, a cinema and more playgrounds for the children, a public swimming pool, access to North End shops, and the curfew lifted. Oh, and for weapons permits for foragers when they're out in the ruins."

Hearing Richardson talking about taking action to set us free from our society's oppressive constraints caused hope to spring up within me. If Newhome were to change into a better place, there'd be no reason for me to escape.

"Like that last point," Jack said, his eyes sparkling. I didn't need to be a mind reader to know what he was imagining right now. Him, with a gun, blowing away Skel.

"You're going overboard if you think they'll make that many concessions at the same time – especially concessions regarding North End. You should begin with just one or two minor requests and if they grant those, go for more later," Matt said.

"The way we see it, if we demand only a couple of things, they'll ignore us. If we demand the world, they'll try to meet us half-way and grant some concessions," Richardson said.

"What about women's rights?" I asked.

"What?" He appeared completely stumped.

"You know, equality for women and girls. Surely that's a bigger issue than the ones you've mentioned so far. You should request the right for girls to attend school, to apply for jobs alongside men, to walk freely about town without a chaperone, to be able to frequent restaurants."

All the foragers at the table, my teammates included, looked at me with their mouths wide open.

"Where's this coming from?" Matt whispered to Jack.

"No idea. You ever heard Brandon talk like this before?" Jack asked.

"Never."

"Me neither."

"What's happened to him?" Matt seemed most perplexed.

"No idea, man."

"Young man – sorry, I didn't catch your name?" Richard said.

"Brandon."

"Thank you. Well Brandon, let me say that that we need people like you. People who are thinkers, people that question the status quo rather than following it blindly like sheep. Why don't you join our stop-work protest, and bring as many of your foraging friends as you can. If the Chancellor and councillors see men from all walks of life united in solidarity as we make our demands, they will have no choice but to listen."

"Does this mean you'll add women's rights to your list of demands?" I asked. He didn't respond to my suggestions, just skirted around them.

"The agenda for the stop-work protest has already been tabled, and as I'm sure you can see, the concessions we will demand are crucial for the wellbeing of all."

"Really? Concessions to apply for jobs in North End, cinemas, a public swimming pool, and removal of the curfew. Only men will benefit from those," I said.

"Knock it off, Brandon," Con said.

"Knock off what?" I snapped.

"You want women to compete with men in applying for jobs?" A look of smug superiority dominated his corpulent features.

"You think they can't do it?"

"Come on, Brandon. Can you see either of your sisters owning a Skel like you did today?"

I clenched my fists and fought back the urge to scream. If they only knew. "Karen, no. Chelsea, most definitely."

"Chelsea? That feminine, delicate thing couldn't hurt a fly," Con said.

"Actually, I'm with Brandon," Jack said. "From what he's told me about Chelsea, I reckon she'd excel at anything she put her hand to, even foraging. And if she can do it, so can other women. Besides, we've all see the books, magazines, and DVDs out in the ruins. Before the Apocalypse, women worked alongside men in every type of profession. Factory work, office jobs, the police force, even the army. There was no male/female segregation like we have."

Brandon told his friends about me? Without bagging me? And Jack believed I could do anything they could do? I felt my heart warming towards him.

"Be careful, guys, you're spreading subversive ideas and corrupting our innocent young minds." The forager Gerry said between laughs. He was a solidly built guy around my height, with a pale face dominated by freckles.

Jack stuck out his wrists. "Arrest me now, officer."

That brought a round of laughter.

"If I may interrupt and ask that we get back to the reason I'm here. Can we count on you foragers and your families to support the stop-work protest?" Richardson said. He frowned at me for derailing his attempt to get us on side.

"Actually, let's backtrack a bit," Matt said. He stared at me intently, but not critically as Con had. "Brandon, you mentioned you'd like to remove the requirement for young women to be chaperoned."

"That's right."

"I understand you're looking for equality for women. But aren't you concerned about what will happen if young women are permitted to wander around the town, dine at restaurants, and attend clubs, without a chaperone?"

"No, why would I be?" I had an inkling of where he was going with this, but I wanted to hear him say it.

"Well, not that it worries me none, if you get my meaning, but think of what could happen when a town full of men suddenly find themselves confronted with temptations they've never had to deal with before. We could see a dramatic increase in sexual immorality and even instances of rape."

"Wow, Matt, if men are that incapable of controlling their sexual urges, I think they're the ones who need to be chaperoned, not the women," I replied. I was flabbergasted to hear him put the onus of men's bad behaviour back onto the women.

"Well said, Brandon. Maybe our society's got it backwards," Jack said, nodding thoughtfully. He turned to Matt. "Do you truly think all men are so woefully pathetic they can't control their sexual urges?"

"Some of them–"

"Including you?" Jack winked at me as he asked the question.

"No!" Matt rocked back in his chair, as though mortally offended.

"My friends, please–" Richardson said. If he was frustrated before, he looked downright annoyed now.

Con held up his hands, and we all fell silent. "Look, Richardson, sorry to be so blunt, but we're not interested. If you want to start a little rebellion, that's your prerogative, but leave us out of it."

"But–"

"This isn't a debate."

"Fine, but if any of you change your mind, it's next Wednesday. You turn up at your workplace, but you refuse to work."

"You're wasting your breath," Con said.

Richardson frowned but took the hint. He and his buddies quit the club. Off to look for supporters in other clubs, no doubt.

# Chapter Thirteen

"Why did you turn him down, Con?" I was profoundly disappointed. If the entire town got behind the stop-work protest, even if it didn't address women's rights at this stage, surely the Chancellor and councillors would have to make some concessions. And if they made some, they would have to make more in the future.

"It's gonna end badly, that's why."

"You don't know that."

"Actually, we do," Matt said. "From what we've been able to learn on the sly, there have been protests staged in the past, just not in this generation. The Custodians put them all down ruthlessly and without a single demand met. The Chancellor knows very well he can't allow that ball to start rolling."

"Matt's right," Con said. "But there's more to it than that. Not only will it end badly for the protestors who participate in this stop-work rally, but should the foragers join in, we'll lose all of the freedoms and fringe benefits that come with the job."

I was confused. What freedoms and fringe benefits was he referring to? It had to be something I hadn't seen yet, something my brother neglected to tell me. Just what did these guys get up to out there away from the Custodians' prying eyes?

Con stood and told us to spread his reason for not joining the protest to everyone present.

* * *

In spite of my misgivings, the next day saw me back in the truck with the boys, rattling through the town gates and into the ruins. Con didn't even ask me to drive the truck. I was no longer in his bad books for (Brandon) going AWOL for a week. Besides, I was still limping, something he noticed as soon as I walked through the door.

He drove us to the administrative office of an insurance company, a multistorey building that towered above the neighbouring businesses and train station. I climbed out of the truck and tried to massage some life back into my left leg, grimacing from the pain. At the same time, I glanced about our surroundings apprehensively, bouncing flash sonar off everything and searching the shadows, half-expecting to find Skel hiding in ambush. I couldn't see any, but that didn't make me feel better.

Ryan clambered out after me but refused to meet my gaze, looking everywhere but at me. Great, he still had his doubts about me.

"You okay, Bud?" Jack asked, looking at my leg.

"I'll live."

"Can you work?"

"Can you?" I asked. To be honest, I didn't know how much I could do today. Even breathing hurt my stomach, and every twist of my torso and movement of my arms sent pain shooting through my back. If we had any painkillers at home, I would have taken them, but we ran out weeks ago.

"Ha-ha."

"Brandon, a word," Con said. He walked a few steps from the truck and gestured me to him.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"We're rostered on for the lab today, but we can hardly drag Ryan along. He'll freak when he sees what we make there, and with him being an informant–" he began.

"He's not an informant." I wanted to say more, though. What was this lab? It was obviously making something illegal, but why did it require a roster of foragers to attend it?

Con glared at me for interrupting. "–nor can we leave him here by himself, he'll get suspicious. And since you're in no condition to help at the lab, you've drawn the short straw to stay here and babysit him."

I dipped my head so that the brim of my cap hid my eyes as they popped out of my head. "You're gonna leave us here – alone?" By ourselves – after what happened yesterday? I wasn't just thinking of the Skel. If it was just the two of us and Ryan told me to back off again, it would be a most unpleasant day.

"Man up, kid!" he snapped. Then, suddenly clapping his hands, called out, "Right! Brandon, Ryan, strip this office of books, newspapers, magazines, reports – any paper you can find – and dump it on the road. We'll hit another office block a couple of streets across and do the same." He grabbed a couple of high-powered torches from the truck and threw them to us.

"You're splitting up the team?" Ryan asked. By his expression, he was even more worried by the prospect than I was.

"Dividing the team will double its output – it's standard procedure," Matt explained as he climbed back into the truck.

"We'll be back at five." Con hoisted himself into the cab and slammed the door shut.

"And if we get jumped by Skel?" Ryan stepped closer to the truck. He furrowed his brow, and his eyes flashed with anger.

"You won't. We're miles from where we saw them yesterday."

The truck took off.

"I can't believe they just did that," I whispered, half to myself. The truck took the next right and disappeared. I could still hear it, long after Ryan couldn't, and I knew for a fact they didn't stop a couple of streets away.

"Splitting the team's standard procedure?" Ryan kicked a chunk of concrete down the road.

_Wow, he_ actually _spoke._ This _might not be such a bad day after all._ I looked up at him, meeting his gaze. He looked hurt, betrayed. I didn't blame him. I had no idea if they split the team before, and guessed no, but I had to confirm Con's words. For now.

"Depends on the mood Con's in," I said.

"They're really just going a couple of streets away?"

"Who knows."

Ryan cocked an eyebrow. "I get the impression they're trying to keep me at arm's length."

"Con takes a while to warm up to someone."

"Not just Con. I don't see the other two tripping over themselves to make me feel welcome. Story of my life, all over again." He cursed and stomped towards the office.

I hurried after him. "What's happening all over again?"

He looked back at me as he stepped over the shattered entryway. "Let's just get to work."

For a moment there, I thought he was gonna open up, but then he erected an impenetrable brick wall, just like before.

I followed him into the foyer, my feet crunching on the thick carpet of glass that covered the floor. The once prestigious foyer was shrouded in gloom, but we could still see well enough from the sunlight, so we didn't need our torches. Paint curled off the wooden reception counter in great strips, and its acrylic top sat twisted out of shape. Leaves and dirt covered the floor, counter, and ruined sofas lined the waiting area on my right. The sofa upholstery had rotted away, leaving the springs protruding from the filthy foam cushions.

We ransacked the first floor, collecting an assortment of books and reports with pages yellowed, spines broken, and covers faded or filthy. We carried them outside and threw them on the driveway. Ryan actually carried armloads without even raising a sweat, while I struggled to carry a quarter of what he did, my face contorted in pain thanks to my back injury.

Not that he was aware of my difficulties; he never once looked in my direction. I, on the other hand, couldn't stop sneaking surreptitious glances at him.

He fascinated me. Apart from my brother, I had never spent time one-on-one with a guy before. And compared to the other three goons – okay, two, Jack seemed okay – Ryan seemed so mysterious. And he didn't seem pretentious like Con and Matt. He was troubled, deeply so, but still got on with his work, fulfilling his responsibilities instead of shirking them. I just wished he wouldn't ignore me like this. I had to keep biting my tongue to stop myself trying to engage him in conversation.

It was near midday, and we were rummaging through the second-floor offices overlooking the street when Ryan shocked me by actually speaking to me. "Don't carry so much if you're in pain."

"Oh, okay." I looked at the pile of files in my arms and nodded. Inside I was singing – he spoke to me – and of his own volition.

"What did the Skel hit you with, anyway?"

"A baseball bat."

"Ouch. Where?"

"Stomach, but that's not the problem. He knocked me into a chair, and the armrest remodelled my back." I limped over to the closest window and flung – or rather, dropped – my armload to the street outside.

"And your leg?"

"Clipped it with his bat when I tried to get away."

Ryan searched my eyes, trying to ascertain if I was telling a tall tale. "You really hamstrung him?"

"Yep."

A smile tweaked the corners of his mouth. "There's more to you than meets the eye."

"What do you mean by that?" Was he saying I looked weak?

"Well, you're young, and you've got this innocence about you. Yet you owned a Skel," he said.

"And I'm small. That's what you're really getting at, right?" I don't know why I was feeling so riled up over this. I mean, compared to the rest of our team, my brother and I were small. Small but possessing a strength way beyond our physical size. Not that I was in any condition to demonstrate that strength at the moment.

Ryan dropped a pile of books onto the large desk beside him.

He spoke as though it pained him. "I, ah, want to apologise for not thanking you for yesterday."

"Don't mention it." I studied him, as he did me. I could tell his gratitude was genuine, but his eyes were still haunted by doubts.

"I heard him, you know," he whispered at last.

"Heard who?"

"Con. I heard him tell you to get in the truck and leave me behind."

"Oh." How could I respond to that?

"But you didn't."

"Well of course not." I rewarded him with my best Brandon-copy smile.

"Yeah, well, I didn't see the other two protesting Con's order."

"They were scared witless. Never been ambushed by Skel before." I couldn't exactly tell him they were hoping he'd get caught because they thought he was an informer.

There was an uncomfortable silence. He fidgeted with his windcheater, and then looked up again. "How'd you do that, anyway?"

"Do what?"

"Save me from a crossbow bolt while dodging one coming for you." There it was, the reason he had been looking at me as though I was some kind of freak. Was he putting the pieces together - was he close to realising I was a mutant?

"Just had to time it right, that's all."

"I think there was a bit more to it than that."

"What exactly are you trying to say?" I asked.

"That your reflexes and coordination are out of this world."

"Oh, get out of here." I chuckled as though his suggestion was the most absurd thing I'd ever heard. "If that were true, I wouldn't have been clobbered twice by the brute with the baseball bat."

"Still..." his voice trailed off.

"You hungry? 'Bout time for our lunch break," I said.

He nodded and gracefully dropped the subject. All the same, I would have to be more careful out here. Ryan seemed more aware of what went on around him than the other guys.

# Chapter Fourteen

As promised, Con and the others came to pick us up just after five. The truck was half-filled with cardboard, books, magazines and newspapers. So in spite of their trip to the 'lab,' they still managed to fulfil their quota of work. The paper Ryan and I gathered was thrown into the back of the truck, and we were off.

When we got back to the Recycling Works, I realised I had to figure out how to collect Brandon's wages without seeming clueless.

Con put me out of my anguish after we unloaded the truck by telling us to stay put while he collected them. He came back from the office five minutes later and handed us small, golden envelopes. I wanted to rip it open on the spot to see if there was enough to pay off the building supervisor and still have enough money for food.

It took an immeasurable amount of self-control to walk from the yard at a relaxed pace after saying goodbye to the others. Once I was out in the street, though, I tore the top off that golden envelope in a flash. I flicked through the notes, heartbeat racing as I counted them. When I finished, I immediately checked again, and then a terrible sick feeling pervaded me as I staggered to a stop.

There was only eight-hundred-and-ten – it wasn't enough! The supervisor said he wouldn't evict us if we gave him a thousand-and-eighty. What could I do? This was a disaster!

I stuffed the money in my pocket and hurried home, my mind a jumbled mess of fears, worry and tentative hope. Maybe if I handed him seven-hundred cold cash, he'd relent of his plan to evict us and give me more time. Seven-hundred was better than nothing, right? Surely he'd see that. If worse came to worse, I could offer him the whole amount, but then we'd have nothing to eat for a week, which was not an option. No, I had to keep at least a hundred aside for food, but even then, we'd be eating like paupers. I could strangle my father for putting us in this position!

* * *

After walking past row after row of towering grey apartment blocks, I was almost home when I noticed the two unsavoury characters I almost bumped into yesterday morning. The tall one with a beer gut and the older one with greying hair and goatee. They were standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. I tried to steer clear of them, but they moved to intercept me.

"Ah, Brandon Thomas – a quick word, if we may?" the older one said. His voice was like liquid silk and sent an involuntary shudder through my slim frame.

"Sorry, maybe some other time," I mumbled as I tried to slip between them. I didn't know who they were and didn't care. I had to get to the supervisor pronto.

Before I'd taken two steps, the big guy suddenly wrapped a meaty hand around my throat and propelled me forcefully off the sidewalk. He shoved me behind the closest building and into an empty coin laundry, where he slammed me against a wall. Agony exploded through my back. I saw stars and my eyes blurred with tears. I tried to pry his fingers off my neck, but I couldn't even budge them an inch in his vice-like grip.

The older ruffian stuck his face in mine. "I'm Deacon, and he's Wells – we're acquaintances of your father. Heard he was thrown into prison today for possession. Landed himself a ten-year sentence."

"So what?" I spat, trying to act as I envisioned Brandon would in this situation. All the same, I was scared out of my wits. Who were these guys? What did they want with me? Was what they said about Father true – had he been sentenced to ten years in a prison factory? How were we going to survive that long without him?

"Wells?" Deacon said.

The big brute suddenly buried a massive fist in my midriff. I tensed when I saw the blow coming, but it didn't make a shred of difference. The air was driven from my lungs, and I fell winded to the filthy linoleum floor. I writhed about for what felt like an eternity, desperately trying to draw a breath. My vision was fading fast when I finally managed to gulp down some air.

Deacon grabbed my hair and yanked me to a kneeling position.

"Why the attitude, Brandon? Was I discourteous to you in any way? Is it too much to ask for some respect?"

My gargled reply was intelligible.

He relaxed his grip on my hair slightly. "Sorry, lad. Didn't catch that."

"Okay!" I spoke as reverently as I could this time. Anything to avoid getting thumped like that again.

He let go of my ponytail and Wells yanked me back to my feet by the neck. I wanted to nurse some life back into my midriff but refused to give them the satisfaction.

"That's more like it, isn't it, Deacon?" Wells asked in a deep, booming voice.

"Certainly is." Deacon turned back to me. "The thing is, Brandon, now that your old man has been put away, you're responsible for his gambling debts."

"What gambling debts?" My voice came out as a croak. It was a big enough shock finding out Father had been taking drugs and didn't pay the rent, but what was this about gambling? I hoped against hope it wasn't true, though it would explain where all his money went.

Deacon pulled a worn, saddle-stitched notebook from his waistcoat pocket, flicked through the pages, and flashed it in front of me. I saw my father's name and lots of transactions accompanied by dates. Many smaller amounts had been deducted from several frighteningly larger ones. The final outstanding balance was almost thirty thousand dollars!

"As you can see," Deacon began, "we've done the right thing in advancing our hard earned cash to your father so he could play some poker, and he racked up some pretty big debts. Debts that still have to be paid back."

"What that's got to do with me?" I glanced wide-eyed from one ruffian to the other.

"We're not going to be out of pocket, Son. We gave your father an ultimatum two nights ago, but he didn't take us seriously, so last night we had to explain to him just how much he disappointed us."

Pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. When Father came home from work two days ago, he was very worried about something. That must have been due to their ultimatum, whatever it was. When he came home last night, he was in a great deal of pain. Their 'explanation' was beating him up.

Deacon draped an arm around my shoulders. "We got off on the wrong foot tonight, Son. Let's put that behind us, eh? We don't want to have to explain things to you like we did your father. You do your part in paying off your debt, and we won't have any misunderstandings."

"I don't know what you think I can do," I protested weakly.

"You got paid today." Wells held out his hand.

His words hit me like a pile driver when I realised what he wanted and what it would cost my family.

"No! I can't. I have to give my wage to the building supervisor, or we'll be evicted tomorrow. We're eight weeks behind in rent."

"Not our problem," Wells said.

I gave Deacon an imploring look. "Please, Sir, don't do this."

"Doesn't look like he's taking us seriously, Wells," Deacon said.

Wells drew back a fist.

I grabbed the golden envelope and shoved it into Deacon's hand as waves of guilt and hopelessness buffeted me with equal force. We were going to be evicted! My poor mother and sister would be hit so hard! But what choice did I have? If I refused, they'd either hit me until I handed it over, or frisk me to find it, in which case they'd discover I wasn't Brandon. Who knew what they'd do if they realised I was a girl?

Deacon counted the money with practised ease and held out his hand. "Now the rest of it."

"There's only another hundred – we need it for food."

"Thought you were a quick learner, Brandon. Was I wrong?"

Hands shaking, for this meant we'd have no money at all this week, I pulled out the remaining hundred-and-ten and gave it to him too.

"That's it?"

"I was off sick for four days," I spoke quickly, but earnestly. If he didn't believe me, I was in trouble.

Deacon pocketed the money, and he and Wells turned to leave.

"That's all you're ever gonna get from me." I lifted my chin defiantly.

"Excuse me?"

"You've taken my whole wage. I'm sure you can imagine how my father spent every cent we had. My family and I will starve this week. That means I'll be in no condition to work and I'll probably get fired so won't be able to earn any more money."

The thug examined me keenly, stuck his hand in his pocket, and threw a fifty and a tenner at me. I caught the cash in the air and held it tightly, afraid they'd try to take it back.

"See, we're reasonable men." Deacon flashed a dazzling smile. "But you'll have to do better than this pittance you've given us today."

"What do you mean?"

"You're a forager, Son. You figure it out."

I looked at him blankly.

"There's a demand for contraband items in the black market. Oh, and one last thing. You've got two sisters, yeah? Pretty ones too, from what I've heard."

A sick feeling exploded in my belly. "Don't you touch them."

"Wouldn't dream of it, but just so you know, if you report Wells and me to the Custodians, we've got business associates who won't hesitate in taking the rest of the money you owe out of them. Get my meaning?"

"I won't say a word to nobody," I said.

"Wise boy. Now, until next time?"

With that, the two men sauntered calmly from the coin laundry, leaving me alone to contemplate the world of terror and worry they just dropped me in. No – that my father dropped me in. How could he have done this to us? I didn't even know there were illegal gambling dens in the town. How on earth did he find them? How did he let himself accumulate so much debt to lowlife sharks like these?

Looking forlornly at the sixty dollars they left me with, I sank to the floor and pondered what to do. There was no point going to the supervisor now, and probably even less point going home. My mother would absolutely freak when she found out Father had racked up thirty-thousand in gambling debts, and even more so when she found out I lost the money.

This was the worst day of my life.

# Chapter Fifteen

I got home an hour later. I could hear my mother ranting and raving about something, so I squared my shoulders and let myself in.

"Where the blazes have you been!" she shouted as soon as she saw me. She was standing in the kitchen doorway arguing with Karen but stomped over to me. "You were supposed to come straight home after work and give Brandon's wage to the supervisor!"

Karen followed her into the lounge-dining room, scowling at me as though I was public enemy number one.

"I know, I was on my way here to do exactly that, but I got robbed." Too sore and disheartened to remain standing in the face of Mother's wrath, I pulled out a dining chair and slumped into it, resting my arms on the table.

Mother glanced at Karen and then back to me. "Excuse me?"

"I got robbed."

"By whom? Where?"

"By two guys, just around the corner." Mother didn't look convinced.

"Are you trying to tell me that on the day you were paid, two guys randomly rob you when you're almost home? What did you do, take a shortcut through an alleyway or something?"

"It wasn't random. They were waiting for me."

"You're not making sense, Eldest Daughter!"

I pulled off my cap and met Mother's furious gaze. "I found out where Father has been going after work these past six months."

"What's that got to do with this?"

"He's been visiting a gambling den."

"A what?" Mother and Karen asked at the same time.

"You know, a place where they play poker for money. And he got himself in debt to the tune of thirty-thousand. That's where the money's been going – gambling, and paying off the debt."

"Thirty-thousand? Thirty-thousand what?" Karen asked.

"Dollars, Younger Sister," I replied.

The blood drained from my mother's face, and she collapsed into a chair across the table from me. "You'd better tell me everything. Leave nothing out."

I relayed the events of the robbery to my mother and sister, leaving out nothing except their demand that I smuggle in contraband. When I explained how the ruffians considered Brandon liable for the debt, Mother grew paler. Finally, I laid the sixty dollars Deacon gave me onto the table.

"We're supposed to last a week on that?" Karen asked.

I didn't reply.

"That's just great! Not only has the useless man my father chose for my husband got himself arrested for drugs, but he's also destroyed our lives too. What was he thinking? Wasn't it enough to destroy his life, why did he have to ruin ours as well? There's no way we'll ever be able to pay back that money." She looked at the front door. "And that bloodsucking leech will be here any moment demanding rent money we no longer have."

"Actually, I've already seen him," I said quietly as I took an orange sheet of paper from my pocket and placed it on the table.

Mother looked at the eviction notice and back at me. "You what?"

"I went straight to him after I got robbed, explained what happened, and begged for an extension. He accused me of lying, demanding I show him a Custodian Incident Report to prove I'd been robbed–"

"Then you have to get one," Karen said. "Quickly, go to the Custodians and report the robbery!"

"She can't." Mother sighed and rested her head in her hands. "As she said, if she reports those two men, their associates will get revenge against the three of us. Besides, what happens when the Custodians examine your sister to verify her story about getting hit in the gut? What do you think they will do when they find out she isn't Brandon?"

"So what happens now?" Karen stood, face awash with fear.

Mother looked at the eviction notice as though it was a venomous snake. "What does it say?"

"We have to be out by midday tomorrow. Anything we can't take with us will be thrown out or sent to the Recycling Works," I replied.

"And where are we supposed to go?" Karen demanded.

"We'll have to go to the homeless shelter." Mother deflated like a popped balloon.

"No way! Never! That place is a dump, a hole for paupers and no-hopers – for losers." My sister was whining now, desperate to avoid our fate.

"And what do you think we are, Youngest Daughter? _We_ are penniless no-hopers. Losers." Mother's face was contorted with frustration and fury.

I felt sorry for her. For all of us. I wanted to run away from Newhome more than anything now and could do so on Monday. But I wouldn't. I would stay and look after my family, at least until Brandon turned up again. If I only knew where he was!

"There has to be someone we can stay with rather than go there," Karen said.

"Who?"

Karen ran through our list of relatives and friends – which took all of sixty seconds – it was a very short list. Mother shot them all down.

"Eldest Daughter, curfew is over two hours away. Get out there and see if you can find that idiot brother of yours," Mother said.

I stood. "Where do you suggest I look?"

"I don't know, out there somewhere!" She pointed at the door.

Seeing the need to be somewhere else, I hurried from the flat and went looking for Brandon. Which was a completely pointless exercise, for I hadn't the foggiest idea where he could be.

* * *

I woke early the next morning, became my brother with Karen's help, and scoured the streets for abandoned shopping trolleys. I found two, shoved them together, and brought them back to our flat.

"What are those unsightly things for?" Mother demanded. She was in an absolute stinker of a mood. All morning she had berated and cursed Father, the supervisor, and just about everyone and everything else. At the moment she was going through the kitchen, pulling out the pots and pans she figured she couldn't do without.

"You gonna carry that stuff on your back?" I replied. Seriously, what did she think the trolleys were for?

"Enough with the attitude!" she snapped. "Now go help your sister pack, or she'll try to bring everything she owns."

Karen was sitting on her bed, staring into space. She had taken all of her clothes out of her tallboy and communal wardrobe – those she wore and those she'd grown out of – and dumped them on her bed. We so weren't able to bring them all.

"Let me help you sort through those." I reached for her clothes.

"Don't you touch them!" she shouted.

"We can't bring them all. Besides, there's no need to keep every dress and coat you've ever worn. Just pack what still fits you."

"You don't understand me at all, do you? So lost in your little world with Elder Brother that you haven't the slightest clue what matters to me." She pouted as she ran her hands lovingly over a simple yet beautiful pale blue dress she wore as a pre-teen.

"What are you talking about?"

"These clothes? I poured myself into them when I made them – it's like they're a part of me. I can't just throw them away – they're too precious."

"We're going to a homeless shelter, Younger Sister, not another flat. We won't have anywhere to put them. Not to mention we can't exactly carry them halfway across town in just two shopping trolleys."

"I know this is another adventure to you, Elder Sister, like running around masquerading as Brandon. But this is the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. Having to live in that place, with those people, coupled with the shame of Father getting thrown into prison? Not to mention that my reputation will be besmirched to the point that no man will ever want me to marry their son."

I pointed at my stomach. "You call these bruises an adventure? I'm just trying to make it through each day without getting beaten up or killed, and you're worried about your reputation? Open your eyes and look what's going on around you! Now pack only what fits you now. And that comes from Mother, not me." I spoke unkindly and felt terrible for doing so, but we didn't have time for this nonsense.

* * *

The supervisor arrived at midday and despite our very vocal protestations, told us to leave. We packed what we could into the shopping trolleys. Every scrap of food we had left, kitchen and toiletry necessities, our sewing kits, and bags of clothes for the four of us – I figured Brandon would join us sooner or later. I tried to pack some of Father's clothes, but Mother wouldn't let me. Pillows, sheets and doonas went on top, and then we were out.

I taped a message onto the front door, announcing where we were moving to, just in case Brandon came home and wondered where we'd gone.

"I can't believe this is happening. How can they justify throwing three women out of their own home? How can they send someone like us to the homeless shelter? We're not like those people. We're not!" Karen said. She stood outside our door, looking wistfully at our home, and at all the things we had to leave behind.

"All part of the Founders' vision for creating the perfect utopian society," I mocked. "I mean seriously, what do we even need money for anyway? We live in a closed system!"

"Keep it down!" Mother snapped. "You want to be arrested for sedition?"

I scowled at her but complied. Those sentiments were best left unsaid in a police state like this. I patted Karen on the arm in an empty attempt to encourage her. But the fact was, I was just as discouraged as she was. That was strange, in a sense. I had tried to run away from this very home only yesterday. However, that was with the understanding my family would still live there. Now we were homeless. Worse, we had to leave most of our possessions behind. It was so unfair!

My face burned with humiliation as we made the trip across town to the homeless shelter. I wore my beige dress and had put my hair up, which made me even more self-conscious. When I impersonated my brother, I felt insulated from the world and its disappointments and horrors, hidden behind a facade of deception. I could never recall having felt so exposed as I did then.

# Chapter Sixteen

The homeless shelter was everything I feared and worse. Five stories tall, it used to be a hospital before they built a newer one. And it was an eyesore: once-cream bricks were blackened by mould and decades of dirt; windows were filthy, and paint hung off the front door in patches. Several residents, including teenagers and the elderly, lounged on worn benches that bordered the front lawn. Some watched us with predatory stares, while others seemed oblivious to the world, lost in their misery.

"What do we do now?" I asked when we approached the door. Karen stood behind me, her eyes glazed over with shock. I don't think she even heard me.

"There has to be a building supervisor. Stay here – I'll see if I can find him," Mother replied. She disappeared through the door, only to return five minutes later. She was pale, and her breathing laboured.

"What happened?" I asked.

"He said to go in and find ourselves a room."

"Which room – did he give you a key?"

"That's what I asked," she replied as though speaking from a great distance. "He just laughed and said, 'Key? What do you think this is, a hotel? Find an empty room and stake your claim on it.'"

"You can't be serious."

Mother just looked at me, too tired and discouraged to bother replying.

I laid a hand on her shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, you'll see."

She pushed my hand away angrily. "Life isn't a bed of roses and silver lined clouds, Daughter. You should have realised that by now."

We pushed our trolleys up the wheelchair access ramp and entered the foyer. My nose was instantly assaulted by the stench of stale urine, mildew and rotten refuse. I was shocked to see garbage bags actually stacked haphazardly against the walls, some having split open to discharge their rotting contents. One ceiling light flickered incessantly, while the other was out, creating an eerie, unwelcoming ambience.

Several women and girls lounged on mismatched sofas and chairs that lined the furthest two walls, chatting with each other, staring into space, or watching the large TV that adorned the wall beside the door. A teenage girl wearing a faded brown dress with a tattered hem slouched in a threadbare chair next to the window across the foyer. She turned to appraise me with a spark of hope in her eyes, but I looked away quickly when I saw that the right side of her face was badly burnt, curling her upper lip into a permanent scowl.

Corridors led to the right, left, and straight ahead from the foyer. We tried the one on our left first. Navigating our trolleys turned out to be a challenge thanks to rubbish littering the floor. Several times, I had to stop and kick it aside so we could go on. The first three rooms we came to had padlocks fitted on the outside of the doors, clearly amateur jobs.

Hearing movement, I glanced behind and saw the girl from the foyer following us at a distance. Her face was half hidden in shadow so I couldn't discern her expression. I wondered what her game was. She made me feel uncomfortable, probably because she was so badly disfigured. I wished she'd leave us to our misery.

The door to the fourth room was partly ajar, so we pushed it open cautiously.

"Hey, who do you think you are? Get out!" An impoverished middle-aged man was crossing the room with the use of a walking frame. His face was livid with rage, and spittle flew from his lips when he shouted.

We made a hasty retreat, but not before I got a glimpse inside the room. It was a scene of absolute squalor. A ragged mattress with soiled blankets lay against the window, waste paper, crushed beer cans, empty food wrappers, and an ocean of junk covered the floor.

I was shocked. How could the council turn a blind eye to people living in such conditions? Why didn't they provide proper housing and assistance to people who couldn't provide for themselves? How could they live in opulence in North End and not care that others lived like this?

We approached the last room in the corridor more cautiously, backing off when we heard the sounds of a man and women locked in furious argument.

Mother and I turned the trolleys around but faltered when we realised our shadow was only a couple of paces away. The girl had a sickly demeanour – her skin was too pale, she had dark rings under her eyes, and she was malnourished as well.

"Can we help you?" I asked, none too kindly.

"A family moved out of a room on the fifth floor last night. I can take you there if you like." She spoke gently, with a kindness that seemed in stark contrast to the horrors of this place.

Pangs of guilt struck me like waves crashing against a cliff when I realised how rude I'd been. "Ah, yes please, that would be kind of you."

"This way, then." She led us back to the foyer and elevator, walking with a slight limp. Her right hand was as badly burnt as her face. I wondered what happened to her.

By some miracle, the elevator worked, even though it apparently doubled as a latrine. I covered my nose with my sleeve in an attempt to smother the stench.

"You get used to it." The girl smiled, which I found a tad disturbing due to her maimed mouth. I mentally shook myself and focused on her person, rather than on her deformities.

"My name's Chelsea," I said, remembering my manners. "This is my mother, Abigail, and my sister, Karen."

"Sofia."

"Been here long?"

"Three years," she replied.

"People do leave, right?" I asked.

"Depends. Some manage to get their lives back together. It's rare though. And you need a man in the family to earn a wage. Do you...?" Her voice petered off.

"Ah, no. Just my brother, but he's unreliable." I said no more when Mother shook her head. She didn't want anyone to know where father was.

"We don't have one either," Sofia said, downcast.

"We?"

"My mother and I." She didn't offer any more information, so I didn't ask. Maybe her father was in prison too.

The elevator reached the fifth floor and Sofia lead us to a vacant room at the end of the corridor. The door was wide open, so Mother went straight in, only to come out just as quickly, holding her nose and retching.

"This is the only vacant room?" she asked.

"I'm afraid so. I saw the family move out this morning."

Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, I held my sleeve to my nose and stepped cautiously into the room.

It was a bit bigger than I expected, with windows on the left. However, whoever lived here previously had been absolute pigs! The room was a rubbish dump and reeked like one too. There was no furniture to speak of, just three stained, rotten mattresses, and the floor was literally knee deep in rubbish, including milk cartons, yoghurt containers, beer bottles, food wrappers, mouldy bread, rock-hard discarded pizza, and worst of all, hundreds of disposable diapers. The smell of excrement, urine, and ammonia, was overpowering. And as if that wasn't bad enough, cockroaches infested the refuse and scuttled across the floor and up and down the walls. A violent shudder passed through me. I couldn't abide the vile critters.

I staggered out of the room and fought to keep down my breakfast. "How can people live like that?" I gasped.

"They lose hope," Sofia replied.

"But they had a baby!" I couldn't imagine anyone subjecting their infant to such unsanitary conditions.

Sofia shrugged helplessly. Hearing a familiar voice sobbing in the background, I turned to find Karen slumped against the wall with her head on her knees. I squatted next to her and patted her head. I wished my mother and sister could masquerade as foragers so that we could all escape the town together.

"We can't live in there," Mother said. She was leaning against a wall, her face paler than I'd ever seen it.

"It'll be fine once you've cleaned it up," Sofia said.

"Is there somewhere we can get gloves, plastic bags and cleaning supplies?" I asked, turning my mind to how we could redeem this situation.

"In the janitor's room downstairs. Come on – I'll show you."

My mother grabbed my wrist. "We can't live in there, Daughter – it's not possible."

I took her hand in mind. "We can make this work, Mother, you'll see. I'll pop downstairs and get some cleaning supplies."

She drew in a deep breath, lifted her head, and gave me the barest of nods. As a woman who always prided herself in having a clean and spotless house, this was hitting her harder than my sister.

Sofia took me to the janitor's room on the first floor and we loaded up on disposable gloves, facemasks, lots of thick black garbage bags, and hospital grade disinfectant.

"Will the janitor mind if we take this stuff?" I asked, wondering what I'd say if he walked in and saw us taking all these things.

"What janitor?" Sofia replied as she grabbed a bucket and two mops.

"Oh." There wasn't one. Why wasn't I surprised?

We headed back upstairs. "Hey, thanks for helping us out," I said.

"That's alright. Not like I have anything else to do." She gave me another smile, her brown eyes sparkling. How she managed to remain so vibrant after three years in this place was a mystery to me. It was a testament to the depth of her character. If I could only be more like her.

"So, you've been here three years?" I asked as we rode the mobile-latrine back to the fifth level.

"Yeah, since I got out of hospital."

"Due to your injuries?" I asked, indicating her burns with a flick of my head.

"Yes. A fire broke out in our flat, in the girl's room. Faulty wiring in the wall heater, they said. Mother and I suffered severe burns, and Father..." She took a deep breath before continuing. "He got the two of us out but went back in one more time to try and put out the fire. He died from smoke inhalation."

I laid a hand on her forearm. "I'm so sorry."

She patted my hand and smiled sadly. "That's okay. I've come to terms with it now." All the same, a tear rolled down her left cheek.

"How's your mother now?" I asked, hoping I wasn't prying too much.

"She's pretty much an invalid. Never leaves our room."

"So you look after her?"

"Mostly. A nurse pops in once a week too."

"You'd think they'd give her better accommodation than this hole."

"They gave her the option of moving into an aged care facility, but she turned them down so she can stay with me."

"Sounds like an amazing woman." Selflessness ran deep in their family. I was jealous.

Sofia said she'd help us clean up when we got back to the fifth floor. I refused of course, but she fobbed me off with a laugh. Then came one of the worst experiences of my life. With Mother's help – Karen wouldn't budge from her spot in the corridor – we took eleven trolley loads of refuse to the large blue metal hopper in the yard. The mattresses, although light, were too large and unwieldy for one person to carry, so that was another three trips. After that, we scrubbed the place down with disinfectant – ceiling, walls, and floor.

This marathon effort took several hours, but the result was relatively encouraging. The room was still in a bad way, of course, with linoleum tiles peeling off the floor, dented and scraped walls stained black in places, but it was clean.

Using hooks I found outside in the garbage, and a chair I dragged in from the corridor, I hung some bed sheets from the curtain rails to divide the room into three smaller living spaces. One as a bedroom for Brandon, one for us three women, and the larger one near the door to serve as the lounge-room. Not that we had any furniture to put in it.

It turned out we shared a bathroom with the residents in the adjacent room. It had a shower, vanity and toilet, and was nowhere near as filthy. All the same, we still scrubbed it with disinfectant.

When we were finished, Sofia took us to the supervisor. He opened the storeroom and gave us four 'clean' mattresses. In reality, they were tattered and stained but were infinitely better than the soiled ones we threw out. He even gave us a hand taking them upstairs.

Sofia also told us the good news that the shelter provided meals for the tenants. At seven every morning the cafeteria on the first floor served bread that had been discarded by the bakeries the evening before, as well as gruel, which was basically a weak porridge. Lunch was more bread and fruit considered unfit for sale in the market stalls. Dinner was normally bread and yoghurt, and occasionally pizza.

"Oh, one thing I should mention," Sofia said when she bade us goodbye after dinnertime. We were sitting on the floor with our backs to the wall in our brand new lounge-room. "Don't go barefoot in the shower. You'll get athlete's foot."

"What's that?" Karen asked.

"It's a skin disease that makes your feet itch like mad. Very contagious and takes ages to get rid of."

"Ew – I'm never bathing again," Karen wailed.

"Just wear thongs when you're in there. You can pick them up cheap at the market," Sofia said.

"Need money for that," Karen grumbled.

"Oh. Sorry."

"We don't need your sympathy!" Mother snapped.

"There's no need to be rude, Mother!" I said.

"You're right. Sorry, Sofia. It's been one of those days." An apology from my mother – that had to be a first.

"That's okay," Sofia replied.

# Chapter Seventeen

I barely got a wink of sleep that night. Not only was the mattress uncomfortable because I could feel every spring, but it also had a most unpleasant odour. I hoped it would fade with time. I was so glad we brought our sheets and doonas. Karen sobbed until she fell asleep, which didn't help. Mother ignored her, turning her back to us. I tried to comfort Karen by running my hand through her hair, but she just pushed me away.

Sofia turned up before seven and took us to the cafeteria. We lined up for bowls of gruel and bread and sat at a plastic table that was bent in the middle and rocked on uneven legs.

The watery gruel tasted every bit as disgusting as I feared, but I still ate it.

"What is this slop?" Karen said. She pushed her bowl away.

"Boiled oats," Sofia said.

"Well, it's revolting! There's more water than oats."

"Goes further that way."

Karen tried a bread roll and pulled another face. "This is so stale it's like chewing on cardboard."

"Some of the residents buy their own food. When they have money, that is," Sofia said. She'd already downed a bowl of gruel and two bread rolls. I noticed her looking at my sister's gruel. Mother hadn't touched hers either.

"You gonna eat that, Mother?" I asked.

She shook her head, so I pushed her bowl to Sofia, and it was quickly consumed. I realised that with her mother an invalid and her father passed away, Sofia had no source of income. No wonder she was malnourished. There was something fundamentally wrong with the way the town treated those down on their luck.

After breakfast, my mother and sister retreated to our room to lament our change in fortune.

"Guess I'd better show you where the Laundromat is," Sofia said, rising from the table.

"It's not coin-operated, is it?"

"Nope, just a room full of washing machines and dryers. Only half of them work, though."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" I followed her to the Laundromat around the side of the building, which was only accessible from the yard.

As expected, the room was long, with battered white washing machines on the floor and dryers above. All front loaders. Some machines were missing doors; others had been kicked so violently that the doors would no longer close. Others looked as if they'd been attacked with a sledgehammer.

"Well, now you've seen it," she said.

"Anything else you can show me? I'm in no hurry to head back upstairs."

"There's a garden out back."

"Lead on."

We headed for the door, but I quickly grabbed Sofia's arm to stop her when the last two people in the world I ever wanted to see again entered the Laundromat.

"Chelsea Thomas." Deacon said. After studying my birthmark for just long enough to make me feel self-conscious, he flashed a sleazy grin that made my skin crawl.

"I heard about you two." I mentally warned myself to be very careful. I could not let on that I'd already met them, nor antagonise them so they'd hurt either one of us.

"Only good things, I trust?" With Wells massive bulk seeming to fill the narrow space behind him, Deacon came closer and ran his eyes up and down my figure, and then did the same to Sofia.

I pulled her behind me and lifted my chin defiantly, trying to hide the terror I felt being trapped in here with them. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to leave. As unmarried women, it is inappropriate for you to talk to us."

His grin vanished. "There's no need to be rude, Chelsea. We saw the note on your front door and decided to pop over and see your new home. Have to say, you've come down a bit in the world, haven't you?"

"We wouldn't be here if you hadn't robbed my brother. We got evicted because we couldn't pay the rent!" Guess I stuffed up with that note. It was for Brandon, not these bloodsuckers. Still, wouldn't have made any difference. They would have found us anyway.

"Commiserations for your eviction, but you've been misinformed, dear girl. We did not rob your brother. He made the payment of his own volition." He paused and became all smiles again. "Speaking of your brother, is he here? We'd like a word."

"He's gone out."

"Is that so?"

"You think he'd stay here by choice?"

"When he comes home, be a good girl and tell him we dropped by. Okay?"

"I'm not doing you no favours."

"Wells, would you have a word with the young lady? She seems a tad uncooperative." Deacon stepped sideways to make room for his brutish accomplice.

"Fine, I'll tell him!" I conceded quickly, having no desire to be on the receiving end of Wells' fists again.

"Good girl." Deacon beamed his patronising grin. They turned to go. "Until next time."

Once they were out of view, my strength vanished and I sagged back against a washing machine. I hid my shaking hands in the folds of my dress.

"Are you okay? Who are those men?" Sofia asked as she squatted beside me and laid a comforting hand on my forearm.

"It's a long story."

She sat cross-legged and smoothed out her ankle-length dress. "I'm not going anywhere."

I looked at the concern on her badly scarred face and knew I couldn't disappoint her. After all, she'd told me her family history; it was only appropriate I did the same, ugly as it was.

"It all started nine months ago. My father was coming home one night with a bottle of wine when he bumped into a Custodian patrol. In the dark, one of the Custodians mistook the bottle for a gun and shot him. But when they realised their mistake, the Custodians arrested my father, claiming he really did have a gun. There was a trial, and he was given the mandatory twenty-five-year jail term. He was sent to a prison hospital the next day, and a month later, sent to work in a prison factory."

"That's terrible!" Sofia looked aghast.

"That's our wonderful law enforcers in action for you. Anyways, three months later, a Custodian who was in the patrol that night came forward and testified that my father was innocent and had been set up to hide the shooter's mistake. My father was released from prison the next day and given a substantial payout to compensate him for the shooting and prison time."

"What happened to the Custodians? Please don't tell me they let them off?" Sofia asked.

"The one who shot my father was imprisoned and the three conspirators court-martialled. The fifth one, the one who came forward to confess what really happened, was demoted and given an official warning for not coming forward sooner."

"Where is your father now? He didn't come here with you, right?"

I sighed as I dredged up more painful memories. "He was a broken man when he got out of prison. After getting shot, falsely accused, and then imprisoned, it was all too much for him. I think he was also mistreated in prison, but I don't know for sure 'cause he never spoke about it. At any rate, turns out he started taking drugs and became a gambling addict. He lost all of our money, didn't pay the rent for two months and ran up a huge gambling debt. To top it off, the Custodians found out about his drug habit and tossed him back in prison last Thursday."

"That's why you got evicted?"

"Yeah."

"What have those two guys got to do with all this?" she asked.

"They bailed up my brother on Friday and made him hand over his wage, saying he's responsible for Father's gambling debt now."

"What? Can't you report them? Gambling's illegal, after all." Sofia looked as frustrated as I felt.

"We could, but as they explained to my brother, they are not the sort of people you want as enemies."

"So you're stuck in this predicament?"

"Seems that way." At least until my brother or I could find a way to make thirty-thousand dollars.

"Where is your brother, by the way? He hasn't been here yet, has he?"

"Not yet, but he'll turn up. At least, he'd better, or I'll make sure those two thugs are the least of his worries." I made a menacing face and she laughed.

I realised I could report him missing, but I was sure he was all right. Brandon was a survivor. Besides, if I told the Custodians he was missing, they would quickly realise I had been impersonating him at work.

* * *

I went to work on Monday. Foremost on my mind was the debt that hung over us, and Deacon telling me to smuggle in contraband to pay it off.

In the end, I had no opportunities to look for illicit items to smuggle into town. Con kept the five of us together to gut an old shopping complex of every hard plastic item we could find.

I rushed out the gate when we got back after five, anxious to get to the shelter to check on my family. Hearing Ryan hurrying after me caused me to falter.

"Hey Brandon, wait up!" he called.

"What's up?" I asked, surprised. He'd barely spoken a word to me today. But with the other three – okay, primarily Con and Matt – heaping insults on him all day, I guess I should've expected that.

He joined me, a series of conflicting emotions passing across his handsome face as he studied me. I still felt guilty every time I was alone with him. It was hard getting used to.

"Wanna hang out tonight?" he asked. He looked cautiously hopeful.

My heart leapt into my throat, and I almost choked. He wanted to get together with me in the evening? I wanted to say yes more than anything in the world, but it was so inappropriate, and would surely increase my chance of discovery. "Love to, but the family's expecting me for dinner."

"Meet up after dinner then. At the gym."

"The gym?"

"To work out." He looked puzzled, for I obviously should have realised that.

It was so tempting, but I didn't know anything about the gym and doing weights apart from what Brandon taught me. I had to find an excuse that wouldn't hurt his feelings. "Thanks for the offer, and under normal circumstances, I'd say yes, but I'm still pretty much a walking bruise thanks to a certain Skel using me for batting practice."

"So set the weights lower." His expression suddenly clouded over. He looked hurt. He had reached out to me, and there I was fobbing him off.

"Okay already! You twisted my arm." I laughed merrily. I didn't know who let him down so badly in the past, but I wasn't going to disappoint him too.

The uncertainty and doubt left his eyes. "Great. See you at the gym at seven."

"I'll be there," I said.

He flashed me a quick grin and jogged off. I watched him go and mentally kicked myself. What had I gotten myself into this time?

# Chapter Eighteen

On the way home, I dropped by the market and spent ten of our sixty dollars buying food I reckoned my mother and sister would eat. Mother told me off for "squandering what little money we had left" but ate it anyway. I just pigged-out on stale bread, and a couple of overripe bananas left over from lunch.

I got to the gym just after seven. It occupied the entire the second floor of the Metallurgy Club but was open to all men.

"Beginning to think you weren't going show," Brandon said. He detached from the shadows beside the door, looking relieved.

He wore track pants and top and carried a bag over his shoulder. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had the sense to change into Brandon's tracksuit.

"Hey, I'm a man of my word," I said. A statement I found amusing on a number of levels.

Ryan led me upstairs, and I had to bite my tongue to stop gasping in shock at the sight of two dozen guys working out in shorts and tank tops. I know I was masquerading as a guy, but seeing so many in such a state of undress sent my heart racing. This was so improper! Never in my life did I imagine stepping foot in a place like this. Ashamed, I quickly averted my eyes, but then felt even more guilty because I realised I didn't want to.

"Hey Brandon, long time no see." I turned to see a handsome, balding guy with legs and arms the size of tree trunks. He gave me a lazy wave as I followed Ryan to a line of exercise bikes.

"Hey, mate," I said. I had no idea who he was.

"Lost a bit of weight." He was eyeing me with a knowing eye

"Got sick," I replied.

"More weights. More protein drinks," he called after us.

"I'm here, ain't I?" I called back.

"You're the man," he said, laughing.

"Ain't I just."

Ryan and I warmed up on the bikes and then headed to a bench with a bar across it, labelled a 'bench press.'

"Focus on upper body today?" he asked. He dropped his bag and stripped off to tank top and shorts, revealing, a physique far more impressive than my brother's was. He obviously spent a lot of time working out. His biceps were so large that I wouldn't be able to encircle them with both hands. His shoulders were just as impressive, his quads were massive, and each knee the width of both of mine put together.

"Brandon?"

"Sorry, run that by me again?" Embarrassed, I quickly looked away and fixed my eyes on the bench press. The bench press was safe, looking at it didn't elevate my pulse or cause me to blush. I liked the bench press.

"Okay, we do upper body today?"

"Works for me." I had no idea what he was asking.

He loaded up the bar with additional weights, lay down, and glanced up at me.

"Can you spot for me?"

A frantic look around revealed other guys working together on bench presses, with one standing behind the other and helping guide the bar back to the guide rails.

"Sure, but I've got a sore back, remember?"

"You'll be fine," he said.

I stood behind the bench press, and he proceeded to lift the bar.

"What did your parents think of you becoming a forager?" he asked between exertions.

"My father supported it, but my mother said I had a death wish."

"You know it's got the highest mortality rate of any profession in Newhome, right? A dozen fatal accidents, murders and kidnappings from Skel, and disappearances a year?" he said. He reached the end of his set and was trying to get the bar back into its cradle. I grabbed it and helped guide it home.

"Aren't you being a little hypocritical? You know, considering you're a forager now too," I replied.

"Had no choice – only job I could get. But you–you're smart and capable. You could've gotten any job you wanted." He lifted the bar again and started his second set.

"I think you're overestimating my abilities." I wondered what he would say if he knew who I really was.

"No need to be so modest, Brandon," he grunted.

"Huh. Say, you ever gonna tell me what happened at your last job?"

"Hey, I'm asking the questions here!" He laughed.

"What's this, an interrogation?"

"Curiosity."

"Well, that's okay then." I chuckled.

"So come on then, why'd you become a forager?"

"Wasn't interested in anything else." I gave him the answer Brandon gave our parents when they asked why he became a forager.

"Why?"

"Because I knew I'd be free out in the ruins." I helped him put the bar away again.

"Free from what?" he asked quietly as he sat up and turned to face me.

"You serious? From the suffocating rules and regulations they subject us to here," I replied just as quietly. I realised I was standing on dangerous ground. If anyone heard me bagging the establishment and reported me to the Custodians, I could be charged with inciting rebellion.

"Such as?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"I've got a twin sister who's every bit as capable as I am, yet she had to learn how to cook a pot roast and do cross stitch while I was learning algebra and calculus. Not to mention my father and me sitting at the table like lords while she, my mother, and younger sister served us, waiting for permission to speak!"

"Keep it down, someone might hear you!" He glanced around fearfully to see if anyone was paying attention. He turned back. "Look, I see where you're coming from, but don't you respect the Founders' wisdom in restoring males and females to gender-based roles? Don't forget that our venerated ancestors – you know, the fools who nuked themselves to oblivion – granted equality to males and females in all walks of life. See where that got them."

"And you think segregating the sexes and treating females as second-class citizens is the solution to solving the Old World's problems?"

"By itself, no. The Founders created a society based on an intricate model they envisioned, of which the segregation of the sexes plays an integral part. Surely the almost non-existent crime rate in Newhome validates their vision?" he said.

"That the real reason for the low crime rate, or is it due to several hundred Custodians forcing the Founders' vision down everyone's throat at gunpoint?"

"Be careful, Brandon, what you're saying could be interpreted as sedition." He looked alarmed.

"Can't you see my point?" I asked. How could he not?

"I can see where you're coming from. There are things here that concern me too."

"Oh, this'll be good." I mocked him playfully.

He shifted closer to me. "The geneticists."

"What about them?"

"They're over there in that tower of theirs, the Genetics Laboratory, working twenty-four seven. Why do you think that is?" he whispered.

"They're creating improved strains of genetically modified chickens, veggies and fruit, I guess." And dissecting people like me to find out what makes us tick.

"Do you really think they work all day and night tweaking something they developed decades ago?"

"What do you think they're doing, then?" I asked. I watched him intently, hoping he'd join the dots from the rumours and guess what they were really doing.

"I don't know, and that scares me. What if they start tinkering with human DNA? You know, to improve the human race?" he said, eyes wide.

"That is a horrid thought," I said. "Though isn't that against the Founders' law. They said the human genome must be kept pure at all costs."

"That's true. But every time I see that tower I can't help but wonder." He nodded thoughtfully to himself, and then abruptly clapped his hands and stood. "Anyways, enough conjecture – your turn."

I removed three-quarters of the weights from the bar and put them back on the rack beside us.

"Oh come on," he ribbed.

"Sore back." I reminded him as I lay on the bench and lifted the bar off the cradle. I'd never done this before, so I copied what he did the best I could. As expected, pain lanced through my back every time I lifted the bar, but to my delight, I had no trouble with the weight. All those hours doing push-ups had paid off.

"Ah, you've done this before, right?" Ryan asked. He was looking at me strangely again, like when he saw me using the hacksaw the wrong way.

"It's been awhile." My heart started racing. Was I doing it wrong? Was I giving the game away? I mentally kicked myself. I shouldn't have come tonight!

"Doing weights is like riding a bike – you never forget how. Didn't the instructor show you how to do it correctly?"

"What instructor?" I asked, petrified. He must have realised that something about me didn't ring true. I was busted!

"Man, this gym has gone to pot! Can't believe they let people in without showing them the proper technique. What is the instructor doing, anyway, watching TV in his office all day? Here, let me give you some pointers."

"Point away." I slipped the bar back into the cradle and let out a sigh of relief. He didn't doubt my story.

I spent the next hour getting quality one-on-one coaching from a pro. I wasn't the only one enjoying our workout, either. Ryan really came out of his shell, relishing our developing friendship. I just wished it was genuine, that he liked me for who I was – Chelsea – and not for who he thought I was.

# Chapter Nineteen

The next day at work, we hit a street lined with townhouses that had most definitely seen better days. Windows on the ground floors were smashed in, spear-tipped iron fences were rusting apart, and creepers fought their way up the brickwork as they reached for the sky, sometimes obliterating the houses from view.

Con sent Ryan and me into a townhouse while he, Matt and Jack went into the adjacent one. Apart from a brief nod when he arrived at the Recycling Works, Ryan had pretty much ignored me so far.

Great. Back to square one.

At any rate, we sorted through broken chairs and decaying sofas in the lounge-room overlooking the street as we searched for magazines and books.

I decided to break the ice. "Had a great time at the gym."

"Cool." He didn't even glance at me when he replied. Just how moody was this guy?

"Found muscles I didn't even know I had, though." I ached from head to foot when I woke this morning. Just like the morning after we moved into the shelter, except that had been worse.

"Now you're using correct technique, that'll pass pretty quickly. You have to keep going regularly, though," he said.

"Works for me." I looked up to see his reaction as I extracted a stack of magazines from a corner where they were wedged between the wall and a portable oil heater. Would he ask me to go with him again? Considering how inexperienced I was, probably not.

"Going again on Wednesday, if you wanna join me," he said, watching me.

"Sure." I had to fight to stop a smile breaking out – he wasn't pushing me away! Whatever caused his dour mood this morning, it wasn't me. Maybe because he just didn't want to be a forager? Or was it something from his past he couldn't shake? He was an enigma – that was for sure. Friendly and talkative one day but not the next. What I'd give to find out what happened at his previous place of employment, and why foraging was the only job he could get.

We didn't talk much after that, just concentrated on collecting every piece of paper we could find. When I went upstairs to a small bedroom that overlooked the backyard, I discovered a potential goldmine. Not paper, but a display cabinet chock full of commercially produced DVDs – all movies and TV series. A quick scan of the room with echolocation revealed another box hidden under the bed. Curious, I pulled it out and then did a double take when I wiped off the inch-thick layer of dust.

Every cover had a sexually suggestive or explicit image that left nothing to the imagination. I had to bite my lip to stop crying in horror as I shoved the box back under the bed. I clambered back to my feet, shaking from shock as I tried in vain to purge those pornographic images from my mind. I'd heard of pornography, of course, but never imagined it was that hideously disgusting and offensive! I could not conceive how anyone could look at such stuff, let alone create it.

No more looking at boxes of DVDs under beds for me.

Remembering Deacon's demand that I smuggle in contraband to pay off Father's debt, I turned back to the cabinet and searched through the DVDs for movies I had not seen in Newhome. Not surprisingly, there were quite a few. I fetched my worn, frayed backpack from where I dumped it at the front door, and with shaking hands, started to put two-dozen DVD cases into the bag. This was highly illegal of course, far worse than masquerading as my brother, but I was sure I would get away with it because no one ever checked our bags. This had to be the easiest way to make money. Providing I could work out who to sell them to, of course.

I was trying to stuff the last DVDs into the bag when I heard footsteps approaching from behind. I tried to go faster, but my hands were shaking too much.

"What are you doing?"

I dropped the backpack and staggered back, flushed with guilt. Jack was standing there, watching me from the doorway. I was so busted.

"I, ah–"

"You got rocks in your head, Brandon? What if Ryan sees you trying to smuggle this stuff back to town? If he's an informer, you'll blow our entire operation! Besides, you know you're supposed to clear it with Con beforehand." He spoke softly so Ryan, who was in the adjacent room, couldn't hear him.

"Right. Wasn't thinking – I'll put it back." I let out a massive internal sigh of relief. I wasn't in trouble for smuggling, just for doing it the wrong way. Sounded like these guys smuggled a lot stuff into town. Something I should have realised, considering the books my brother brought home from time to time.

"Hold up." Jack grabbed my bag and flicked through the DVDs. "Impressive haul – some real classics in here – but no porn?"

"No thanks."

"Never stopped you before, buddy. Don't tell me you're developing a conscience?" He lifted an eyebrow, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Never stopped me before? With a sickening feeling, I realised I was seeing a side of my brother I'd never noticed before. He didn't just smuggle 'subversive' books into town but pornographic DVDs and who knew what else. That led to another even more disturbing thought. Did he just smuggle them in and sell them, or did he look at them too? He used to have such a pure heart – mischievous – but pure. What happened to cause him to undergo such a radical change? Did his foraging companions corrupt him? He was an impressionable seventeen-year-old when he started foraging, after all.

"Maturing tastes," I finally whispered.

"More like regressing, you mean. You do know foragers and consciences don't go together, right?" He smiled broadly and zipped up the bag. "Look, if you're so strapped for cash that you need to smuggle this lot in now, I'll go run it by Con and stick 'em in the smuggling compartment. Just keep Ryan busy for ten minutes before you come down. It's home time."

"You're the best, Jack."

"Don't you forget it." He tramped down the stairs while I went to distract Ryan. Not that I needed to – he wasn't an informer.

* * *

My heart leapt into my throat when we got back to the Recycling Works and found a squad of Custodians waiting for us next to their G-Wagon. I wondered what the odds were of them being here the very day I decided to risk smuggling something into town.

"What's with these frequent random spot checks? You'd think they don't trust us or something," Matt said.

"Yeah, what's that about?" Jack replied.

"I know right? Us being model citizens and all. Since when have they ever found us bringing contraband into town?" Matt pouted with mock indignation.

"Why never, of course," Jack said. "Since we don't do it."

Although this little performance was done tongue-in-cheek, it was clearly for Ryan's sake. When were they going to realise he wasn't what they thought he was?

"Okay you lot, grab your bags and line up beside the truck," Con said when he parked beside the G-Wagon.

So this was an inspection. I was so lucky Jack spotted me stuffing those DVDs into my bag. All the same, a fearful thought exploded into my mind. What if the Custodians found the contraband anyway? I'd be in prison before I could say, 'Bob's my uncle,' and then who'd look after my mother and sister?

I followed the others and stood with them in front of the truck as a cold wind whistled through the yard, penetrating my clothes and making me shiver.

While three Custodians went over the truck behind us with a fine tooth comb, the sergeant and one other accosted us.

I did a double take when I realised it was Sergeant King, the arrogant scumbag who arrested my father. He shouted something at us, but I missed it because I was straining my ears listening to the Custodians searching the truck behind us. From what I could tell, one was in the cab, sliding the seats back and forth so he could look beneath them. Another was in the tray, sorting through the books, magazines and paper we'd brought back with us. The third was under the truck, tapping on the chassis looking for hidden compartments. It took a herculean effort not to turn around and watch them apprehensively.

Just _where did Jack hide the DVDs?_

All of a sudden, Sergeant King was in my face. "Hard of hearing, Brandon Thomas? Or have you got something to hide? I said to dump the contents of your bag on the ground in front of you!"

Risking a fleeting look at his pockmarked face, I unzipped my backpack, turned it over and shook it. My water bottle, an overripe banana, and an unused sanitary pad still in its wrapper fell out. Shoot! I'd forgotten that was in there. Jack gasped in surprise.

"And what, pray tell, is this?" King asked, picking up the pad by the corner of the packet.

My face burned red – no, beetroot, I suspect – in embarrassment. How could I have been so stupid! "This is my sister's backpack, Sir."

"Really." He scoffed.

"I lost mine when the Skel ambushed us last week."

"That's true, Sir, he did," Ryan said.

King swung angrily towards my new friend. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

"No, I just–"

"Then butt out!"

Undaunted, Ryan stared daggers at the Custodian.

King returned his frightening countenance back to me. "This is not a woman's bag."

"Hey, maybe Brandon's a hermaphrodite," Matt muttered just loud enough for all to hear.

Con sniggered.

"An hermaphro what?" Jack asked.

"Hermaphrodite," Matt replied. "A person containing both male and female reproductive organs. Like Brandon, perhaps..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Matt," I said, playing along. "Any hermaphrodites conceived in Newhome would be terminated before birth. All part of Newhome's commitment to keeping the human genome pure. Isn't that right, Sergeant?" Powered by an unexpected flash of anger and false sense of bravado, I looked up, daring the sergeant to contradict me. My comment did bring a question to mind, though. Why weren't my brother and I identified as mutants and aborted when my mother had her routine ultrasound?

"Watch your tongue, Thomas. Criticism of the Founders' principles will not be tolerated. Not even in jest. Now – the bag. You say it's your sister's?" King growled.

"It was my bag, Sir, but I gave it to her when I got a new one. She never took it outside, just used it to put stuff in." Sweat was breaking out on my brow. I probably shouldn't have mouthed off about the town's practice of aborting babies with mutations and defects. Lucky they didn't consider birthmarks cause for termination or I wouldn't even be having this conversation.

The sergeant didn't reply. Instead, he gave the bag a thorough examination, checking for a false bottom and opening all the pockets. Finally, he looked at me. "You think I haven't figured out where your father got those drugs from?"

From my peripheral vision, I saw all my companions turn to stare at me, shocked by this information so callously thrown out by King. Information that should be confidential.

I gulped and forced myself to answer, even though my voice wavered. "Don't know where he got them from, Sir – I detest drugs." And that was true – I didn't give them to him. Brandon, on the other hand, may have.

"I've got my eye on you, Thomas," King said. And then, to my profound relief, he left me and checked the next bag in line.

"Truck's clean, Sir," one of the Custodians behind us announced a moment later.

"You are dismissed," King snapped, having found no contraband in our bags. He appeared irritated. I think he expected to catch me in the act of smuggling drugs. He gave me a dark look, and the five of them got in the G-Wagon and drove off.

I took a deep breath and let the air out slowly, becoming aware I was the focus of my companions' attention.

And then Con was in my face. "Your father got busted doing drugs?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Last Thursday."

"And you neglected to tell me?"

"It's none of your business!" I wished he would take a couple of steps back. I couldn't stand it when he stood so close.

"Everything that reflects on this team and the integrity of its members is my business!" He shouted this so vehemently that spittle peppered my face. I wiped it off with the back of a dusty sleeve. "Now we've got Custodians breathing down our necks 'cause they think you were stupid enough to smuggle drugs into town!"

"I didn't–"

"That's not the point!"

"Okay, I'm sorry! I should have told you," I said, trying to placate him.

"I've a good mind to kick you off the team right now. All I need to do is tell the boss what the Custodians suspect you of and you'll be out on your ear."

"Go easy on the kid, Con. He said he didn't give the drugs to his father," Jack said.

"I know that, and I believe him," Con snapped. "But do you think the Custodians did? People like Brandon's father give us foragers a bad name!"

I saw Con's eyes flicker ever so quickly in Ryan's direction, and in a flash of revelation, I realised this little speech was at least partially for his benefit. A performance to convince him we weren't smugglers when the opposite was true.

Con took a step back. "All right you lot, go unload the truck. I need to have a little one-on-one with knuckle brains here."

The others grunted and got to work. Jack, however, couldn't resist a jibe as he walked past me. "A menstrual pad?"

"I'm gonna kill Chelsea when I get home," I growled.

He laughed and joined the others.

When they were out of earshot, Con gave me the death stare. "To reinforce what I've just told you, I'm keeping your blasted DVDs."

"But I was gonna sell 'em!" I said. To whom, I had no idea. But I was sure Jack would help me if I asked. The plan was to keep half the money for food and give the rest to Deacon.

"You lost your claim to them when you lied about your father."

"I didn't lie."

"Don't split hairs with me, you little varmint. Not telling me something is just as bad as lying. Now go help unload the truck," he said.

"No." I stuck my chin in the air and tried to glare at him, but I was so scared of what he'd do to me for disobeying him that I probably looked more like a frightened rabbit.

He raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"I need the money."

"Learn your lesson, Brandon."

I put on a more conciliatory mask. "Con, please, my father left us penniless when they locked him up. We need money for food. Honest."

His face softened unexpectedly, and he reached for his wallet. "I'll lend you some money."

I shook my head. "No! We're already up to our eyeballs in debt, don't need another one."

Con sighed. "You know Brandon, up till now you've been a reliable team player. But this last week it's like you've had a personality change or something." He suddenly leaned back, one eyebrow raised. "This got something to do with Dan?"

Considering Brandon ran away the day Dan Smith died, I considered that was the best card to play. "That and all the dramas at home. Been skipping food so my mother and sisters can eat."

He nodded sympathetically. Not a side of him I ever thought I'd see. "Look, here's two-hundred for the DVDs. I know they're worth double that, but as I said, I want you to learn from this. Don't keep stuff from me I should know. Got me?"

I accepted the money graciously, my heart leaping for joy. "Thanks, mate, and you've got it. I'll let you know if anything else like that happens." Except, you know, for my brother going missing, and me impersonating him right under your nose.

"One more thing," he said ominously.

"Yes?"

"Our attempts to get rid of Ryan by freezing him out ain't working. I want to know if he told you where he worked before coming here. You know, since you've become all chummy with him and all, even after I expressly told you not to."

"He doesn't talk about his past," I said.

"How convenient. In that case, use your friendship to find out. Maybe some of his ex-workmates can confirm he's an informer. Maybe even give us some dirt we can use to blackmail him into leaving."

"Sure," I replied, feigning compliance. There was no way in the world I was gonna treat Ryan like that. Con could take his paranoia and stick it in his eye.

"Good. Now go help unload the truck."

I nodded and rushed off to the help the others.

# Chapter Twenty

The truck unloaded, I grabbed my backpack, and high tailed it out of there. I hadn't gotten far, though, when I heard Ryan run up behind me.

"Wait up!" he called.

I reduced my pace but kept walking.

"Sorry about your father," he said.

"Thanks."

"And this happened last Thursday?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What, I'm gonna run around telling everyone about the most humiliating and infuriating event of my life?" What was with everyone thinking I should have told them about this? Didn't they get it? Why couldn't they put themselves in my shoes?

"Infuriating?"

"Because he was the family's major breadwinner and went and squandered all his money on filthy habits like drugs! And then paid the price for his indiscretions by getting thrown in prison, leaving us in the lurch. Why didn't he think what his actions would cost the family before he went careening down that path? I could just strangle him!"

"Do you know where he got the drugs from?"

"Can we just drop this?" I kicked a stone, sending it careening off the wooden fence of the Recycling Works.

"Well, do you?" He asked more forcibly this time.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Ryan! I wouldn't have a clue. Didn't even know he was taking them. None of us did. Now take a guess how that makes us feel?"

"You can't blame yourself for his choices, Brandon."

"He..." I didn't want share what happened to my father again. Telling Sofia had been painful enough.

"Yes?"

The compassion in Ryan's voice almost broke through my defences. I had to hold my breath to fight back the tears that threatened to spill out. "He's been having a hard time lately. We knew that but couldn't really do anything."

"Oh come on, I'm sure you tried. You don't strike as the kind of guy who sits back and does nothing when someone's suffering," he said.

"Okay, maybe I did. Though not hard enough, obviously."

"Have you visited him?"

"In prison?"

"Yes. It's not too late to let him know you still care, that you understand what he was going through."

"As much as I'd like to do that, I'm afraid that if I go to see him, my anger will get the better of me and I'll end up tearing his head off. And that's not gonna help, is it?"

"Probably not. Look, I'm here for you, you know, if you want to talk about it."

"Thanks."

We walked in silence for a bit, and I took comfort in his presence. There was something about him, his confident, calm demeanour, that made me want to know him more. I wished our friendship could last, that we could keep seeing each other as a couple of mates. Sadly, that was nothing but an empty pipe dream.

* * *

I got to the homeless shelter after a quick detour to the market. Sofia was slouching on a frayed single-seat sofa in the foyer, watching TV, and I almost went and put my foot in it by calling out to her. Luckily, I caught myself just in time and turned the wave to a scratch on the ear. I forgot I was impersonating Brandon, that he hadn't met her yet.

Sofia noticed me standing there just inside the door. She stood tentatively and approached me. I kept my cap down and averted my eyes.

"Hello. Are looking for someone?" she asked.

Remembering how bashful my brother was around girls, I did my best to emulate him. "Oh, ah, yes. You, um, wouldn't happen to know where the Thomas family is staying would you, Miss? A mother and two teenage girls. One's my height."

"You wouldn't happen to be Chelsea's brother, would you?" Her voice was tinged with hope. I so wished I could let her in on my secret. I felt like such a heel to be this close to her and yet deceive her.

"Ah, yes, that's me, Miss. Do you know where they're staying?" I glanced around, as though taking in the place for the first time.

"On the fifth floor, room 505. The elevator's the best way to get there." She pointed out the way.

"Um, great, thanks, Miss." I bowed my head in appreciation and hurried for the elevator.

"Oh, Brandon? If Chelsea's feeling better, can you tell her I'm down here?"

"What? Oh, of course." Sofia must have gone up to see me today and was told I was sick. In a town where a girl wasn't allowed to go anywhere by herself, that was the only excuse available to my mother to explain my absence.

I took the elevator upstairs and hurried to our room. Mother was sitting on the chair I liberated from the passageway outside. The armrests were broken off and the foam inner perishing, but it beat sitting on the floor. I couldn't see Karen, but I could hear her breathing coming from the 'bedroom.'

"Any sign of your brother?" Mother asked when I put down my backpack and took out the food I bought at the market.

"No."

"What is that boy doing!" she exclaimed with heartfelt frustration. She stood and came over to me. "What's all this? Where did you get it from?"

"I got a bit of a bonus today, so I ducked by the market. Here, eat up. Karen, I've brought food from the market."

The bed sheet suspended from the ceiling was swept aside and a very disgruntled Karen, her strawberry-blonde hair dishevelled and dress badly creased, came over to join us. When she came out, I noticed one of her worn but favourite dresses on her bed, as well as her sewing kit. She had been mending it. I handed them both chicken kebabs and had one myself. Then we tucked into a container of takeaway roast veggies and finished off with some dried fruits and nuts.

"Good?" I asked.

"Beats that slop they serve downstairs. Tell you what, if that's all we get to eat day in, day out, I'm going to waste away to nothing," Karen said. I noticed her eyes were red and puffy. She was still crying, poor thing. What fifteen-year-old girl wanted to go through a trial like this?

"Humph," Mother added.

I put one kebab and a bit of everything else in a spare container. "For Sofia," I said.

Mother frowned, but the expression left her face when I gave her seventy dollars. I kept the other hundred in my pocket to give Deacon the next time he showed his ugly face.

"Now quickly, get out of those clothes and wash your face before that pesky busybody comes back. She's been up here twice today, wanting to see you," Mother said.

"She's not a busybody. She's the kindest person I've met, and we owe her. If she hadn't shown us this room and helped us move in, where would we be today?"

"She doesn't have to keep knocking on our door, it's annoying!" Karen said. "Hasn't she got any other friends here? Someone's she met during her three years?"

"You could have gone downstairs and watched TV with her or something."

"Hello, newsflash. I don't want to be here. I don't want to talk to Sofia, and I most definitely don't want to sit in the foyer with a bunch of has-beens watching reruns on TV!"

"That's not fair, Younger Sister!" I snapped. "Everyone here has fallen on hard times, just like we have."

"Eldest Daughter – get changed!" Mother said.

I hurried to my 'bedroom' to change.

* * *

Dressed in a long, plain brown dress, with my face washed and my hair put up, I was about to pop out to find Sofia when the door was violently kicked in.

Alarmed, I fell back to stand beside my mother as Wells came barging into the room with Deacon at his heals.

"Like what you've done with the place," Deacon said. A broad smile adorned his spiteful features. He was enjoying our misfortune. Especially since he caused it.

Mother rose unsteadily to her feet. "This them?" she asked.

Eyes wide with fright, I nodded.

"Mrs. Thomas, I presume? Honoured to make your acquaintance" Deacon reached out to shake her hand.

My mother kept her arms stiffly by her side. "You have no business here. Kindly leave or I will ask the supervisor to have you thrown out."

Deacon let his arm fall to his side. "Who do you think told us which room you were in? As to business, that's why we're here. Where's Brandon?"

"He's not here," I said.

Deacon sighed and looked to his brutish companion. "Wells?"

The larger man nodded and ripped down the sheets I'd so laboriously erected, leaving the entire room exposed. Karen, who'd been sitting on her bed repairing her dress, cried out and scooted back. She hugged her knees to her chest. I couldn't miss the shameless expressions the thugs wore as their eyes ran over every inch of her. Disgusting pigs, she was only fifteen!

"Check the bathroom," Deacon said.

Wells strode across the room, kicking our bags out of the way as he went. We heard him search the bathroom, opening the cupboards and throwing everything about. He returned a moment later, shaking his head.

"Where's your brother, Chelsea?" Deacon took a step closer, scowling menacingly.

"We don't know where he is." Mother eyed the two men fearfully.

"Of course you do." He took another step closer.

"We really don't," I said, backing away. I was afraid they might hit me again, and the memory of being unable to breathe while doubled over in agony was still fresh in my mind.

Anger flashed across Deacon's lined face. "Wells, turn the room inside out, they've got to have money stashed here somewhere."

Karen scampered over to us as Wells grabbed each of our bags, turned out their contents, and rifled through them with his meaty hands. He also went through Brandon's clothes, including the ones I wore today and dumped on his mattress.

He found the hundred dollars I left in the jeans' pocket and brought it over to Deacon. The older man snatched the money, stomped over to us, and held it in our faces. "Where's the rest of it?"

Hands shaking, Mother offered him the seventy dollars I gave her earlier.

"That's all?" Deacon looked at us with a condescending sneer.

"Please don't take it all," I pleaded. "We need to eat."

"You need to pay back your father's loan!" he shrieked, face reddening with rage.

We reeled backwards from his naked display of fury, only coming to a stop when our backs collided with the wall, Karen clinging to Mother.

"You said we could keep some the other day," I said.

"That was the other day!"

The hoodlum ran his hand through his thinning grey hair and stared at each one of us in turn. Finally, he pointed to my sister. "Come here, Karen. I want you to give a message to Brandon for me."

Glancing uncertainly at Mother, Karen took a hesitant step forward; thinking Deacon was going to ask her to memorise a message for our brother.

But when I saw the lustful, predatory smile on Deacon's face and the nod he gave to Wells, I leaped in front of her. "Don't you touch her!" I hissed, looking up into his smug face.

"Okay, you give it to him then," Deacon replied.

I barely had time to register his words when Wells drove his meaty fist into the side of my ribs. Agony lanced through my torso as the air was expelled from my lungs in a rush.

Karen threw her hands to her face and screamed.

"Stop it!" Mother shouted.

I tried to remain standing as I fought to regain my breath and ride out the pain, but Wells kicked my feet out from beneath me. I landed painfully on the scuffed linoleum floor, still desperately trying to draw a breath when he stomped on my thigh with a massive boot. A shrill scream escaped unbidden from my lips, and I rolled to one side to nurse the injured leg. Before I could do so, he brought his foot down on the other one.

I screamed again and curled into a ball, trying to shield myself with my arms. My legs hurt so bad I was sure they were both broken. My will to resist collapsed and I sobbed uncontrollably.

Suddenly my mother was there, kneeling over me. "Leave her alone!"

I felt rather than heard Deacon squat beside me. "Tell your brother to come see me in the staffroom at the back of the Derby Snooker Hall, after eight tonight."

With that, they were gone, striding out the door as though on a stroll through the park on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

I don't know how long I lay on the floor, crying as I rocked side to side and hugged my legs. The pain was like a living thing that pulsed with each heartbeat and spread towards my feet and up into my torso.

"We have to tell the Custodians!" Karen said. She hadn't moved from where she stood against the wall.

"We can't!" Mother said. She slapped a hand on the floor in exasperation. "If we do, they'll do a lot worse things to us than this! I could just kill your stupid father. If only he could see us now. Maybe then he'd realise the folly of his depravity and vices!"

"We have to get her to the hospital – should we call an ambulance?" Karen asked.

"No – they'll just ask questions we can't answer," I said, managing to find my voice again.

"But if your legs are broken–"

I stretched them out tentatively. They hurt like blazes but weren't broken. "Just bruised, I think."

"Cold water, then. Come on, Daughter, to your feet." Mother reached around my shoulders and helped me up. Karen stayed at the wall and watched, still shaking. I wondered if she realised just how close she came to receiving this beating instead of me.

Moments later I was undressed and sitting on a towel on the shower floor with my legs outstretched. Mother started the water warm and slowly turned down the heat until only cold flowed. It hurt so much at first I could barely breathe, but my legs grew became numb as they adjusted to the cold. I was lucky it was a relatively warm summer evening.

As I sat there, staring at Well's boot prints on my thighs already turning an ugly shade of black, all the happenings of the past week piled on top of each other. I started crying, deep, heart-wrenching sobs from the depths of my being that hurt more than they healed.

Mother reached out uncertainly, and then awkwardly patted the back of my hand. "Come on, no need for that."

I realised with a start that this was the first sign of tenderness she had shown me since I was twelve and had sided with my father against her.

They had been quarrelling like never before. It started with my father criticising my mother for relentlessly indoctrinating little Karen with the Founders' teachings, ruthlessly suppressing her questions and doubts. It had quickly descended into a shouting match where Mother brought up slights from the past. With tears in my eyes because of the horrid things she was saying to Father, I told her off good and proper, defending his point of view. That not only ended the argument but also my relationship with my mother. She didn't speak to me for days, and then only when she had to. We had never been close to start with, but ever since then, she treated me with disdain. As though I was an outsider, not her daughter.

# Chapter Twenty-One

The cold shower helped reduce the swelling, though I was still in a great deal of pain. By sundown, I decided I couldn't spend another moment lying still, cooped up in our room. I rolled off the bed and used the wall to regain my feet.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mother asked when I opened the door. She was sitting on the chair, using her sewing kit to repair the hem of an old dress.

"Downstairs to look for Sofia."

"Out of the question! What if those two hoodlums are still in the building?"

"I'm sure they've got better things to do than watch us all day and night."

"Elder Daughter–" She laid the dress aside and stood.

"I'll be fine, Mother!" I spoke much more strongly than intended and shuffled out the door.

I hobbled for the elevator, clenching my jaw with each step because it felt like someone was hammering nails into my thighs every time I put my foot down. I hoped I could walk tomorrow. Otherwise, I would not go to work, and if I didn't, that would compound the situation. No work, no money, and more 'messages' from Deacon.

My thoughts strayed back to last Thursday and my aborted escape attempt. If I'd gone through with it, I wouldn't be in this situation now, battered, bruised, and afraid of what tomorrow could bring. I was tempted yet again to make another escape attempt but angrily thrust it aside. I would not abandon my mother and sister.

A dozen people were in the foyer, watching an old movie from a few decades ago. As with most films made here, it was corny, second-rate, and contained a poorly disguised attempt to indoctrinate us in the Founders' ways. I hoped Sofia was here. I needed a kindred soul to share my woes with, but alas, there was no sign of her.

Having no desire to watch the movie, I cracked open the front door and sat on the front steps. I noticed the shelter's gates were locked. It was night now, punctuated by the chirp of crickets and screech of fruit bats. I found it somewhat refreshing.

A furtive movement to my left caught my attention. Straining my eyes in that direction, my mouth dropped open in shock when I recognised the outline of the person squatting beside the man-high rubbish hopper outside. A person wearing baggy clothes and a sports cap.

Brandon!

As I hobbled across the front yard to meet him, I waged an internal war to whether I should hug him or shoot him.

"Where the blazes have you been!" I whispered angrily when I reached the bin. Looked like I was going for the shoot him option.

He came closer, clearly concerned by the sight of me limping towards him. He looked terrible – gaunt, filthy, and pale. Like he hadn't eaten or slept for a week.

"What's going on, Chelz? Why are you limping? What are you even doing here? I popped home tonight to see you, but the flat's empty and a sign on the door told me to come here. How did this happen? Where's all our stuff? What's Father done now?" he whispered. Thanks to our enhanced hearing, we might be the only two people in town who could hold a conversation below everyone else's hearing range.

"I asked where you've been, Brandy!"

"Sorry, Sis, I needed time alone. Got some things I have to work through." Looking at Brandon was like looking in a mirror. Similar face, same colour hair, similar mannerisms and expressions.

"Whatever you're dealing with, snap out of it and pull yourself together! We need you!"

"I would if I could, Sis, but I can't face anyone. Not Younger Sister, not Father, and most definitely not Mother."

"Can't you at least go back to work?"

"Can't face them either," he said, looking down.

"Is this something to do with Dan Smith?" I asked.

His head shot up. "What do you know about that?"

"Just that he was killed in an accident the day you went all mysterious on us and disappeared."

He looked away again. The wind whistled through the evergreen trees that lined the edge of the property.

"Are you too afraid to go back to work? Was there a failing of workplace safety procedures that lead to Dan's death? Are you afraid this could happen to you?" I asked.

He shook his head, his expression pained.

"Are the others bullying you? Blaming you for the accident? Come on Brandy, give me something!"

"It's nothing like that!" he said.

"But it's got something to do with Dan, yeah?"

He nodded.

"Brandy..."

"Sorry, Chelz, I can't talk about it. It's too painful."

I sighed in exasperation. "At least tell me where you've been. I know you haven't been staying with your forager friends."

That got me another look. "Somewhere no one will find me – a basement under an abandoned house. Now tell me why you're in this place and why you're limping."

Against my better judgment, because I wanted to keep badgering him until he answered my questions to my satisfaction, I told him everything that happened since he ran off, including my efforts to impersonate him and go out foraging. His gaunt face went through a whole gamut of expressions, anger, shock, despair, rage, and finally defeat.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I wanna find those two guys and kill 'em – slowly – but I...I just can't deal with it right now. Sorry." He looked at me apologetically, hoping I'd understand.

I looked at his sallow face and the way his baggy clothes hung loosely on his lean frame.

"I can see that." I took his calloused hands in mine. "But you gotta eat, okay? And I mean properly. Get your strength back pronto, and then you'll be able to think more clearly."

"I'm trying, but I can't keep it down."

"You sick?" I placed a palm on his forehead, expecting to find him burning up with fever. But no, his skin was cool to the touch.

"Chelz, I know you're trying to help by foraging, but you gotta stop, okay? It's too dangerous. And I don't just mean the Skel. There are other things out there far more dangerous. And then there's the Custodians. If they catch you masquerading as me, you're gonna be in a world of pain. Those prison factories are no place for an innocent girl like you."

"I'm done being smothered by this place's rules and regulations, Brandy. I'm just as capable as you guys, and you know it."

My brother sighed. "Just as capable, yes, but also dangerously naive. You've been in my shoes for what, one week? All it's gonna take is one small slip up, and it's over. You hearing me?"

"I'm the one who took down a Skel and saved the team, Brandy. Not Con, Matt or Jack – even with their years of experience."

"I don't doubt your ability, Sis, but stuff's going down, dangerous stuff that you don't want to stumble across or get involved in."

"Stop speaking in riddles and tell me what you're talking about!"

"I can't!" He gave me that frustrated look he did when I wouldn't cooperate. "Now please, stop masquerading as me."

"Newsflash, we need to eat and pay off Father's gambling debt. Go back to work and I'll quit."

Brandon reached into his pocket and pressed several notes into my hands. "This is all I've got on me today. Don't put it in your room. Hide it somewhere no one will think to look, okay?"

"You got much more? Enough to pay off the eight weeks rent we owe?" I asked, suddenly hopeful. If he did, maybe we could move back to our flat and get away from this hole.

"I've got more back at the basement, but not enough to pay off the rent." He paused and searched my eyes, trying to reach a difficult decision.

"What?"

"Father stole the rest. At least I think he did. I mean, I never saved that much in the first place, but I hid over a thousand in my bedroom. It disappeared a couple of weeks ago," Brandon said.

"Did you confront him about it?"

"He denied it was him."

A terrible, insidious thought suddenly flashed into my mind. "Did you have drugs in your room too?"

His eyes widened, and he nodded, clearly ashamed. "Ah, yeah. They disappeared with the money."

"A dozen white pills in a plastic packet?" I asked.

He nodded. "Wait, are those are the drugs Father had? The ones they arrested him for?"

"So they weren't his at all?" My mind worked frantically through the implications of what that meant. "So why were they under his bed? Why did he tell the Custodians they were his?"

"Maybe he hid them to stop me using them, and then owned up to them to stop me taking the fall?"

"You didn't dob him into the Custodians, did you?" I asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Don't be daft, Chelz! Why would I do that?" He was genuinely shocked by my accusation.

"So who tipped off the Custodians then? I don't get it. Who else could have known he had your drugs under his bed?" I was even more baffled than I had been before.

"Mother?"

I shook my head. "No way. She can't stand the sight of him, but she wouldn't cut off the family's only breadwinner just to spite him."

"I don't know; he was giving Mother less and less money all the time. Maybe she got sick of it."

I thought of my mother and her shocked reaction when they found the drugs under his bed. I was sure it wasn't her. "I don't believe it."

"You're going to keep impersonating me, aren't you? Regardless of what I say?" Brandon asked a moment later.

"Until you come back to work, I don't have any choice."

I could tell he wanted to come back, so I didn't have to, but he just couldn't face it. "Okay. Look, I'm sure you'll be fine, you're just as capable as me–"

"Just as?"

"Okay, probably more so. Certainly more motivated. Just keep your wits about you, and don't get involved with Con and the others. Keep them at arm's length. I'll let you know as soon as I can return to work. Okay?"

"Got it. We're in Room 505 on the fifth floor, by the way."

Brandon nodded and gripped my shoulder. "I'd better go before someone sees me. Thanks for stepping up and looking after Mother and Karen."

I wrapped my arms around him, noticing how much less there was of him. "Thanks. Now go and eat something. If you can't eat much at a time, nibble all day. Get your strength back!"

He returned the hug, scaled the fence, and was gone. I listened for the slightest evidence of his footfalls outside in the street but got nothing. He was like a ghost!

I hobbled back into the building, wondering how Mother would react to the news that Brandon finally turned up but was in no condition to help us. One good thing came out of the conversation though. I knew why he ran away now.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

I had to massage the life back into my thighs just to be able to get out of bed when I woke. After that, I walked around the apartment, stretching as much as I was able. There was no way I was going to let those thugs stop me from going to work.

I threw down a barely nutritious meal from the kitchen downstairs and left for work an hour earlier than normal. Turned out to be a wise decision, as I had to stop frequently to rest my legs in spite of my determination to keep walking no matter how much it hurt.

In the end, I distracted myself from the near-crippling pain by replaying mother's reaction to Brandon's reappearance over and over in my mind. As expected, she didn't take it well, spending hour after hour venting her frustration and anger. And not just at Father this time, but at Brandon too – the first time I recalled her doing so. Oh, and at men in general. Men were useless, unreliable, and cowards who were unable to get back on their feet when life tripped them up. I tried to stick up for Brandon but barely got a word in edgeways.

* * *

"Whoa, Brandon, what happened to you?" Ryan asked when I hobbled into the Recycling Works. He was standing awkwardly beside Matt and Jack, with zero conversation going on.

"Tried using the stairs this morning and tripped. Got myself a whole new batch of bruises." I spoke gruffly and snorted as though amused.

"You weren't happy with the ones the Skel gave you?" Jack asked.

"Nah, you can never get enough of a good thing."

"You tripped down the stairs? This from the guy who owned a Skel?" Matt stared at me sceptically.

The door to the office swung open and Con strode out. He took one look at me walking and shook his head. "I don't even want to know."

He clambered into the truck, got behind the wheel, and stuck his head out the window. "In case you've forgotten, today's the day those idiots from the manufacturies are staging their stop-work protest. Need I remind you that we don't want to be here when things go pear-shaped."

"Stop-work protest?" Ryan asked as he climbed into the truck.

"You didn't hear about that?" Matt asked, all innocent like.

I forgot he wasn't there in the Foragers' Club that night Richardson dropped in to see us.

"Nope."

"Well, you didn't miss nothing. Just a bunch of twits from a factory or two trying to stir up trouble," Con snapped. "Now quit your chatter and get in!"

Jack bounced into the truck and noticed me eyeing the step dubiously. "Need a hand, Hermie?"

"Hermie?" I gave him my best Brandon-style death stare.

"You know, for hermaphrodite," Matt whispered loudly into my ear as he pushed past and climbed into the cab, forcing Jack aside.

"The backpack was my sisters!" So much for hoping they would forget about the sanitary pad.

"We believe you, Hermie." Jack chuckled and hi-fived Matt.

"You two are so dead!" My face went red with embarrassment. Was I ever going to live down that minor slip up?

Ryan gave me a sympathetic smile from where he sat beside Con.

"You and whose army, Hermie?" Matt laughed.

This was going to be a long day.

Con dropped off Ryan and me in the street we worked yesterday. He whispered they had to do another shift at the lab and then announced aloud for Ryan's benefit that they'd work some houses a couple of streets away. After that, they drove off.

"Alone again," Ryan grunted.

"Yep."

He shrugged, and we got to work. The door on the first townhouse we tried was stuck fast, so we climbed in through the shattered front window. We were in a long, narrow lounge-room with a cracked plasma-TV and sofas that used to be beige but were turning brown. The plaster walls were damp and covered by large patches of yellow and black mould that stank like rotten eggs.

"This place reeks!" I held my sleeve over my nose.

"Upstairs first then?" Ryan suggested, pointing to the iron spiral staircase at the back of the room.

"Stairs?" My spirits sank, thinking of how much the climb would hurt my thighs.

"Oh, right. You supposedly took a tumble down the stairs this morning."

"Supposedly? I did!" I tried to look offended.

"Come on Brandon, those stooges may have bought your story, but it's got more holes in it than a leaky boat."

"It's no story." I glared at him, irritated now.

He took a step closer. "You keep massaging your thighs and rubbing your side, but not your arms. That sound like injuries someone would get falling down stairs?"

"What are you, a detective?"

"I'm just concerned, that's all. Come on, tell me what really happened." His genuine, caring expression almost cracked my defences. I wanted to tell him the truth, but would die from humiliation if I did – he would learn about my father's gambling habits and that we lived in the homeless shelter.

"Fell. Down. Stairs."

"Thought we were man enough to be honest with each other."

"Really. Let's talk about you, then." I stuck my chin out defiantly. Two could play this game.

"What about me?"

"What happened at your last job? Why did you quit?"

Ryan looked exasperated. "This isn't about me, Brandon. It's about your inexplicable injuries. Considering your history, I'm worried you may have gotten yourself into some hot water."

"What history? What exactly are you implying?"

"Your father – the drugs? Whoever he got them from aren't your average model citizens. They're scum without a conscience. If you're involved with them somehow, I can understand your reluctance to talk about it."

Man, he was getting close with these guesses! Too close. I had to deflect him somehow. "I already told you I didn't know he was taking them, let alone where he got them from. Can't you just accept I fell down the stairs and leave it at that?"

"No. As I said, I'm worried about you."

"Well, don't be! I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

'You can be a right pain in the butt; you know that?" He threw his arms in the air.

"Me? What about your refusal to talk about your last job. Oh, let me guess, it's too painful to talk about."

"Actually, it is."

"In that case, it's too painful to talk to you too. About anything." I turned my back on him and hobbled off to look for paper.

A moment later, he stomped up the stairs, muttering to himself about how frustrating and annoying I was. Tough.

We didn't speak to each other for the rest of the day, just tiptoed around each other as we did our jobs. We even ate our lunches separately.

"Something happen between you two?" Jack asked when we were tossing the paper into the back of the truck when they came back to pick us up at five.

"Oh shut up," I snapped.

"Okay, Hermie."

A book hit the back of Jack's head.

"Oi!"

I sat up front next to Con on the way back, still fuming.

* * *

"That's not good," Matt said when we got back to town.

"What's not good?" Con demanded.

"There's a squad of Custodians outside the gates," I said.

"Guess their stop-work protest didn't go down as planned," Jack said.

Con brought the truck to a stop a good five meters from the gates and quickly addressed us. "If they start asking questions, we didn't know about the protest, got it?"

"What does it matter if we did?" Jack asked.

Matt knocked on Jack's head. "Anything in there, or is it just space for rent? Think, man! What do you reckon the Custodians will do if they find out we knew about the protest but didn't report it?"

"Oh." Realisation dawned on Jack's youthful face.

"Out of the truck and line up!" bellowed the Custodian sergeant. As he came closer, two of his men went around to the back of the truck. I moaned inwardly when I realised it was Sergeant King. Again. What was with this guy – were our meetings coincidences or was he deliberately on my case?

We climbed slowly out of the truck and lined up in front of it. I made sure I didn't stand next to Ryan. I had had enough of his hypocritical attitude today, not to mention he was getting too close to the truth.

"What have you model citizens been up to today?" King looked directly at me as he spoke.

"We've been foraging, Sir." Con's voice bordered on insolence.

"Is that right?" King mocked.

The Custodians who went to the back of the truck returned. "Truck's full of books and paper, Sir."

King seemed moderately surprised. "Any of you know about this stop-work protest?"

"Protest, Sir?" Con replied.

"Cut the bull, Dimitriou. I know you foragers always have your finger on the pulse." King stepped closer, giving Con a taste of his own standover tactics.

"Actually, we're a tight-knit bunch who keep pretty much to ourselves. Sir."

King came over to me. "What about you, Thomas – anything to add?"

"About what, Sir?" I gave him a sickly sweet smile. The one Brandon used to drive me nuts when he made fun of me. Something he did a lot. A sign of affection in his case.

"One of these days..." King's voice trailed off, but his animosity was unmistakable. He had it in for us. For me. "Right then, back in the truck and follow us to the Recycling Works. You will be spending the night there."

"Excuse me, Sir?" I stepped forward, alarmed. I couldn't leave my mother and sister alone. What if Deacon and his pet dinosaur dropped in?

"The town's in a state of lock-down," the sergeant replied, revelling in the discomfort it caused us. "No one is permitted on the streets for any reason."

"But–"

"Drop it, Brandon," Matt whispered, propelling me towards the truck. "Nothing good's going to be gained by antagonising him further."

"My family–"

"Can survive a night without you. Now move!"

Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me after him. "Come on, mate, Matt's right."

I climbed into the cab after him, but not after a glance at Ryan. I was surprised to see him studying me carefully, no doubt trying to ascertain the reason I was so desperate to get home.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

"What's going on, Boss?" Con demanded when we were back in the Recycling Works yard in front of the office entrance. We were with all the other foragers – there were over forty of us. Sergeant King had shepherded us to the yard and left. I could hear Custodian vehicles patrolling the streets outside, though – Bushmaster Armoured Mobility vehicles and G-Wagons.

Trajan Barclay stood on the office steps, looking extremely flustered.

"We really gonna spend the night locked in here?" I asked.

"What are we supposed to eat – recyclables?" Gerry asked. He worked in one of the metals foraging teams, apparently.

Trajan held up his hands. "All I know is that a handful of factories over near the markets went on some sort of strike, demanding certain concessions be met before they would go back to work."

"Do you know if any of their concessions were met?" I asked.

"I haven't heard one way or the other, only that the Custodians went mad, put the town in lock-down, and then hit those factories. They arrested the ringleaders and a bunch of others, then sent the rest home," he replied.

"Doesn't look likely, then." My spirits sank. So much for hoping the stop-work protest would garner enough concessions to improve the quality of life here.

"No, it doesn't."

"This place is a flippin' prison," Gerry complained.

"That's common knowledge down here in Newhome proper," Matt said. "The North Enders have it made, but we're just a slave labour force."

"At least the men get to work. The girls and women are just slaves, full-stop," I added. I was so sick of this place. I had to get out of here.

"If you lot are going to think things like that, don't say them out loud!" the boss hissed. "I know where you're coming from, but if a Custodian were to overhear you speaking like that, you'd be up on sedition charges."

I noticed Con and Matt glance suspiciously at Ryan. No guesses to what they were thinking.

Other foragers started to bombard the boss with questions, but he held up his hands again. "Enough already. And before you ask, there's no food here. You're just gonna have to tough it out tonight and hope they let us go home in the morning. Just be glad I ain't asking you to work. Now git! Go find some corner and talk, play cards, or sleep, I don't care. Just stay out of my hair."

The boss stormed back through the office doors and disappeared. I guessed he wanted to get home just as much as we did.

"Bet he's got food stashed up there," Gerry said wistfully.

"The scumbag," Jack said. That elicited a few laughs.

Grumbling, cursing and cussing, the foragers split into cliques and teams, some going into the warehouse, others remaining in the yard.

Still cut about my argument with Ryan this morning and despondent because of the protest's failure, I wandered alone into the warehouse. Although fluorescent lights hung from the corrugated roof, it was getting gloomy inside thanks to the sun sinking slowly towards the horizon, letting little light through the windows.

I meandered past piles of broken washing machines, dishwashers, oil and gas heaters, and untold other mechanical things the metals forager teams had brought in. Then came huge metal cages stuffed half-full of books, newspapers, magazines, cardboard and paper. Massive heaps of plastic were on the other side of the warehouse, but what caught my eye was the haphazard pile of wooden articles stacked in the warehouse's back corner. Desks, chairs, beds, wardrobes, dressers – broken for the most part. These were items discarded by the town's inhabitants. Beside them were piles of timber, cut neatly to required sizes.

I was about to wander off when something caused my breath to catch in my throat. Hardly believing my eyes, I rushed closer to the discarded furniture and stood there in a state of disbelief – I was staring at my own wardrobe. Thrown on top of it were my mother's and father's wardrobes. A quick glance around and I soon spotted our beds, chairs, and dining table.

The thing caused me such anguish, though, was that our perfectly good furniture had been thrown onto the pile like junk, damaging or smashing it in the process. Table and chair legs were broken off, doors split through, hinges torn away, drawer knobs smashed off, and dints and scratches galore.

What a waste! Our furniture had signs of wear and tear, that was true, so why didn't they sell it off cheap or send it over to the homeless shelter where it would have been put to immediate use?

I ran my hand along the dining room table, my fingers finding a deep scratch that brought back memories.

Brand and I were seven, sitting at the dining room table drawing in scrapbooks with textas our father bought at the market. He was drawing Custodians shooting Skel. I was drawing a picture of the flat I wished we lived in. A flat that looked remarkably like the ones in North End we could see over the dividing wall. Our sister, four years old, played over near the TV with a cloth doll mother made for her.

"Can't get this lid off," Brandon said. He was pulling on it as hard as he could.

"If you didn't bash them on when you finished using them..." I said.

"More fun that way." He beamed merrily.

"Here, I'll get it off." I reached out my hand.

He gave me the texta. I grabbed a pair of scissors, closed them over the cap, twisted and pushed with all my might.

"Not like that!" he squeaked.

Unfortunately, his warning came too late. The scissors pulled off the cap, but also slammed into the polished surface of the table, creating a deep furrow.

"Oops," I said, face heating up when I realised the enormity of what I'd done. Mother would kill me.

My eyes widened in terror when we heard mother heading our way. Quick as a flash, Brandon snatched the scissors from my hands.

Mother saw the damage to her precious table immediately and her mouth opened in shock.

"Sorry, Mother, I slipped," Brandon said with what appeared to be genuine remorse.

I watched her face going through a series of emotions – from distress, to rage, and finally, acceptance. She never truly got angry at her precious son. Though had she realised it was I who cut the table; she would have lost her rag and sent me to my room without lunch.

"Be more careful, Son," she admonished gently.

"Yes, Mother," Brandon said, winking at me.

I mouthed a silent, "Thank you."

"So you're going to hide back here and sulk all night?" Ryan asked. His voice was tinged with anger.

I jumped to my feet, sniffing back tears. Too emotional to talk, I avoided his gaze.

"Crying over broken furniture now?" he asked.

"Will you get off my case?"

He exhaled with frustration. "I'm not on your case."

"Then what do you call it? Harping on about my injuries and your theories as to how I got them?"

"I know you didn't get them falling down the stairs–

"There you go again." Angry, I met his gaze.

He looked at my dining room table and frowned. "I don't get you, Brandon. You own a Skel and save our lives with feats of dexterity the likes of which I've never seen. Then you turn up this morning like the proverbial walking wounded and get angry when I raise it with you. And now I find you crying over busted-up old furniture? Seriously, man, what gives?"

"Can't you give me some space? This hasn't been a good day for me, okay? I was hoping the stop-work protest would achieve something, you know, like better living conditions. Instead, we learn it was crushed with typical Custodian brutality." And of course, there was him with his too-close guesses and not speaking to me all day.

I turned to leave, but he reached out and grabbed my arm.

Majorly annoyed, and concerned he'd realise my arm wasn't masculine, I quickly shook off his hand. "Let go of me!"

Ryan slapped a hand to his forehand. "Look, sorry, mate. I didn't come here to argue with you."

"Then why did you come?"

"I wanted to talk."

"Funny way of going about it." I gave him the evil eye.

"Sorry, I'm not the easiest person in the world to get along with." He smiled sheepishly.

"No kidding."

"Hey, you're no ray of sunshine yourself!"

"If you came over here to insult me–" I made to leave. He reached for me again, hesitated, and lowered his hand.

"I came over here to tell you that you're right. If I won't talk about my past, why should you?" he said.

That stumped me. Why didn't he say that in the first place instead of accusing me of sulking?

"Okay, I'm listening," I said.

He grabbed a chair that still had four legs from the pile of discarded furniture and sat down.

"I was working in an automotive factory before I came here. Kind of enjoyed it too, but one of the experienced mechanics stuffed up and an apprentice was badly injured. However, rather than tell the truth, the mechanic and all the other guys who saw the accident covered it up, testifying it was the apprentice who made the mistake that caused the accident. The poor guy was taken to the hospital and sacked on the same day."

I sat on the edge of a broken wooden desk. "So where do you fit into all this?"

Ryan looked down as he continued. "I went to the boss the next day and told him what really happened, and gave him evidence of the cover-up. The boss sacked the mechanic on the spot and reported him to the Custodians. Unfortunately, none of the other guys saw the situation as I did. Suddenly I was public enemy number one. Not only did they all shun me, they also orchestrated a revenge campaign, breaking my tools, sabotaging my work, stealing my lunch, urinating in my drink bottle. Even those I'd counted as friends turned on me. All of them."

"And so you left." Now I understood why he wouldn't let me near him when he first joined us.

"Yeah." He looked up. "Had to. I did the right thing, but it cost me everything. A job I enjoyed, the respect of my workmates, and all my friends."

"Not all of them," I said, giving him a friendly punch on the shoulder.

"Thanks, mate." He rewarded me with the first heartfelt smile I'd seen him give.

I sighed, wishing life was always like this. That guys and girls could meet and socialise freely without fear of being arrested for inappropriate contact with the opposite sex.

"You wanna tell me the furniture story now?"

I jumped off the desk and ran my hand over our dining room table. "This table, those wardrobes, chairs, beds – they're ours. At least they were, until last Saturday."

"What are you talking about?"

"We got evicted after my father was arrested." My face burned red with shame from sharing a part of my life I had intended to keep hidden. "He owed eight weeks back rent and we had no money. Not even me. And as we could only take with us what we could carry, the rest was auctioned off or brought here."

"So where are you living now – with relatives?"

"The homeless shelter," I replied, my voice coming out as a croak.

"Really? Sorry mate, I had no idea. I feel the complete heel, going on at you when you've been going through all this."

"Don't beat yourself up. I should have told you; I was just too embarrassed."

"You've got nothing to be embarrassed about, Brandon. Stick your chin up and let everyone see your backbone. It's not where you live that makes the man; it's who you are and how you behave."

"Thanks, I needed to hear that."

"Hey, you hungry?" He gave me a sly smile.

"There's no food."

"I've always got extra crackers and dried fruit in my bag. Enough for two, in fact." He slipped off his backpack and unzipped it.

"I ain't gonna say no, but what about everyone else?" Thinking of us scoffing food while every else starved sent pangs of guilt shooting through me.

"They'll live. Besides, it's really only a snack." He winked as he handed me a handful of crackers.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Ryan and I made small talk until the early hours of the morning. He went on a trip down memory lane, recounting some of his experiences in school. Having never been to school myself, I shared some of my brother's school adventures. Pranking the teachers, getting one up on the bullies, putting red food dye in the toilet tanks. By the time he fell asleep on the floor, Ryan had gotten to know my brother pretty well.

I tried to get some sleep in a chair, but it was too uncomfortable. I had never been able to sleep on my back, and I couldn't sleep on my side because it would reveal my narrow waist.

Nature called so I headed for the toilets. Lucky for me they were all enclosed cubicles. I noticed that half the foragers had fallen asleep and the rest were still talking or playing cards.

I was almost there when Con jumped up from where he was sitting with a bunch of plastics-and-paper foragers.

"Wait up, Brandon," he called as he hurried over to me.

"Aren't you old enough to go to the toilet by yourself?" I asked.

"Funny." He joined me, practically standing on my toes. I was glad for the cap. He would probably stand nose to nose otherwise. "Spending the night with our friendly informer, I see."

"How many times do I have to tell you he's not an informer?"

"Have you found out where he worked previously?"

"An automotive factory."

"He told us that when we met him. I want to know which one." He glowered at me, exasperated.

"I tried, but he won't open up. Just says his last job was too painful to talk about."

"What the blazes have you two been talking about all night then?"

He was watching us? An involuntary shudder wracked through me. "School days, mostly."

"Man, you're utterly useless, you know that?" he spat.

"Thanks for the compliment."

"Don't smart-mouth me, boy. Try the direct approach, ask him outright."

I rolled my eyes. "I already did. If I press the issue, he just clams up and won't talk to me for hours. Like he did today."

"We've got to find a way to get him off the team; he's really cramping our freedom. If you can't get me the name of where he worked so I can get some dirt on him, I'm going to have to try more drastic measures."

That sent chills down my spine. "Like what?"

"Don't worry your little head about it." He turned and stomped back to his friends.

I hurried to the toilet, mind awash with fears for Ryan's safety. They already tried to get rid of Ryan by letting Skel capture him. So what exactly would 'drastic measures' entail? From here on, I would have to really keep my wits about me, watching over Ryan as well as keeping an eye on the other three goons.

* * *

After what was for many of us a sleepless night followed by a day in which we sorted recycling materials into piles, they let us go home in the afternoon. By then we were starving, grumbling and irritable from having been locked in the warehouse for twenty-four hours with nothing to do. Before he let us go home, the boss filled us in on what happened to the protestors. The leaders and other notables were sentenced to lengthy prison-factory sentences, and everyone else who participated was given a hefty fine.

It galled me that Con had been right when he told us not to get involved.

* * *

It was Friday lunchtime. We were back in the same street, foraging for paper. Con said the council was about to publish a new handbook outlining the town's ideologies and demanded truckloads of recyclable paper.

Ryan and I ate our lunch sitting on a pile of bricks in the small backyard of a townhouse. The other three were next door, by the sound of it. Con hadn't made any moves towards Ryan yet, but I was on full alert, ready for anything but having no idea what it would be.

Voices coming from the property behind us startled me from my reverie.

"What is it?" Ryan asked.

I held a finger to my lips. "I thought I heard something."

"Skel?" He jumped to his feet, eyes wide.

The voices were not guttural like Skel, and I could hear males and females, chatting amicably, even laughing. I picked my way silently towards the back fence, moving through knee-high wild grass that grew beneath a tree whose branches formed an umbrella over the yard.

"What are you doing!" Ryan hissed.

Reaching the fence, I knelt and looked through a gap between the rotting wooden planks. I saw a large shed with asbestos walls and a corrugated roof, and a dilapidated house behind it. Four youths were in the backyard, two guys and two girls, all about my age. They had removed boxes of tools and equipment from the shed and laid them out on the wide concrete area between the house and shed.

"Anyone know what this is for?" asked a tall, slim guy with brown hair. He was struggling to hold up a strange iron contraption with wheels, levers, and threaded rods.

"It's an old lathe," replied one of the girls. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, but considerably more solid.

"How do you plug it in?" he asked.

"That's only part of it," she replied. "Rest is still in the shed."

"How do you know so much, Jen?" the guy asked.

"She actually does things with her dad," replied the second guy. He was built like Ryan, a bodybuilder, and of Indian ancestry, at a guess.

"Sorry, milking cows and farming just doesn't do it for me. Plenty more interesting things in the world," the tall guy said.

The other girl, who had been watching her companions banter good-naturedly, suddenly pointed to my position and staggered backwards in fear. "Someone's there!" she shrieked.

In the bat of an eye, the four of them pulled handguns from their belts and aimed them at me.

"Whoever you are, you've got three seconds to put your hands up and show yourself, or we'll blow your head off!" the Indian guy shouted.

I almost died when Ryan unexpectedly grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away.

"Let's go, Brandon!" he whispered fiercely.

Following a hunch that these kids were not bad news, I shook his hand off, stood, and lifted my arms above my head. The top half of the fence plank was missing, so they could see me clearly.

"We mean you no harm," I said, speaking slowly but clearly.

"Who are you and why you spying on us?" asked the heavyset girl. Her gun was aimed at my head.

"Not spying, just curious. Never seen guys and girls working together before," I replied.

The Indian lowered his gun. "From Newhome, huh?"

I nodded. "You've heard of our town?"

"We've bumped into one of your teams before," he replied. "How many of you are there?"

"Just two," I replied. I didn't want to reveal there were five of us, just in case they didn't have honourable intentions.

"Well, don't stand there with your arms waving about. Hop over and say hello proper like," he said. He put his gun back in his belt.

I looked at Ryan. "Shall we?"

"We really shouldn't. We don't know anything about them."

I stared at him, debating whether to obey him or not.

"Don't be shy, we don't bite," said the second girl. They had all put their guns away.

"I want to meet them." I looked at Ryan and then used a low hanging branch to clamber over the fence. To my relief, they didn't attack me. No doubt concerned for my safety, Ryan scrambled over the fence a moment later.

The kids stood, shook our hands, and introduced themselves. The tall guy was David, the Indian was Mukesh, and the girls were Wendy and Esther. I had to elbow Ryan in the ribs to say his name. He clearly didn't trust them.

"Where are you guys from?" I asked.

"Ballarat," Esther replied.

"You're foragers?"

"Sure are. We're looking for old tools this week. Many of our farms still use equipment and machinery from the dark ages." She laughed, a rich, musical sound. I couldn't pick her background, but I figured she had some Asian in her, going by her slim figure, eyes, and dark hair.

"You have farms?" I was spellbound

"Of course," David said.

"But your town wall must stretch for miles and miles!" I could scarcely imagine what they were describing.

"We don't have a wall. Just a sprawling town surrounded by acres of farms, grazing land, and vineyards," he replied.

"But what about the Skel? And how do your Custodians – your police force – keep your people in line?" I asked.

"We have army reservists to deal with Skel. We have police too, but I think you'll find they're nothing like your Custodians, from what we've been told. Our society..." David turned to the others. "How do I explain it?"

"Our people enjoy a lot more freedoms than you Newhomers do. We can come and go as we please, there's no segregation of males and females, and no specific gender assigned roles," Esther said.

"Males and females are allowed to mix freely?" I was awestruck by this revelation.

"Of course."

From there I couldn't help myself, bombarding them with question after question. I soon learned that the people of Ballarat lived an idyllic existence compared to ours. I was stunned, amazed, and jealous to hear how other Australians lived. And it wasn't just the inhabitants from Ballarat, either. Esther assured me that their way of life was the norm for all other Australian towns.

So what was with Newhome? Who were the Founders, and why did they set up such a restrictive system, forcing us to live like prisoners. I knew what they claimed – it was all meant to create a society that wouldn't make the same mistakes as our forefathers. Yet how did that make any sense when there were other towns out there not following the same laws? What was I missing?

It became obvious I would never stop picking the Ballarat forager's brains, so Ryan reminded me we had work to do. The thought suddenly occurred to me that I could ask these kids if I could come back to Ballarat with them today after they finished foraging. From what they told us, I was sure they would say allow it. But as tempting as that idea was, I couldn't do it. Who would look after my family if I did?

Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. If I couldn't escape alone because I wouldn't abandon my family, I had to take them with me. The question was how.

We parted company with the kids from Ballarat and got back to work, my mind awash with a multitude of thoughts about the freedoms everyone else in Victoria – if not Australia – enjoyed.

The day finally drew to an end, and we trucked back home. As it was Friday, we got paid, though this was no cause for celebration, but for fear and trepidation. It meant I would have to face Deacon and his sadistic offsider again, and if they weren't happy with me handing over most of my wage, they would give me another hiding.

With my heart racing, I hurried out of the Recycling Works towards home. I wished there was some way that my family and I could escape my father's legacy. I couldn't live in a constant state of anxiety because of the debt collectors and their heavy-handed approach. I had to find a way to get free! And not just me, but my family as well.

After crossing the road, I was walking past a ten-storey apartment block when two familiar forms stepped out from behind the building.

It took all my willpower not to turn tail and run for it, though my hands strayed subconsciously towards the foot-sized bruises on my thighs.

"Next time I tell you to do something, Brandon Thomas, you do it! You got me?" Deacon snarled.

"Touch one of my sisters again and you'll never see another cent from me. Have you got me?" I took out the wage envelope and held it in front of him with a clenched fist.

"You insolent lout!" In a blur of motion, he grabbed me by the collar and slammed me back against the apartment wall. He followed this with a fist into my midriff, winding me. I folded over his arm and dropped the money. Thankfully, he didn't possess Well's strength. Otherwise, I'd be on the ground gasping for breath.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Shouted a familiar voice.

Oh no, it's Ryan!

# Chapter Twenty-Five

We turned and saw a somewhat incensed Ryan running towards us. Straightening up a little, I met his gaze and frantically shook my head. I didn't want him to get hurt too – I'd never be able to look him in the eye again.

"Take your hands off him!" Ryan barked when he reached us.

"This doesn't concern you, boy," Deacon said. He let go of me and turned to confront Ryan. They were about the same height, but Wells towered above them both.

"You touch my friend; it concerns me. Now nick off." Ryan wasn't cowed in the slightest, but he had no idea of the danger he was in.

Deacon gave an almost imperceptible nod and stepped back. Wells immediately leapt into action, striding forward and swinging a punch at Ryan's head that would fell a tree.

Ryan sidestepped and effortlessly redirected the blow past him. After that, he snapped a right jab into Wells jaw and followed with a left cross. The big man staggered back, blinking rapidly as he tried to maintain his balance.

"You punk!" Deacon snarled. He came in next, fists swinging.

Ryan stepped in closer, letting a punch glance off his jaw that made his teeth rattle. Undaunted, he slammed a left hook to the side of Deacon's face followed by an uppercut that snapped his head back. The older man went down, shaking his head. He seemed genuinely surprised that Ryan bested him, but not as much as me, perhaps. I thought they would've pummelled Ryan into a bruised and bloody pulp. Where on earth did he learn to fight like that!

Deacon regained his feet, and Ryan moved towards him with fists raised, but I jumped forward, grabbing his arm and tugging him backwards. "Stop – please!"

Ryan looked at me in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Deacon glanced at Wells, and when he saw he was still unsteady on his feet, he turned back to me. "You'll pay for this." With that, he placed a hand on his towering sidekick, and the two of them disappeared amongst the apartment blocks.

My heart missed a beat when I saw the envelope with my wage lying on the sidewalk. Deacon hadn't even bothered to pick it up. I was so dead! The beating they gave me as a message to Brandon was going to seem like a friendly pat on the back compared to what they'd do next time I saw them. Worse, they'd probably attack both "Brandon' and "me," meaning I'd get a double thrashing.

Ryan grabbed me by the shoulders and swung me around to face him. "What's wrong with you? Why weren't you fighting back? Why did you stop me?"

"What's wrong with me? Do you know what you've just done?" I was scared, angry, and shaking.

"What I've done? Why did you just stand there and let them rob you?"

"They weren't robbing me! Why couldn't you have just butted out?" I spat. "Didn't you notice me shaking my head, telling you not to get involved?"

I batted his hands away from my shoulders and paced up and down, fretting, wondering if I should grab the money and race after them. Maybe if I got on my knees and apologised they'd let me off easy? Yeah, right.

Ryan took hold of my elbow. "If they weren't robbing you, what were they doing? I saw you handing over your wage!"

I tried to shake off his hand, but his grip was like a vice. "Ryan, you've made everything a hundred times worse!"

"Made what worse? Come on, Brandon, talk to me." His face suddenly lit up. "The injuries you had on Wednesday – they did that to you?"

"Just drop it!"

"Answer me, blast it!"

"Okay, yes. It was them. And now thanks to you, the next time I see them they'll put me in the hospital!"

"You owe them money, right?" He looked mildly sympathetic.

Reluctantly, I nodded.

"Because they supplied you with drugs?"

"Oh, for goodness sake, lay off about the drugs!" I shouted, forgetting to keep my voice an octave lower. Fortunately, he didn't seem to notice.

"If not drugs, then what?"

"My father racked up a ton of debt, okay? Debts they lumped on me when he was locked up."

"Leaning on people because they owe money is illegal, Brandon. Go to the Custodians and those two will be behind bars quick smart. I'll even testify on your behalf."

"They've made it clear that if I do that, their associates will get revenge against my mother and sister – sisters. So I'm trapped, Ryan."

"How much do you owe? Maybe I can help?"

That concerned look framed his face again, compassion pouring from his eyes. How I wished we could share genuine friendship, not one marred by my deception. He was such a nice guy.

I sighed. "Look, thanks, but it's gonna take my entire life to pay it off."

He let go of my elbow. "There's got to be a way out of this fix."

I plucked my money off the ground and stuffed it in my pocket. "If there is, I sure can't see it. Now, if you don't mind, I've got to get home and make sure those guys aren't paying my mother and sisters a visit."

"I'll come with you–"

"No! You've done enough!" I stuck my hands up, and then bolted, running as fast as I could manage. If those guys were headed for the homeless shelter, I had to get there before them. If they put me in hospital, so be it, but I couldn't let them hurt Karen or Mother.

Life sucked.

* * *

I got home in relatively short order and was relieved to find that Deacon and Wells had not popped over. I filled my mother and sister in on what happened. Needless to say, Mother was not happy. I gave her the packet of money to give to Deacon should they turn up when I wasn't here for some reason, and then we waited.

An hour passed and there was still no sign of them. I was so troubled in mind and soul that I dreaded my next confrontation with them.

Tired of my endless fretting and pacing, Mother eventually told me to shower and shed my Brandon persona.

I had just put up my hair when I heard booted feet approach our quarters. I could tell by the gait it wasn't Deacon and Wells. Worse – it was Ryan.

"Shoot!" I exclaimed, eyes darting frantically from my mother to my sister.

Karen rose unsurely to her feet. "What is it?"

"Someone's coming," I replied. I couldn't tell them that I knew who it was.

"Is it them?" Mother fished the money from her pocket, hands trembling.

The footsteps paused and there was a gentle knock at the door.

I glanced back at her. "No, I don't think so."

I knew I risked blowing my dual-identity if Ryan saw me, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to meet him as myself at last. The very thought sent butterflies flitting through my stomach. What if I didn't make a positive impression on him? What if he ignored me, seeking only to speak to 'Brandon.'

He knocked again.

"Shall I get it?" Mother asked, coming forward.

"No, I've got it." Heart racing, I opened the door halfway, and with head held high, stared at him sternly.

Ryan's eyes lit up with surprise. At first, I thought he'd made me, but after glancing at my purple birthmark and momentarily meeting my gaze, he quickly looked down, looking uncomfortable.

I couldn't believe it – he was shy!

Because of me.

Even better, he didn't realise who I was. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. With my damp hair put up in a bun, wearing an ankle-length brown dress with long sleeves, and without a baseball hat shading my face, I probably looked nothing like my alter ego.

"Can I help you?" I asked, taking care to use my normal voice.

"Sorry to disturb you, Miss. I'm Ryan Hill, one of Brandon's workmates. He lives here, right? I was hoping to speak with him." He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Sorry, he's not in at the moment." I stared at him, trying to hide my amusement at this insight into another aspect of his character. His normal confident self evaporated around girls. Who would have guessed?

"Do you know where he is? I'd really like to catch up with him?" He noticed me staring, and puzzled, returned my unwavering gaze.

"Sorry, he didn't say."

He nodded thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't happen to be his twin sister, Chelsea, would you?"

"That's right."

"It's a pleasure to meet you at last. I've heard so much about you."

I frowned. "Good things or bad things?"

"He talks very highly of you." He risked a hesitant smile.

"Lucky for him." I laughed.

"Hey, I brought something for you – for your family." He ducked out of view and then popped back with four wooden dining room chairs stacked together.

My hands flew to my mouth in surprise. They were our chairs, the broken ones I pointed out to him in the Recycling Works two nights ago. Except they weren't broken anymore.

I opened the door wider. "Brandon said the chairs were all busted up!"

Ryan blushed a dark shade of red. "Yeah. I, ah, fixed them. You know, in my own time."

For a moment, I feared he would ask to bring them inside and see the humiliating depths of our fall from grace. But to my amazement, he picked up the chairs one at a time and passed them to me.

I carried the first chair inside, to the wonder of my mother and sister. Karen accompanied me back to the door to help carry in the others.

"This is my sister, Karen," I said.

His eyes lit up at the sight of my beautiful sister. "Oh, ah, nice to meet you, Karen," he said. He smiled bashfully and then looked away before he could be accused of staring.

Karen accepted the chair he offered and retreated inside as fast as she could while still maintaining decorum.

"How did you get the chairs here?" I asked after we finished carrying them inside. Our room looked so much better already. Now we all had somewhere to sit.

"Borrowed a trolley."

I laid a gentle hand on his forearm. "Thank you for your kindness. It's something we've seen very little of these past weeks. I wish there were some way we could repay you."

His eyes widened at my boldness in initiating physical contact, even though it was innocent. "Oh no, it's the least I can do. Brandon's a mate, and besides, I owe him for saving my life."

"He did what?"

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"That he saved me – our whole team, actually – from a Skel ambush," he said.

I pursed my lips. "No, he didn't. Looks like I'll be having a word with that young man when he gets home."

Ryan looked taken aback. "I haven't gone and gotten him in trouble, have I?"

"No more than he deserves." I smiled again.

Ryan laughed. "You're pretty funny; you know that?"

"You making fun of me, Ryan Hill?"

"Of course not!" He seemed taken aback by the suggestion. "It's just that you're not like other girls I've met."

"You meet a lot of girls?" I fixed him with an accusatory stare.

"No! That's not what I meant. You're just more self-assured and upbeat than I'm used to."

"I'll take that as a compliment. I think." I was fighting to stop myself from laughing.

The door abruptly swung wider, and my mother appeared, her face an iron mask. "Thank you for bringing over our chairs, young man. We are in your debt. When Brandon returns, I will let him know you were looking for him."

That said, my mother pulled me back from the door and shut it in Ryan's face.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

"Mother, that was rude!" I protested after I heard Ryan's footsteps recede towards the elevator.

"You were embarrassing yourself, Eldest Daughter – practically flirting with him!"

"How dare you accuse me of being immodest!" I was so tired of her attacking my person and character.

"I was standing right here!"

"He's pretty cute, actually," Karen said. She had a dreamy look in her eyes.

"Oh, don't be so naive. All males are the same – utterly useless." Mother was glaring at both of us now.

"Is he in Brandon's foraging team?" Karen asked.

"He is, though he and Brandon haven't actually met."

"What are you talking about? He was asking after him," Mother said.

"He joined the foraging team the same day I did. So it's me he met, not Brandon."

That rattled her cage. "You mean to say you're working with that young man every day? I'm really not happy with you masquerading as your brother, Daughter. More now than ever. How long before they discover who you really are?"

"They won't."

"All it will take is one small slip up."

The sanitary pad falling out of my backpack sprang immediately to mind. "I'm being careful."

"Make sure you're never alone with him – or any of them, for that matter." She stared at me, trying to ascertain whether that had ever been the case.

"Don't worry, Mother, there's five of us in the team."

She turned away, muttering to herself, and sat in the battered homeless shelter chair, rather than in the one Ryan delivered. She was so infuriating!

* * *

I couldn't sleep that night, just tossed and turned as an endless parade of horrific scenarios ran through my mind. What would happen should Deacon front-up tomorrow?

I skipped breakfast when morning came, moping about until it was nearly midday. When it became apparent the debt collectors' were not going to visit us, I donned my Brandon disguise and hit the town in an attempt to walk off the palpable anxiety that was threatening to send me into hysteria.

As I wandered through poorly maintained streets set between ten-story apartment blocks, I realised I simply couldn't face another beating like the last one. I had put on a brave face for my mother and sister, but I was quaking with terror now. I couldn't even handle the thought of Wells stomping on my legs again with his massive boots, and I knew that what they did next time would be far worse. And all thanks to Ryan. I knew he meant well, but I was going to pay for it with broken bones if not worse. My life had descended into an endless living nightmare, and I couldn't live like this anymore.

I walked aimlessly down the road leading to the town's eastern gates, thinking of the foragers from Ballarat and the freedoms they enjoyed. No Custodians, freedom to come and go as they pleased, no town walls, and equality for women.

Seething with resentment, I stared at the twelve-foot-high gates, the five Custodians standing guard before them, and the guard tower on the wall beside it.

Then, as though a light had been switched on, I knew what I had to do to escape Newhome with my family. A bold, daring plan formed in my mind even as I stood there. A plan that would work, I was sure of it. I wouldn't be able to do it alone, though. It required numbers, preparation, and careful planning.

I had to see Con and convince him to take the idea onboard. It was my only hope. I pivoted about and hastened to the Foragers' Club, figuring Con and the others would be there, since it was Saturday. As I went, I continued formulating the plan, throwing up every possible obstacle I could think of, and seeking a solution to overcome it.

* * *

"You wanna run that by me again?" Con said, his beady eyes almost bulging out of his head. He had been playing pool with Matt and a couple of guys I didn't know. When they finished, I dragged him and Matt over to a table in the corner where no one could overhear us.

"Let's escape this dump – us foragers and our families – and go to Ballarat," I repeated. "You do know about Ballarat, right? No Custodians, no wall, no oppressive society."

"That's what I thought you said." Con stared at me as though I was off my rocker. "And of course I know about Ballarat!"

"Well?"

"How exactly do you suggest we do that? Go up to the Custodians and politely ask if we can leave?" Matt asked.

"We meet near the eastern gates in the early morning hours, overpower the guards on watch and in the tower, open the gates, and run."

"That's a fantastic idea, Brandon. I wonder why no one else ever thought of it?" Con's voice dripped with cynicism. "Maybe because of the curfew and Custodian night patrols that would make it impossible for anyone to get near the gates at night? Maybe because the Custodians at the gate have high-powered assault rifles?" He pushed his chair back, about to leave.

"We stage a distraction on the other side of town. That'll draw off the patrols. We deal with the guards at the gate with trickery. Put foragers on both sides of the gate, and send in a hysterical girl with fake blood all over her. While the guards are trying to deal with the girl, the foragers jump them."

"And the guard tower?" Matt asked.

"Those guards are watching the ruins, right? We rush them at the same time. Maybe even throw in a homemade flash bomb or something." I watched their reactions intently, hope etched on my face. They had to go for this; they just had to.

"You've been reading too many novels in the ruins," Con growled.

"I don't know – Brandon could be onto something here," Matt said. He furrowed his brow in thought.

"You can't be serious?"

"Think about it. If can we pull this off, we'll be free. No more sneaking around, looking over our shoulders, afraid we're gonna get busted at any moment. No more trying to amass enough money to buy our way into North End," he replied.

"Still easier said than done. What kind of distraction could be staged on the other side of town?" He looked at me.

"We set an empty building on fire," I said.

"Great if you want to drag the firefighters out of bed. Not if you want to distract the Custodian patrols," he said.

"Set fire to several buildings, then. Surely every Custodian and his dog'll go running, suspecting foul play," Matt said.

"So you think it's doable?" Con asked.

"It would have to be executed perfectly." Matt nodded.

The scepticism was slowly fading from Con's face. "Indeed. We would also have to plan for the walk to Ballarat. Everyone would need good shoes or boots, backpacks filled with a couple of day's worth of water and food, blankets, and some medical supplies. We'd also need guns in case Skel attack us on the way."

"Don't like our chances of smuggling guns in here," Matt said.

"You don't need to. Make a secret stash of guns, blankets, bottles of water and blankets in the ruins just outside town," I said.

"Good thinking, kid!" Matt thumped the table excitedly. "So the first thing we do after breaking out is go to that cache and load up. That would also make it much easier to move quickly through the town on the way to the gates before the breakout."

"How long would it take to get to Ballarat, by the way?" I asked.

"As I said, a couple of days," Con replied. He was eyeing me thoughtfully, no doubt contemplating a better future for the first time in his life.

"So, are we gonna do this?" I couldn't keep the hope from my face. I had half expected them to ridicule the idea and laugh in my face.

"Not so hasty, Brandon. First, I have to run it by the foragers we can trust to keep the lid on it. We need to get the majority of them on board if this is to have any chance of succeeding."

"The ones we can trust?" I asked.

"The ones who work at the lab, duh. Too many do-gooders amongst the others – one of 'em could even turn us in," he replied. "Oh, and before I even consider getting this ball rolling, I have one condition."

"Which is?"

"You don't breathe a word of this to Ryan."

I felt like I'd just been punched in the gut. The fact was, I hadn't consciously thought about asking him, as my thoughts were focused on getting myself and my family away from the debt collectors. But now that Con mentioned him, I realised that deep down I was hoping Ryan would come too. Because if he came, there would be no rules or regulations preventing us from spending time together.

"Promise me, Brandon, or this doesn't happen." Con's beady eyes bore right through me.

"Okay, fine!" I was irritated, and I let it show, but he had boxed me into a corner. My family came first – I simply had to get them away from this place and Father's legacy.

"Good." Con leaned closer. "Because if you let it slip and Ryan finds out, you'll give us no choice but to take matters into our own hands again. But if we do, the Custodian are sure to sit up and take notice this time."

"I won't tell him."

Con grunted in satisfaction, and then he and Matt went off to run the idea past some of the other foragers present. As I watched them go, I wondered what he meant when he said they would have 'to take matters into our own hands again.' What had they done in the past? Why would it draw the Custodians attention if they did it again?

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

When I got home, Mother was kneeling on the floor, making adjustments to one of her dresses. Karen was languishing in a chair, her latest cross-stitch creation lying untouched on her lap while she stared aimlessly into space. I was glad we had the common sense to bring our sewing kits with us. To have left those behind would have been a crime.

I dragged a chair over beside them, swore them to secrecy, and gave them the good news about the planned escape. Well, I thought it was good news. Mother just about had an apoplectic fit, and it took me half an hour to calm her down enough to listen to the rest of it. Our plan to get past the Custodians at the gate, the store of supplies outside the town for the trip to Ballarat, and the freedoms we'd enjoy once we got there.

"But most importantly," I said, in conclusion, "We'll be free of this debt and the constant threat posed by Deacon and his pet dog. Also means I won't have to risk being arrested for impersonating Brandon anymore."

Mother paced the room for several minutes and then turned to face me. "If – and I mean if – I let you do this, you have to promise me you'll find your brother and take him with you. Otherwise, he will be their next target."

"Haven't you been listening to me, Mother? The whole point of this is that we all go. Anyone staying behind would be Deacon's next target."

"I want to come. I don't want to spend another day in this hole. The grime and dirt, the slop they call food, and having nothing worthwhile to do." Karen looked defiantly at Mother, daring her to refuse her request.

"You'll come too, right, Mother?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I'm too set in my ways, not to mention too old to go trekking all the way to Ballarat. Besides, I have to wait for your father to get out of prison."

I was dumbfounded. "After all he's done to us, and all you've said about him, you want to wait for him?"

"He is my husband, Eldest Daughter. It is my duty."

"But what about Deacon? He'll come after you if we're all gone," I said.

She shook her head. "No, he won't. If you and Brandon are gone, there'd be no point, since women cannot earn an income."

"But Mother, as I told you previously, they said if we can't pay up, they'd take the money out of us in other ways. I'm sure you know what they meant."

"I will not go, and that's the end of it. I will consider letting you three go – but that is all."

I was about to protest more, but she held up her hand, silencing me.

I nodded, but I wasn't giving up. I would keep on her case until the day of the breakout. However, if she did remain behind, it meant someone would be there for Father when they let him out. As angry as I was with him, I found that thought comforting.

* * *

We hit the market the next day. Karen and I were on the hunt for new walking shoes, while Mother came as a chaperone since she was past the age needing to be chaperoned herself.

The market was a large open area filled with stalls, surrounded by brick-and-mortar stores, and was frequented by hundreds of shoppers, mostly women. A couple of squads of Custodians patrolled the area too, ready to pounce on any shoplifters or pickpockets. Too often in the past, I had witnessed their brutality as they apprehended criminals, striking them with gun butts if their quarry resisted in any way.

We threaded our way through stalls selling genetically enhanced vegetables and fruits, raw and cooked chicken, soy products, clothes, bedding, kitchen utensils and garden tools. We tried on a few pairs of sneakers in the stalls. They were cheap but very poor quality. Some were so shoddily put together they'd fall apart after a few kilometres, while others had irregularities that would cause agonising blisters.

In the end, we had to shop at one of the brick-and-mortar stores, where we found exactly what we needed. The only catch was that they were very expensive. I had to spend almost all the money Brandon gave me. We also had to deflect the shopkeeper's suspicions about why two girls were buying men's sneakers.

"For when we are gardening," I told him.

Our new shoes hidden in shopping bags, we stopped at one of the outdoor food vendors and bought a nutritious lunch of wholemeal bread, tofu cake, nuts and dried fruits.

I was putting the plastic takeaway container in my bag when a shadow blocked out the sun. I staggered back in alarm, only to relax when I saw who it was.

"Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Thomas, Chelsea, Karen," Ryan said. He appeared surprised to see us.

"Ryan," my Mother said, clearly uncomfortable.

Karen nodded shyly in greeting, I met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. I was impressed that he didn't glance at my birthmark this time.

"Doing a bit of shopping?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.

"That is the reason one comes to the market," Mother replied. "Now, if you don't mind, we have much to do."

"I can actually see you out here, Chelsea," he said quickly before we could move away. "It was pretty dark in the shelter."

"Is that a good thing?" I asked. I deliberately ignored Mother, who was glaring at Ryan for having the audacity to speak to a young woman who was not a family member, especially in public.

He laughed nervously. "Actually, you look like the female version of your brother."

"What? Are you saying I look like a boy?"

"No!" He looked terrified.

"Then are you saying my brother looks like a girl?"

"No!"

"Then what are you saying?"

"I, ah..." He ran a hand through his hair, a dozen emotions fleeing across his handsome face.

I was amused by the sight of this amazing, overly capable guy tongue-tied because of me.

"It's pretty obvious you're twins, that's all," he finally managed.

"Oh, relax, Ryan, I was just messing with you. You're not the first to point that out." I rewarded him with a grin. He returned it, clearly relieved.

"Daughter, that is enough," Mother said, indicating we should be going.

Ryan turned to my mother. "My apologies, Mrs. Thomas. I was hoping to have a word with Brandon. Is he here, somewhere? I really need to ask him something." He looked quite concerned, so it took a great deal of self-control to refrain from asking him what it was about.

"He left the shelter early this morning. He did not say where he was going," Mother said.

"Right, thanks, Mrs. Thomas. Well, be seeing you all." He flashed a shy smile in my direction and was gone, lost in the crowd.

Staring wistfully in Ryan's direction, I didn't notice the lady and her daughter until I had almost walked into them.

"Excuse, me," the lady said when I made eye contact. "But would you happen to be Brandon Thomas' twin sister?"

"Why, yes. Is it really that obvious?" I laughed nervously. Who were these people?

"I'm afraid so." She laughed with me and nodded in greeting to my mother and sister. "And I'm sorry, you must be wondering who this strange woman is, accosting you in public like this. I'm Margaret Smith, and this is my daughter, Lucy. I recognised you because your brother was friends with my son, Dan."

The penny dropped. This was Dan Smith's mother! My hands flew to my mouth. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Smith. Brandon mentioned what happened."

"How is Brandon coping? It must be hard on all of them," she said.

"Nothing compared to what your family must be going through. Please accept our sincerest condolences," my mother said.

"Thank you," Margaret said. "It was such a tragedy, Dan passing away just when he was finally getting his life in order. All thanks to the magistrate's leniency in putting him on probation instead of in prison when he was caught shoplifting a couple of months ago. The weekly visits to the HQ to see his Custodian Probation Officer did him a world of good, too. He stopped listening to his father and me some time ago. "

"I'm so sorry." I felt terrible for their loss, reflecting that foraging really wasn't the best career choice. What if an accident like that happened to Brandon? I'd be absolutely devastated.

"Thank you, my dear. Well, we will be off now. Just wanted to say hello and see how Brandon was doing."

* * *

Having spent the better part of the morning at the market, we headed home around lunchtime. When we walked through the shelter's gates, sudden movement behind the large blue hopper caught my eye. Brandon's head appeared, and he gestured me over before dropping back out of sight.

"Can you two go on ahead? I'll be up soon," I said as I handed my bag to Karen.

I made my way inconspicuously over to Brandon, aware that several other residents lounged on the lawn. Ducking behind the large bin, I found him sitting cross-legged behind it. He looked a bit better than the last time I saw him. Seemed my lecture about eating better had gotten through to him.

"You ready to rejoin the real world yet?" I asked. I grabbed an empty cardboard box beside the bin, folded it flat, and sat on it. I didn't want to get my dress dirty.

He shook his head and handed over a large plastic bag. "Just came to give you this."

The bag was filled with fresh bread, vegetables, fruit, peanuts and cashews, and three small bottles of soymilk, which we would have to drink today since we had no fridge. "Thanks. You keep some for yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Good. You've got some more colour in your face today, at least."

He smiled weakly.

I told him about the plan to escape town, and that I wanted him to come with us. I saw hope blossom in his eyes, but it faded away just as quickly. He pumped me for more details, worried we may be making a huge mistake. But after I answered his questions, he seemed satisfied.

"You going to come?" I asked.

"Probably, maybe...I don't know." He looked troubled rather than crestfallen. Not the reaction I had expected.

"Hey, instead of trying to work through the emotional trauma created by Dan's death by yourself, why don't you go back to work on Monday and tell the boss what you're going through. You told me once that foragers have free access to Newhome psychologists. That's right, isn't it?"

He looked down and dragged his fingers through the dirt covering the concrete. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"You can't just keep hiding like this!"

"You think I don't know that? My mind is going around in never ending circles trying to find a way out of this. It's driving me nuts!" he said.

"A psychologist–"

"No!"

"Why do you have to be so stubborn, Brandon?"

"You don't understand."

"No, I don't!"

There was an awkward silence.

"Hey, never guess who I bumped into at the market today." I decided to change the topic.

"Surprise me."

"Dan Smith's mother."

His head snapped up in alarm.

"She asked how you were coping with Dan's accident."

"Oh."

"She's heartbroken, the poor lady, as you can well imagine. Even more so because Dan turned his life around recently after he was convicted of shoplifting. She said the magistrate's leniency of putting him on probation instead of in prison, plus his weekly visits to the Probation Officer in the Custodian HQ made a world of difference."

Brandon jolted as though he'd been struck and the blood drained from his face. "What did you just say?"

I said it again.

Brandon leapt to his feet and paced frantically up and down in the small enclosure behind the bin, running his hands through his hair, his face ashen.

I stood as well. "What's going on?"

"This is a nightmare, Chelz, a nightmare! We thought he was a Custodian informant. We thought he was a Custodian informant!"

I grabbed him and pulled him around to face me. I realised his whole body was shaking. "What are you talking about, Brandy!"

"A few weeks ago I spotted Dan going to the Custodian HQ. I feared the worse and told Con. He freaked out and told me to follow Dan every day after work. I found out that he went to the HQ every Tuesday."

"So what?" I couldn't see where he was going with this.

"So Con and Matt concluded he was a Custodian informer, ratting on our illegal smuggling efforts in return for money." His shaking intensified. "But from what you've just told me, we got it all wrong – he wasn't an informer, he was on probation! What have we done, Chelz, what have we done?"

"What exactly did you do?" I was getting a bad feeling about this.

"Don't you get it, Chelz? They arranged for him to have an accident. Made a wall fall on him – crushed him to death." He looked at me, and with tears streaming down his face, resuming his frantic pacing.

"That was Con, Matt and Jack, right? You weren't directly involved, where you? No, of course not." I refused to believe my twin brother could ever be part of such a heinous crime. At the same time, I was deeply shocked to learn the others had killed Dan. That he was innocent of what they suspected him of made it even worse. The poor guy, he trusted them, he thought they were his friends.

One thing still didn't make sense. "Why, Brandy – why did they kill him?"

"Because if he ratted on us, the penalty for smuggling in and selling drugs is the death sentence," he said without slowing his pace.

"You guys smuggle drugs into town? Where do you get them from?"

"We make them."

Another piece of the jigsaw puzzle clicked into place. "The drugs are made in the lab, aren't they? How many foragers are involved in this?"

"You've been to the lab?" He looked extremely alarmed.

"No. Con's mentioned it a few times, that's all."

"Chelz, you've got to stay away from those guys, promise me! They'll corrupt you, just like they did me."

"No, they won't. Besides, they always leave me behind to babysit Ryan when they go."

"Who's Ryan?"

"He's Dan's replacement. He's cool, but..." my voice petered off when I suddenly realised that Con's insistence he was an informer meant that his life was in deadly peril. I also understood what Con meant when he threatened something would happen to Ryan if he found out about the escape plan. 'Taking matters into their own hands again' meant they would murder him like Dan.

Loud voices nearby startled us. Looking towards the shelter, we spotted the supervisor and one of the cleaners headed for the bin, carrying a dozen bulging black garbage bags.

"Sorry, gotta go!" Brandon said. He darted over to the closest tree and used it to scale the wooden fence surrounding the property.

I slipped out behind the bin, astonishing the supervisor and his helper, and rushed back inside. I wanted to have this out with Con right now, so I needed to become my brother again. I figured if I told the others what I just told Brandon, their consciences would be similarly pricked. Maybe they would turn themselves into the Custodians or at the least, resign their jobs. If either of those scenarios came to pass, Ryan would be safe from my murderous teammates.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

Con, Matt and Jack were scoffing down soy hotdogs and sipping beers at a table in a darkened corner of the Forager's Club.

I slipped onto a vacant stool and studied them in the poor light. It was weird how you thought you knew someone and then found out you didn't know them at all.

"Don't say hello, then." Con scowled.

"Hello."

"You look like you saw a ghost," Jack said.

"Pretty much did. I just bumped into Dan Smith's mother at the market," I said, speaking quietly.

All three of them squirmed on their stools.

"And?" Con prompted.

If I wanted to get the result I was after; I had to play my cards right. "Turns out we were wrong about him."

"In what way?" Matt asked.

"He was arrested recently for shoplifting and for some reason the magistrate went easy on him and put him on probation instead of in prison. He had to meet a Custodian probationary officer at the Custodian HQ once a week."

Jack sprayed a mouthful of beer on the table and fell off his stool, coughing and spluttering. Matt went an unnatural shade of white. Con just went still.

"Did you hear what I just said?" I gave Con a taste of his own medicine, starting him down.

"But you're the one who told us he went to the Custodian HQ," Jack said.

"Not to mention the great lengths you went to in recounting how uncomfortable he looked and kept glancing over his shoulder," Matt added.

"Every person alive would have reached the same conclusion we did with that information," Jack said. He looked at us as he spoke, seeking affirmation for their actions.

"If the stupid twit told us the truth instead of hiding it, this would not have happened," Con said.

"Yeah, that's right! Dumb jackass brought this on himself." Jack thumped the table. I looked at him in surprise. This was not the Jack I thought I knew.

"All comes back to what I said before, doesn't it lads," Con said. He spoke slowly, as though he didn't have a care in the world. "Dishonesty isn't just telling lies; it's what we omit to say as well. You getting me, Brandon? This is the penultimate example of what goes wrong when we're dishonest with each other."

"That's it, Con? That's your reaction?" I asked him, flabbergasted.

"Reaction to what?" he snapped.

"You just found out that you murdered an innocent man, and all you can say is that he should have been more open with us? You're unbelievable!"

In a blur of movement, Con was off his stool and in my face, his hands around my throat. "You little punk! Maybe you didn't push the wall down, but you're the one who got him to stand under it!"

Matt and Jack sprang into action, trying to pry Con's hands off my neck. I was barely aware of it, though, for my world was too busy collapsing. My brother was one of the pillars of my life, an example to me, someone to inspire me and comfort me. But now the pillar lay shattered in ruins.

My brother was a murderer.

I realised then that Con, Matt and Jack should be in prison, not planning a breakout. They should not be leading foragers and their families to a life of freedom and safety in Ballarat. For the three of them, it wouldn't be freedom but escaping justice.

Another thought occurred to me, sending cold, clammy strands of fear coiling up the back of my neck, and my vision to fade to black. If I didn't report these guys and my brother to the Custodians, I was an accomplice to murder. That made me almost as bad as them. And it got worse. Although I knew I should report them, I couldn't do it, because I needed them to coordinate and lead the breakout that would get my family out of our nightmare existence. More, I knew the penalty for murder was life imprisonment or execution by lethal injection, and I couldn't face that happening to my brother.

"Brandon - Brandon!"

The darkness that blotted out my vision receded sufficiently for me to realise Jack had managed to prise Con's hands away from my throat. Matt was struggling to hold him back, who still looked set to kill me.

I remembered I was supposed to be masquerading as my brother and wasn't acting true to his character. He knew he was guilty of murder, and that was why he was in such a mess. He couldn't reconcile his actions with his conscience. It had never occurred to him that he'd feel so guilty, so condemned, after committing the act.

Trying to emulate Brandon when he was apologetic, I looked up at Con sheepishly. "Sorry, Con. I don't know what came over me. I'm just struggling to cope with what Mrs. Smith told me."

"Hypocritical little prat!" Con spoke with such animosity that he sprayed spittle all over my face.

"Go easy on him, Con, he's just rattled, that's all. We all are." Jack said. I looked at him, wanting to appreciate him coming to my defence, but I no longer saw him as cute, adorable Jack, but as Jack the murderer. Oh, how I hated this! Why did I have to bump into Dan's mother? The weight of this knowledge was too much to bear.

"I said I'm sorry!"

"Word's don't cut it, boy!"

Jack turned me around and bundled me towards the door. "Go on, git. Give him some space. He'll settle down soon, like he always does."

I nodded and stumbled for the door, lost, afraid, and wracked with guilt.

* * *

I was still lost in a morass of conflicting emotions when I got back to the shelter an hour later.

Seeing Ryan waiting for me when the elevator's doors pinged open to the fifth floor didn't help. The concern on his face just amplified the guilt I felt because I was helping four murderers evade justice by escaping town.

Ryan pushed off the wall when I shuffled towards him. "You okay, Brandon?"

"I'm fine."

"Those guys attack you again? You look terrible."

"No. And I told you, I'm fine."

"Don't look fine."

"I had a fight with Con."

"What about? Not me, I hope."

An almost overwhelming urge came over me to tell him everything. Maybe if he were to shoulder this terrible burden with me, it wouldn't be so heavy. Besides, I was curious to know what advice he would give. Would he tell me to dob them into the Custodians, or to continue with my plans to escape?

"No, about something stupid we did a while ago," I said.

"Hey, did your sister give you my message?"

"Haven't seen her since this morning." I stared up into his brown eyes, almost melting at the mix of concern and determination shining through them.

"Well, that explains it." He gave a weak laugh.

I wished he'd leave. I needed to be alone with my thoughts.

"Those guys who attacked you on Friday, who are they?" he asked.

"I told you to stay out of this."

"Who do they work for?" He leaned against the wall beside me.

"Why, so you can take matters into your own hands? Ryan, these people are dangerous! If you go after them you're gonna get hurt. Not to mention what they'll do to my family in retaliation. If something were to happen to my sisters or mother because you got involved, I would never forgive you."

"Brandon, will you just listen to me?"

"No!"

"I just want to find out who they are and what kind of operation they're running. I'm not going to go up against them, if that's what you're afraid of."

"You'll tell the Custodians, yeah? Not happening."

"You are so stubborn!"

"So you keep telling me."

He sighed, and his shoulders sagged in defeat. He glanced up the corridor towards our door. "Your sister in? I was kind of, you know, hoping to see her."

"Which one?" No doubt he was referring to Karen. With her beautiful face, full figure and curls. None of which I had.

"You have to ask?"

"Karen fifteen, Ryan."

"You serious? I thought she was seventeen. She's a real stunner, you know. Probably turns all the guys' heads at the Solidarity Festivals."

My spirits sank. Some secret, inner part of me was hoping he would say me.

"But I wasn't referring to her," he continued, surprising me. "I meant Chelsea."

"Chelsea, why?"

"I don't know, she's kinda cool – I guess. I like how outspoken she is. And she's pretty." He shuffled his feet awkwardly. My heart skipped a beat as an emotion I never felt before swept through me. He actually liked me – and for me, what's more. I felt special, even desirable. Sadly, his perception of me was completely wrong. If he knew I was an accomplice to murder who refused to come clean because of how it would affect me personally, he'd change his opinion of me pretty quick smart. He'd be shocked, even appalled.

"She's my virtually-identical twin sister, mate. You saying I'm pretty?" I asked.

"What? No! I mean–"

"Ryan, you'd better stop before you dig yourself into an even deeper hole," I said, smirking.

"Right." He laughed.

Seeing the hope in his eyes reminded me he was hoping to see her. "Give me a sec; I'll see if she's in."

I popped into our room and closed the door, wondering what excuse I could use to explain my own absence.

"Finally decided to grace us with your presence, did you, Daughter?" Mother asked. She was still on that lousy chair, a pair of knitting needles flying in practised fingers. Would it hurt her to swallow her pride and use one of the chairs Ryan repaired?

"Just dropping by to see if you're okay."

"We're doing just fine, can't you tell?" Mother said.

I nodded. "Right. I'll be back later, then." I slipped back into the corridor.

The hopeful expression faded from Ryan's face when he saw I was alone.

"Sorry, she's off somewhere with Sofia, one of the residents here," I said.

"That's a shame. Hey, feel like pumping some iron?"

"Sounds good. Let's go."

As we left the shelter, I noticed Ryan holding his stomach.

"You okay?"

"Stomach's felt better. Might be coming down with something," he said.

"Don't go giving it to me." Actually, Brandon and I had never been sick, not even a sniffle. But that wasn't something to broadcast, as it could be related to our mutation.

"Actually, on second thoughts, better skip gym and go lie down." He grimaced in pain.

"Okay. Need to see a doctor?"

"See one every day," he said.

"You do?"

"My father's a doctor."

"Really? Nice for some."

"Yes and no," he said and took his leave. I went back home to change so that I could look for Sofia.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

Ryan didn't turn up to work on Monday, having called in sick. I wasn't overly surprised, considering what he was like the night before. The poor guy was probably at home puking his guts out.

As a result, I got to accompany the others for the whole day. Lucky me.

"Right," Con said after we drove through the town gates. "Thanks to that informer's absence–"

"He's not–"

"Oh shut it, Brandon! Good grief, you're like a broken record!" he snapped.

"Sorry." I really had to let the matter drop; I couldn't afford to get Con offside preceding the escape attempt.

"As I was saying." A dirty look in my direction. "Since Ryan's not here, we've got one whole day – maybe more – to prepare for the breakout without worrying he'll see or hear something damning."

"Into the city, then?" Matt asked.

"You got it." Con floored the accelerator as soon as we were out of sight of Newhome, the trucking bucking over the cracked asphalt road.

I gulped but said nothing. Brandon had filled my dreams with nightmares of the horrors he saw in Melbourne's CBD – the Central Business District – also known simply as 'the city.'

As the city wasn't far from Newhome, it wasn't long before we were driving through streets lined with buildings towering high above us. There was little conformity in the structures. 'Modern' buildings sat side by side with more antique designs with narrow alleyways nestled between them. Often as not, the ground floors were retail stores while the levels above them were hotels or private accommodation. Tram tracks ran down the middle of larger thoroughfares, sometimes occupied by the rusting wrecks of the trams themselves.

Thanks to the nuclear bomb that hit the southeastern suburbs, shattered glass from windows facing southeast covered much of the roads and sidewalks. It was like looking at streets made of quartz that glittered in the sunlight. Nature was busily reclaiming the deserted streets too. Trees and bushes grew wild, claiming every square meter of exposed soil. Wild grass sprouted from every crack in the asphalt and concrete, while creepers attacked the sides of buildings, climbing many stories high in some instances.

We reached Flinders Street and drove east, following tram tracks while dodging abandoned cars and trucks. We passed an old, green copper-domed railway station on our right that had a faded yellow facade and a large clock. The archway entrance beneath the clock gave the impression of an ugly, yawning mouth, the shattered windows akin to broken teeth. I shuddered at the sight of the station's darkened interior, so ominous, so uninviting.

Then I jolted, thoroughly sickened by what I saw next. Several bodies, including two Skel, were nailed to the wall beneath the station's upper windows, arms spread wide as though they had been crucified. They must have been there for some time, for they were in advanced stages of decay, if not skeletons.

I recalled Brandon telling me that there were things – people – in the city that made the Skel seem friendly. No one had ever seen them, but corpses like these were nailed outside the five entrances to the City Loop subway and rail system. The message was clear. Stay out of the subway or end up like them.

It was assumed that the City Loop denizens only came out at night. For our sake, I hoped so. Actually, there was one forager who may have seen them. Brandon told me of a rumour that Ethan Jones went into the subway once when curiosity got the better of him. What he saw no one knew, for he never spoke of the experience afterwards. I suppressed another shudder. What were we doing in the city anyway? Surely there were safer places to go?

Leaving the station behind, we passed Federation Square, a large, open-air square surrounded by buildings on three sides and paved with ochre-coloured sandstone blocks. The walls of some buildings in the square had the appearance of earth-coloured patchwork quilts. The steel struts of a large atrium looked strangely out of place with most of the glass panels missing.

I was most surprised when Con turned the truck off Flinders Street and into a claustrophobically narrow alleyway named Hosier Lane.

We drove slowly down the alleyway, and my mouth dropped open in sheer amazement. The buildings on both sides of the lane were covered with the most stunningly beautiful, colourful street art. And what was just as amazing, it had clearly been restored, because it could not have survived a century of wind, rain and dirt and still look so vibrant, as though it had been painted yesterday.

There were words painted with a 3D effect, an elephant decked out with a golden crown and jewels, a skull, a wooden ship about to be grappled by a green and purple giant octopus, hideous monsters wrestling with oriental serpentine dragons, and even lifelike busts of people painted on the windows behind inch-thick iron security grills.

Con parked the truck, and we tumbled out into the street. I went over to the closest wall and ran my fingers over the street art. As I suspected, the images were free of dust and dirt. I glanced at my teammates, wondering who restored them but immediately rejected the idea that it could be them.

"You calmed down a bit, buddy?" Jack asked.

I nodded.

"Con was about to throttle you yesterday; you know that?"

"Got that impression."

"Be more careful, eh? You don't want him offside."

"I know."

"Fair enough."

"I wonder who restores all this street art?" I mused aloud.

"Duh - the Loopers. Scary thought, isn't it. For a hundred years they've been crucifying anyone stupid enough to enter the subway, but at the same time, keep maintaining the street art." Jack paused and looked at me quizzically. "Say, why are you asking me stuff you already know?"

I gave him a deadpan expression. "I wasn't asking you, Doofus, I was talking to myself. Besides, we don't know they're the ones doing it, do we? No one's ever seen them."

Jack shrugged. "True enough. Still, the cans of enamel paint we leave outside the lab every now as peace offerings disappear pretty quick."

"Hey, jerks! You coming or what?" Con bellowed.

We joined the other three, who were standing in front of a reinforced steel door leading into what used to be a bar or nightclub.

"Remember the password?" Con asked Matt.

Matt nodded and knocked a complex beat on the steel door.

The door swung open and a balding forager I'd seen once or twice stuck his head out. He was holding a double-barrelled shotgun, which was aimed at our heads.

"You're not rostered on today." He glared at us menacingly.

So this was the lab? Where they made the Elatyon drugs that they smuggled back to Newhome. If I only had a bomb, I'd set it and blow it sky high.

"Come to grab some ordnance," Con snapped back. "For the breakout."

"Right. Carry on, then."

The door swung open, and we traipsed inside in single file. Stairs led both up and down, but to our right, double doors opened into a clean but currently unoccupied bar. It had a similar layout and atmosphere to the Foragers' Club back home, so no points for working out who set the place up.

Going by the sounds floating down the stairs, the lab must be on the next floor up. I wondered who established it. It could not have been done without at least one person having the knowledge or experience of a pharmacist. The next question was why they stuck it all the way out here, right in the midst of Looper territory, but I guessed that in itself was the answer. From what I heard about the Custodians, they rarely ventured from Newhome, and when they did, they absolutely never came to the city. No doubt thanks to the horror stories propagated by the foragers. Stories which until now I listened to with a pinch of salt. Now, after seeing those bodies strung up outside the station, I realised they weren't exaggerating at all.

Downstairs was a basement stacked with plastic containers and bottles of chemicals, as well as steel cabinets filled with guns and knives of all shapes and sizes, even C4 explosives. Seemed the foragers had been busy, collecting them and bringing them here. I thought it was dangerous to keep explosives beneath a drugs laboratory, but figured they knew what they were doing.

My companions grabbed a couple of bags and went through the handguns and boxes of ammunition. Feeling conspicuous standing still beside them, I let rip with echolocation to watch exactly how they checked the guns to make sure they still worked and then did the same.

An hour later, we carted the bags upstairs, laden with two dozen handguns and ammo, and blocks of C4 explosives and detonators. They hid a couple of guns and the explosives in the secret compartment in the door of the truck. The rest would go to the secret cache we were building just outside of town. The explosives would be used to create the distraction on the night we escaped.

"Next stop, blankets and backpacks," Con said once we were back in the truck.

"Have you decided upon the day?" I asked.

"Friday next week," Con replied. "That gives us plenty of time to get everything ready."

That news should have excited me, but all I felt was conflicting emotions. Relief to get my family away from this place, and overwhelming guilt for helping four murderers escape justice. Why did life have to be so complicated? Why couldn't things just be black and white?

"How many foragers have come onboard now?" Jack asked.

"Twenty-four," Matt said. "And about seventy relatives, mostly immediate family members. They won't all turn up on the night, though."

# Chapter Thirty

A slightly thinner Ryan came back to work on Wednesday, saying he'd been struck down by a bout of gastro. Poor guy.

We had made good use of the two days he was absent. The cache hidden in the basement of an old grocery store in Ascot Vale was now stocked with a hundred blankets, boots and shoes of all sizes, several first aid kits, hats, backpacks filled with bottled water, and of course, guns. We didn't spend the whole of each day doing this, of course. We still had to do our jobs and the truck needed to be filled with recyclables.

Now that Ryan was with us, we went back to foraging as usual, heading for a high-rise apartment block out past Essendon in search of plastics. The areas closest to Newhome had been stripped pretty bare by foragers over the decades, forcing us to go further and further out.

After a long and gruelling Friday, I was standing in the back of the truck, receiving folding plastic chairs from Jack as he passed them up to me. Ryan was still in the building, ripping plastic plumbing out of bathroom vanity units. Con and Matt were engaged in a deep-and-meaningful near the front of the truck, and my ears picked up when I heard Con quietly mention Ryan's name. I plonked the next chair down quietly and focused on what they were saying.

"...those porn DVDs in Ryan's backpack?" Con asked Matt.

"Yep. Stuffed 'em at the bottom of his bag, under the spare t-shirt."

"Sure he won't find them?"

"Not unless he tips the contents of his bag out, and he's never done that," Matt replied. "But Con, isn't this a waste of time? What are the odds the Custodians will run one of their spot checks today?"

"They will. I made sure of it." Con sounded mighty pleased with himself.

"How?"

"A couple of hundred bucks in the right hands."

"You bribed a Custodian?" Matt sounded shocked.

"More like a clerk – the one who draws up the Custodian duty rosters," Con replied.

"But if Ryan really is an informer, won't they let him off?" Matt asked.

"If the Custodians catch Ryan with contraband, they'll have to arrest him. Of course, once they get him back to the station, they'll let him go with a slap on the wrist. But it will still serve our purposes because he'll get the sack."

"Right, got it. You're one devious git, Con; you know that?"

"I do what needs to be done," Con answered.

I stopped listening at that point, but my mind was elsewhere. Still adhering to their presumption that Ryan was a Custodian informer, they set him up. And Con was wrong; the Custodians would not let him go with a slap on the wrist. He would lose his job, get a stint in prison, and face a hefty fine. The dishonour could also destroy any prospects of him marrying well.

I had already seen what a short stay in a prison factory could do to an innocent man, and I could not bear the thought of Ryan turning out as my father did. Scarred, broken, a shadow of who he used to be.

I had to save him, though I had no idea how to do it.

I was just about out of my wits by the time we drove into the yard at the Recycling Works an hour later. Seeing a squad of Custodians searching the truck and gear of a foraging team that returned before us, sent me to the verge of panic.

I had tried to get to Ryan's bag after we finished loading the truck, but with Con loitering beside it, I had to abandon the attempt. When it came time to leave, Ryan had grabbed the bag and stuffed it between his feet in the front seat. As I was in the back, that was that.

"Great, it's 'harass the foragers' day' today, is it? Stupid gits, haven't they got anything better to do?" Con said as he parked the truck beside the Custodian's G-Wagon. I loved how he acted all innocent. Scumbag.

"Apparently not," Matt replied.

I finally hatched a desperate plan that could save Ryan's bacon, so I held my stomach and groaned.

"Brandon?" Ryan asked, concerned.

"Gut ache. I better not have caught this from you."

Overhearing us, Matt and Jack clambered out of the vehicle as quickly as they could, eyeing me nervously. When I followed them and lined up beside Ryan, they stood on his other side.

We dropped our bags on the concrete in front of us, and I went through the motions of moaning in pain while crouching down, holding my stomach.

Their search of the other foraging team complete, Sergeant King and his goons headed ominously towards us. I was out of time.

Doubling over, I put my hands over my mouth like I'd seen others do when they were about to vomit but surreptitiously stuck a finger down the back of my throat at the same time. My stomach heaved, and I threw up all over Ryan's bag.

"Oh, man! Couldn't you have aimed that somewhere else?" Ryan jumped back, fuming.

"Ew, gross," Matt said as he, Jack and Con stumbled quickly away.

The sergeant and his companion kept their distance from me and grimaced.

"That had better not be contagious," King snarled.

"Just spent two days in bed with it," Ryan said.

The sergeant swore. "Then get your behind out of here, Thomas! And wash that blasted bag before you go!"

With one hand clutching my stomach, I grabbed the befouled backpack and shuffled towards the large doors leading into the warehouse.

"Go with him, Private. Check the contents of the bag when it's clean," King said to one of his men.

"Me?" the Custodian asked, face ashen.

"Go!"

The private came after me but left as big a gap between us as he possibly could. No one wanted to catch viral gastroenteritis.

Passing into the warehouse, I shambled past piles of neatly stacked piles of wood until I reached a steel drinking trough. Keeping my back to the Custodian, I turned the tap beside the trough and washed away the vomit. At the same time, I quickly unzipped the bag and stuffed my hand inside. Finding two DVD cases at the bottom, I drew them out and quickly shoved them into the narrow gap between the trough and the wall. Not much of a hiding place, but it would have to do. I would come back later and throw them somewhere no one could find them.

The bag clean, I turned around and tipped its contents on the ground.

"Yeah, yeah, that'll do. Now get to sickbay," the Custodian said, refusing to come any closer.

Leaving the bag and its contents on the ground, I made my way slowly to the grossly ill-equipped sickbay below the boss' office.

The room was small – just wide enough for a fold-up cot, six-foot tall medicine cabinet, chair, sink, and toilet at the far end of the room. I washed my hands and face, and lay on the bed, feigning illness.

Now that the whole affair was over, my pulse started to come back to earth. I exhaled a large sigh of relief – my plan worked – Ryan was safe! On the other hand, I was sure Con saw right through my little act, so I wasn't looking forward to our next meeting.

Turned out I didn't have to wait long.

Ten minutes later Con stormed into the sickbay like a bull at a gate, with Matt and a very concerned Jack trailing behind.

"What did you think you were doing, you stupid punk!" He grabbed me by the collar and in one smooth action, hauled me off the cot and slammed me into the metal medicine cabinet. Glass bottles rattled and tinkled inside.

I met his fury with my own. "Thought you could pull off a stunt like that without me noticing, did you?"

"You idiot! This was our best chance to get that jerk out of the picture so he couldn't stumble onto our preparations for the breakout." He stuck forehead right against the brim of my cap. I could make out every pore on his greasy skin. "Not to mention how much effort it took to set it up. You got any idea how much it cost me personally to get the Custodians here today?"

Sick of being bullied by this murderous doofus, I grabbed his collar and shoved him back. "I told you time and again that he's not an informer, but you won't listen, will you?"

"Look here, you arrogant little prat–"

"No, you listen. You pull a stunt like that again or harm a single hair on his head, and I'll turn us all in. You hear me?"

Con's grip on my collar slackened, and he fell back, shocked beyond measure. Even Matt and Jack cried out in dismay. For I'd just threatened the four of us with execution.

"What the blazes has gotten into you?" Con said as he shoved me into the medicine cabinet again. "You off your rocker?"

"Don't you get it, guys?" I took in all three of them as I answered. "We blew it big time with Dan. Ain't no way I'm letting us do that again."

Con glanced at the others and drew back a fist. "I'm gonna smash some sense into him."

Jack rushed forward, alarmed. Matt just watched.

"You sleeping well these days, Con?" I asked. The fist stopped inches from my face.

"What?"

"'Cause I'm not. If I even manage to get to sleep, I'm plagued by horrific nightmares haunted by Dan. By his shock at my betrayal, his broken body, and now his mother asking how I could have done such a dastardly thing."

"We made a mistake!" he barked.

"Yes, we did! And I'm trying to stop us making another one! For Dan's sake, and for ours."

"Brandon's got a point." Jack nodded his head, casting a pleading look at Con.

"Matt?" I said.

"Don't rake me into this."

"How's your conscience at the moment? You sleeping okay?"

He turned away, unable to meet my gaze.

"I thought so." I turned back to Con. "You gotta stop thinking that everything I do is a challenge to your authority."

"Think you're smart, don't you?" he snarled. "Well, you're not. You're just a stupid kid who's grown too big for his own boots. From here on, you'd better watch your step, or I'll smash you to a pulp with the slightest provocation." With that, he stormed from the room. Matt rushed after him, but Jack remained.

"Be careful around him, mate. I don't know what's come over you these days."

"You think it might be from those images of Dan's broken face that I can't get out of my mind?"

"I hear you, but just back off from Con a bit, okay?"

"I'll try."

"Try harder." He gave me a half-hearted smile and raced after the others.

Not wanting to bump into them again, I waited ten minutes, popped upstairs to see the boss to collect my pay, and headed home.

I got quite the surprise, though, when I stepped out of the yard and found Ryan leaning against the fence, waiting for me. I noticed he didn't have his backpack.

"You owe me a new bag. And a water bottle. And a lunchbox." He pushed off from the wall and fell into step beside me.

"Sorry about that. Your bag was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What did you do with it?"

"Didn't do anything with it. You can throw it in the bin on Monday." He didn't look the least bit impressed.

"Do I have to?"

" Yes. You feeling a bit better now?"

"Still sore, but there's nothing left to bring up." I considered telling him the truth, so he could watch out for them trying something like this again. On the other hand, he would probably go straight to Con and have it out with him. As that scenario could have fatal results, I decided I'd better keep it to myself for now.

"You think you caught it from me?" he asked.

"Must have."

"Really? The fact is, I didn't have gastro. Just ate something past its use by date that evening." He stopped and pulled me to face him, studying me intently.

"Must have picked it up from somewhere else, then," I said.

"Can you drop the charade?" The tone of voice jarred me to the bone. "I know what you did, and why. The other three were trying to frame me. When I went to fetch my bag – more specifically – my house keys that were in it, I had a little hunt around. Imagine my surprise in finding two porn DVDs shoved into a gap behind the water trough. DVDs which I quickly disposed of before King works out what you did."

I sighed. "You sure you're not a detective?"

"This isn't a joke, Brandon. Why didn't you tell me the truth in the first place?"

"You mean like this? Oh, by the way, Ryan, the others slipped contraband into your bag 'cause they don't like you and want you off the team."

"Why don't they like me, Brandon? What have I ever done to them?"

I didn't reply.

"Don't go all silent on me, mate. If their little stunt had worked, they would have done more than get me off the team. I would have lost my job, been fined, and been thrown in prison. Now talk to me."

"They...they think you're a Custodian informer." My voice came out as a whisper. Why did I feel guilty, as though I'd just betrayed a confidence? I owed those three nothing!

Ryan burst into a spontaneous bout of laughter. Tears even came to his eyes. "You serious?"

I nodded.

His mood suddenly darkened. "Why does that worry them, Brandon? They must be doing something illegal and they're afraid I'll find out."

"Honestly, I don't know what they're afraid of." I didn't sound particularly convincing.

"Going by those porn DVDs, I'm guessing they smuggle contraband into town. But if that's the case, so what? Everyone knows the foragers smuggle in illicit items. No one else could do it. That's why the Custodians keep doing those random spot checks."

"Makes sense." But I refused to give anything away. Especially since I smuggled in contraband too.

"So I reckon there's something bigger going on." Brandon grabbed my chin and yanked my head up so that our eyes met. So glad the cap covered my birthmark. "Could this have something to do with Dan Smith's accident?"

"What do you mean?" My pulse just about doubled. What was with this guy and his guesses?

"Why don't you tell me what happened to him, Brandon? The accident was due to someone's negligence, wasn't it? And you're all covering it up to avoid the consequences."

I searched out his eyes as I replied. "I wasn't there when it happened, Ryan. And that's the truth."

"Where were you?"

"Loading something into the truck. I heard a lot of shouting and rushed back to find a wall had fallen on Dan."

"There's something you're not telling me."

I whacked his hand away from my chin. "I'm telling the truth, I didn't see it!"

"Fine, I believe you. But you know something you're not telling me. Look, I'm not mad at you, okay? You just saved me – again. I know you are an honest, decent bloke. But I don't trust Con, Matt and Jack as far as I can throw them."

I just nodded.

"There's something I want you to think about."

"What?" I didn't like the sound of that.

"I know those guys are your friends and have been for some time, but if their negligence caused Dan's death, or if Dan met foul play at their hands, you've got to report it."

"Like you did?" I spoke harshly, fully aware it was the right thing to do, but couldn't do it because of what it would cost my family.

"Yes."

"But look what it cost you – your job and all your friends," I said.

"It was worth it. And friends like that were no friends at all. A true friend is someone who stays with you through thick and thin. Someone who puts others first."

Overpowering emotions of frustration, grief, and rage rose up within me, threatening to boil over. I turned away so I could get them under control.

He placed his hand gently on my shoulder. "I'm not going to force you to do this. I just want you to think about it, okay?"

I shrugged his hand off. "I...I gotta go." My wage was burning a hole in my pocket. I had to get home as soon as possible in case Deacon and Wells turned up. The odds were they were already waiting outside the homeless shelter.

"I'll be at the gym after seven if you want to talk more later."

"Think about." I gave him a perfunctory nod and rushed off.

# Chapter Thirty-One

The thugs didn't show, and I was too afraid to go to their snooker club come illegal-gambling den to look for them. Keeping my money with me in case I bumped into them on the way, I popped over to the gym and worked out with Ryan. He even offered to teach me some combat moves, but I wasn't interested. I was not going to fight them.

To my relief, he didn't press me anymore about what happened to Dan Smith, but let me know he hadn't forgotten the issue by raising an eyebrow.

We quit the gym when curfew approached and headed outside into the night air. The sun had just set, painting the low hanging clouds hues of deep pink and purple. Daylight was fading rapidly as dusk took hold of the gloomy streets.

I bade Ryan farewell and took two steps towards home when I saw Deacon and his brutal sidekick step out from behind a hedgerow. They strode towards us with murder in their eyes. An ugly black and purple bruise adorned Well's jaw, thanks to Ryan.

I looked back at Ryan, eyes wide with fear. "Don't get involved."

"No way, buddy." He came and stood beside me, muscles tense and fists clenched.

"Just go! You're gonna make it worse if you stay!" I tried to push him away with my left hand, but it was like trying to push over an oak tree.

My tormentors came closer. His face contorted with rage; Wells slipped his hand inside his jacket.

Afraid he was reaching for a gun, I pulled out the money and threw it at his feet. "Here, take it!"

The tall ruffian stepped over the proffered money and withdrew a homemade spring-powered gun from his jacket. In one practised movement, he aimed it at Ryan's chest and fired.

"No!" I shrieked as I flung myself in front of my friend.

A six-inch long, frightfully sharp metal rod pierced my chest between the collarbone and shoulder. Excruciating pain beyond anything I'd experienced exploded through me and I collapsed back into Ryan's arms, writhing in agony.

"You shot the wrong one, fool!" Deacon berated Wells.

"Idiot jumped in the way!" Wells replied.

"Quick, let's get out of here before the Custodians show up," Deacon said. Their footsteps receded rapidly.

Ryan laid me gently on the sidewalk.

"What did you do that for?" he asked sternly. I was surprised to see tears in his eyes.

"I couldn't let them shoot you," I said between clenched teeth. I gingerly explored the part of the spike that protruded from my chest but regretted it instantly when the briefest touch sent more waves of pain.

"Don't touch – it's in too deep!" He gently but firmly moved my hand away. "Do you think you can walk if I help you up? I need to get you back inside so I can call an ambulance."

Bitting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out, I threw my right arm around his neck, and he helped me regain my feet. The slightest weight or movement on my left arm sent more pain lancing through me, so I used my right hand to put my left in my pocket.

"Just help me get home," I said.

"Don't be absurd, you need a doctor to get that thing out," he replied.

"No doctors – my mother will know what to do."

"You need proper medical care, mate."

I gripped his arm tightly with my free hand. "I said no! Please, take me home."

"If I take you to that disease-ridden dump you live in, the wound will get infected and you'll get blood poisoning. That's if your mother can even get the spike out."

"Ryan – I can't go to the hospital!"

"Why not?"

"Because if I do, they'll discover something about me that will get me into a world of trouble."

"Like what?"

"It's...private."

Ryan sighed in exasperation. "Okay, fine. I believe you have a really good reason not to go, but I don't think you have much choice. Let me at least take you to my father. He's a doctor, remember? I'm sure he will agree to a vow of patient confidentiality."

"Sorry, still won't do. I have to go home." I shook off his hand and started staggering down the street. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other while fighting off the pain that exploded with each step. Staying conscious was becoming quite a challenge.

Ryan hurried after me and stood directly in my path.

"Chelsea, please, let me help you. You can trust me. And my father," he whispered.

Chelsea? He called me Chelsea!

"You...you know who I am?" My mouth hung open in shocked disbelief.

"Of course."

"But...how long have you known?" I couldn't believe that after all my efforts, Ryan worked out who I really was.

"Took me a while to figure it out, but you left a trail of breadcrumbs that gave it away if I looked closely enough. Now come on, let's just get you home. We'll talk more later."

It was only a ten-minute walk to Ryan's place, but it felt like an eternity – a pain-filled, never-ending nightmare of forcing myself to walk when all I wanted to do was lie down and succumb to the pain. We tried to steer clear of the few people we encountered on the way. Otherwise, Ryan walked in front of me so they couldn't see my blood stained hoodie and the spike sticking out of my chest.

His family lived on the first floor of an apartment block, which was fortunate. An elevator ride would have been too much.

"Almost there," Ryan said. He spoke gently, revealing a side of him I hadn't seen before. He was quite the gentleman.

We reached a door sporting a fresh coat of paint. Entering the apartment, he helped me to a single-seat sofa, and I melted into the soft cushion with a groan. Through a haze of pain, I noticed that although the unit was the same layout as my old one, his family had set it up in reverse. The furniture was also much newer or at least kept in better condition. Someone here also had a flair for interior decoration, with embroidered curtains, oil paintings with muted colours that complemented the curtains, even vases with fresh flowers on the table and buffet-and-hutch.

Ryan's father was reading a newspaper on a sofa on the other side of the room but stood and rushed over in alarm when he caught sight of me. I could see the family resemblance, the broad shoulders, eyes, and angular face. He still had a full head of hair, although grey shot through with white.

Ryan's mother joined us from the kitchen. She was shorter than me, but not by much. And like my mother, was considerably younger than her husband. She eyed me suspiciously, but not unkindly.

"Ryan, what is going on? Who is this young man and why have you brought him here in this condition?" Ryan's father asked as he knelt beside me and gave my injury a quick going over.

"Young woman actually. Her name is Chelsea. I need you to treat her injury on the quiet," Ryan replied.

"Absolutely not – we have got to get her to hospital as soon as possible. What on earth were you thinking, bringing her here?"

"Because she'll get arrested for masquerading as a man if she's taken to hospital. I promised her you would help her." Ryan said heatedly.

"You know better than to make promises you cannot keep, Son," his mother said.

"This was a mistake – I'm going home." I flashed Ryan a dirty look. I tried to rise, but his father caught me and gently pushed me back down.

"You're not going anywhere, young lady. Trish, call an ambulance," he said.

"No!" Ryan moved quickly to block his mother's route to the phone. "Father, please, you have to treat her here."

"I can't! It would breach my code of ethics to treat a wound like that away from the hospital. Besides, if she's arrested for masquerading as a guy, she will learn to act more responsibly in the future."

"You don't understand, Father – they were shooting at me, but she jumped in the way!"

His father's protests died on his lips.

"Please, don't send her to hospital." Ryan pleaded with his parents.

Mr. Hill suddenly became all action. "Right, help me get her to your mother's bed. Trish? Fetch my medical bag would you?"

As I reflected on the rarity of his parents addressing one another by their first names, Ryan bundled me into his mother's bedroom while his father stripped back the covers. They laid me, bloody clothes, shoes and all, on her immaculately kept bed – a bed with a highly polished, wooden bed head and swept back mosquito nets.

Mrs. Hill came in with a heavy leather medicine bag and popped it on the bedside table.

"Why are you still here?" Ryan's father asked him.

"I thought I could–" he began.

"I don't know what relationship you have with this young woman – and we will discuss that later – but it is inappropriate for you to be here during the procedure."

"Go on, out you go." Mrs. Hill shooed her son from the room and closed the door behind him.

Ryan's father took a bottle of antibacterial hand wash from his bag, washed his hands, and handed it to his wife. He leaned towards me. "I'll give you a local anaesthetic, but you are still going to feel it when I pull it out. You still want me to proceed?"

I nodded. 'I don't care about pain; I'm used to it."

He glanced at his wife, who met his concerned expression with one of her own. Then he broke a pair of scissors out of a sealed plastic bag and began cutting away my hoodie and shirt.

# Chapter Thirty-Two

The following morning, Ryan knocked softly on the door, and with his mother in tow, came into the room. Mrs. Hill sat on a chair on my left, while he sat on the bed and took my hand in his. I must have been quite a sight. My hair was draped all over the pillow and my skin was unnaturally pale. I wore his sister's cotton pyjamas, and my left shoulder was exposed but swathed in bandages.

Mrs. Hill cleared her throat.

Ryan let go of my hand and scooted back until he was sitting near my feet.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"The painkillers are pretty good," I said. And they were. After removing the spike and sewing up the wound, Ryan's father had given me some extra-strong painkillers and antibiotics. Once everything was said and done, Mrs. Hill helped me get undressed, wash, and change. The pyjamas were a bit short and floated on my sparse frame, but were better than nothing. Finally, she served me the most nutritious meal I'd eaten in months.

"Get much sleep?"

"No, not really." Not just because of the pain and shock, but because I had a lot to think about. Because of me, Ryan had come to within an inch of being killed yesterday. This would not have happened if he hadn't beaten up the thugs the other day. As I wrestled with my thoughts through the night and early morning hours, I realised I had to make some major changes in my life. Not for my sake – for his. If he continued his association with me, it was going to end very badly for him.

"Kind of weird, hearing you talk with your own voice. So used to you sounding like Brandon," he said. He seemed uncomfortable. Whether because his mother was watching us, or because he was with a girl, I wasn't sure.

"Takes a lot less concentration this way," I said.

"Have I even met your brother?"

I shook my head.

"When did you start impersonating him?"

"The day you came to the Recycling Works," I said.

"To earn money?"

"Yes."

"Why isn't your brother doing that?"

"Is this an interrogation?" I asked.

He laughed. "Of course not. I'll go if you want, but there are some questions I would like answered. I can't stress enough how dangerous a situation you're in. Now that those thugs are using guns, this is a whole new ball game."

"We are very concerned about your wellbeing, Chelsea," Mrs. Hill said. "My husband and I want you to inform the Custodians about those men. Before they attack you or my son again."

"My mother told me about your bruises, Chelsea. Boot prints on your thighs and ribs, and older bruises on your stomach and back," Ryan said. "This can't go on."

"I already told you why I can't tell the Custodians."

"You cannot let those people bully you like this, Sweetie," Ryan's mother said sternly. "The fact is, you are lucky to be alive. If that spike hit you in the heart, we would not be having this conversation."

"I can't dob them in. They said they'll sick their associates onto my little sister and mother if I do," I said.

"The Custodians are far more capable than you give them credit, Chelsea. They're used to dealing with criminals like this," Ryan said.

"They're also used to shooting innocent people like my father and framing them for it," I snapped.

Mrs. Hill gasped, her hand going to her mouth.

"It's a long story, Mother," Ryan said quickly. He turned back to me. "You can't judge all Custodians with the yardstick of that one failure."

"It was a pretty big failure. You honestly think I'll ever trust them again? This whole mess is a direct consequence of their incompetence and corruption."

"I understand where you are coming from, but if you won't go to them, can't you at least tell me who the thugs are and where they operate from–"

"I said no!" Pain lanced through my shoulder and chest, causing me to wince.

Ryan slapped his knee in exasperation. "Chelsea, this is no time to be stubborn!"

"Son, tone it down a notch!" Mrs. Hill glared at Ryan, shocking me. My mother never spoke to Brandon like that.

"See if you can get through to her then!" he said.

"If I can get a word in, you're both missing the point," I said.

"Which is?" Ryan snapped.

"I will not endanger your life further, Ryan. If I tell you who they are and you take matters into your own hands, you'll end up dead!"

Ryan sighed in frustration. "Chelsea, we are trying to help."

"I know that, but you can't."

"Okay then, let's get back to my earlier question. Where is your brother?" He leaned closer, anxious to hear the answer.

"He went into hiding the day Dan Smith died. He'll be back soon, I expect."

Ryan nodded thoughtfully. "So you really didn't see what happened to Dan."

I shook my head.

He looked like he was about to dredge that topic up again, but glanced at his mother and let it go.

"How did you work out I was impersonating my brother, anyway?" I asked. I hoped no one else had figured it out, especially Con. I had no idea how he would react if he found out.

"You left a trail of clues."

"Such as?"

"For starters, for someone who was supposed to have been foraging for a year, you didn't know how to use a hacksaw properly. Then there was our visit to the gym. You clearly hadn't done weights before. When I quizzed you, you said no one ever showed you what to do. The other day I bumped into the gym instructor and gave him a piece of mind for not doing his job properly. He stunned me by saying he spent many sessions with Brandon, instructing and evaluating him. Then were the times you momentarily forgot to lower your voice, and of course, your expressions. No two people, regardless of how close they are, could possibly have identical mannerisms."

"You sure you're not a private dick?"

He laughed. "Didn't need to be a private detective to put those clues together. Still, I reckon I only noticed because I've been spending so much time with you."

"Looks like I'll have to be more careful," I said. Which wasn't actually true. My days of impersonating my brother were over, at least in terms of being a forager. As the escape was set for this coming Friday, I would need to rest the whole week to let the wound heal. I couldn't tell Ryan that, though.

"You're not seriously thinking of going back, are you? Surely Con saw through that stunt you pulled yesterday."

"He'll get over it. And in case you've forgotten, I have to keep working until my brother comes back," I said.

"You will let that wound heal first, won't you?" Mrs. Hill asked.

"As far as I can."

"If it's a matter of money, I can lend you some," Ryan said.

"Thanks, but no. I will not put myself further into debt."

"Okay, I'll give it to you! Must you fight all my attempts to help you?"

"Still no."

"Chelsea, even if I gave you every cent I have, you wouldn't owe me anything. You saved my life twice, remember? Besides, we're friends, right? Friends look out for each other."

Exhausted by Ryan's continual attempts to help me, I sagged further into the pillow and sighed. "Can we just drop it for now?"

Mrs. Hill stood and came over to the bed. "Chelsea needs to rest, Son."

Ryan nodded and slipped off the bed. "Rest up, okay?"

"When can I leave? I need to get home and let my family know I'm alright."

"I popped over to see your family last night, gave them your wage, and told them you were being looked after," Ryan said.

"Thanks." I breathed out a sigh of relief, but couldn't relax. What if Deacon came to see them while I was here? Then again, maybe they'd stay away for a while in light of the fact they just shot me. Even they weren't so stupid as to think I could earn money in this condition.

Mrs. Hill bundled Ryan from the room. "My husband says you should be up and about by Monday."

"Thank you. Oh, and before you go?"

"Yes, Dear?"

"I'd just like to say thank you – to you and your husband."

She smiled. "It's the least we could do. Now try to get some sleep."

# Chapter Thirty-Three

Monday was a cold and unforgiving day. Rain was sleeting down from the heavens in a never-ending stream.

I got up early, thanked Ryan's parents for their help, and promised to consider their insistence I report Deacon and Wells to the Custodians. Then back in Brandon's clothes – which Mrs. Hill had washed and mended – took my leave. My left arm was in a sling, which did a great job in alleviating the pain.

As expected, Ryan followed me to the covered walkway outside, holding an umbrella. "I'll walk you home."

"No need." I was back to speaking with Brandon's voice. "Won't say no to borrowing the umbrella, though." I didn't want the bandages to get wet.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll see you to your door," he said, handing me the umbrella.

"Ryan..."

"This isn't open to negotiation," he said.

I gazed into his deep brown eyes and sighed. For his sake, I had to do the one thing I did not want to do – I had to remove him from my life, and that meant we needed to talk. Couldn't do that here, though, outside his front door.

We set off, keeping under the umbrella as we trudged along a wet sidewalk that seemed deceptively clean. Water gurgled as it swept down the gutter towards the nearest drain.

When we reached the adjacent block of flats, which was adorned by one of the ten-foot-tall "Report the Mutant" billboards, I stopped and faced him.

"Ryan, I have to tell you something. We can't hang out together after work anymore."

"What? Because I know you're a girl now? Don't be such a prude, Chelsea. If you keep dressing as your brother, there's no reason we can't keep hanging out as we have been." He looked genuinely distraught.

"That's not it at all."

"Then why – I thought you enjoyed our times together – at work, the gym."

"I do, but–"

"Don't you realise how much you mean to me? Even when masquerading as your brother, you reached out to me when no one else would, offering me true friendship. Then I met you as Chelsea, after which came the realisation that the two of you were in fact, the one and same amazing, selfless person."

"Ryan, if you really knew me, you wouldn't say things like that." Indeed, what would he think of me if he knew I was a mutant? Worse, an accomplice to murder and willing to let those murderers go free so my family and I could escape this oppressive life. Not exactly what I'd call selfless.

"Don't put yourself down, Chelsea. You are the most incredible person I've ever met, and I'm honoured to call you my friend. I'm going to miss you something chronic when you quit foraging because your brother comes back. If we can't keep meeting socially as well, I'll be devastated. So please, don't walk out of my life. We can find a way to keep seeing each other."

"Ryan, in case you didn't notice, those guys were trying to kill you because of your association with me! So I'm sorry, but this is where it ends – for your sake," I turned and walked away.

He ran after me, grabbed my elbow and turned me back to face him, almost making me drop the umbrella. "So our friendship means nothing to you?"

"I didn't say that!"

"Okay – I'll just come out and say it. I like you, Chelsea, and–."

Hearing Ryan voice such sentiments was like a dream come true, but feelings like that were pointless in a culture where the fathers' arranged the marriages.

I quickly put a finger on his lips. "Stop right there, Mister. That's a path that leads to nowhere."

He moved my hand aside, "And – I can't face the thought of not being able to see you every day."

That sent my heart fluttering and my mind into a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. My immediate reaction to his confession was to abandon my plans to escape and remain here. With him. I was so tempted to tell him I cared for him too. But if we were to marry, it would mean sacrificing my life-long goal of escaping Newhome and its stupid, oppressive laws and traditions. Unfortunately, I couldn't tell him any of that. And the cold facts were, even if I wanted to remain here, there was no way we could marry. Not with my family's history.

"Don't go quiet on me, Chelsea," he said. "I know it's not the way things are normally done, but I can talk to my father–"

"Oh don't be ridiculous. There could never be any kind of future between us," I snapped. I was irritated now. Why couldn't he see that?

"Why not? My father–"

"Is a doctor, for goodness sake! He wants the best for you. Don't think for a moment he would be willing to sully your good family name and career prospects by marrying you into a family who lives in the homeless shelter, whose father is in prison for drugs, and who owes tens of thousands to debt collectors."

"My father is not like that, Chelsea. He cares nothing for meaningless social standing and advancement. The proof is that we live here, in Newhome proper rather than in North End. He wants to be with the people he serves, not secluded away from the world with the rich and famous."

"In that case, your father is an amazing man. Like mine used to be before my mother and this town wore him down. But Ryan, you're still not thinking this through. There can be no union between our families, for it would mean your family would be targeted by the debt collectors too. Also, have you considered what would happen to any children resulting from such a union? They would be persecuted and bullied throughout their school years if my background got out, and you can rest assured it would. This is a small town and rumours fly." And if my brother was convicted of murdering Dan Smith, the bullying would be even worse.

Ryan shook his head emphatically. "You've got it all wrong, Chelsea. These obstacles are not reasons to stop us getting together, but things to face and work through as a couple. In the end, they would make our family stronger, not destroy it. You see, there's nothing you can do, nothing you can say, that can drive me away. You're the best, and truest friend I've ever had, Chelsea, and I don't want to lose you."

I searched his eyes, saw the passion shining through, and my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. More than anything in the world, I wanted to embrace the vision he painted of a possible future between us, but I was trapped. To save his life, I had to drive him away. I just had no idea how to do it so he would actually take it to heart.

"Well?" He watched me, hopeful.

Then it came to me. I had one more card to play that would surely convince him he didn't know me and would, therefore, invalidate his feelings for me. Then he would have no choice but to let me go.

"Ryan, you think you know me, but you really don't," I said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"See that billboard? 'Report the Mutant.'"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"I'm one of them."

He looked at the billboard glistening in the rain, taking in the image of the middle-aged man and his two children, all mutants possessing cleft lips and extra fingers and toes.

He looked back at me. "Now you're just being silly." All the same, I noticed he couldn't resist a quick glance at my hands. Counting the number of fingers, no doubt.

"You've known from the beginning something was different about me, you just didn't want to believe it."

"Like what?" He was getting annoyed now.

"I can hear better than dogs, and I echolocate like a bat. That's why I was able to map the progress of those two Skel crossbow bolts and dodge them so easily. You knew something was off about me then, I saw it in your eyes."

I had his attention now. His expression was morphing slowly from mild annoyance to dismay, if not horror.

"It's also how I knew they put the DVDs in your bag. I overheard them talking about it when I was at the other end of the truck."

"I...I don't believe you." He was really starting to freak out now, shaking his head in denial.

"I hear everything, Ryan. I can hear a G-Wagon on patrol several streets off, a mother and daughter arguing about the rain just around the corner, I can hear your watch ticking on your wrist and the rain hitting the umbrella is like small claps of thunder. And, if I was to echolocate loudly enough, I could see your heart beating inside your chest."

"You're doing this – this echolocation thing – right now?" he asked.

"I've never done it inside Newhome, not since I was five. I was warned not to. Besides, I saw the electricians installing ultrasonic detectors all over town when I was younger."

"Who warned you?"

"I can't say. Now, please, I have to get home." I turned around then and did the hardest thing I had ever done. I walked away from him and didn't look back. All the same, I half-expected and secretly wanted him to come running after me, to tell me that he still cared for me, that he still wanted me in spite of my mutation. But as the distance between us grew, it became glaringly apparent that I had finally managed to drive him away. And with that realisation, I felt let down, disappointed, and ultimately, betrayed. Didn't he mean those things he just said? That I was the most incredible person he'd met? What of his speech that we could overcome all obstacles in our way? How could he say those things and then reject me and walk away when I shared my deepest, darkest secret?

I wished Friday would hurry up so I could get away from this dump of a town and its never-ending parade of disappointments.

# Chapter Thirty-Four

Although heartbroken by Ryan's betrayal, I eventually made it home. Karen informed me as soon as I walked through the door that the thugs had turned up on Saturday morning. They grabbed my wage from my mother and left without another word.

Then my mother got stuck into me, ranting and raving as she voiced her disappointment at my display of disreputable behaviour from spending the weekend at Ryan's place. Assuring her I slept in his mother's room had no effect, so I had Karen help me take off my hoodie and shirt. When Mother saw the bandages, she dropped that line of attack.

However, seeing how badly I had been wounded just sent her over the edge about how close I came to being killed, and how something had to be done about the debt collectors. I pointed out that the escape was scheduled for Friday, and then I'd be out of harms' way for good.

I made another attempt to get her to come with my brother, sister, and me, but she wouldn't budge. She was as stubborn as a mule, that woman.

With Karen's help, I changed into a dress, put up my hair, and ducked downstairs to the lounge. I used the public phone to ring the Recycling Works and call in sick. Trajan Barclay was not impressed, probably thinking I was faking it, but as I'd never see him again, it hardly mattered.

After that, I knocked on Sofia's door. It opened a smidgeon, and she looked out warily.

"Hey," I said.

"What happened to you?" she asked when she saw the sling.

"Slipped over and fell on my arm. Clever girl that I am. Hey, can we have a chat?"

"Sure! I'll take you to one of my favourite spots." Sofia slipped through her door and let it click shut behind her. She never let me in, which was a tad strange, as she'd been in our room many times.

She led me back to the fifth floor, and we used the staircase to go up onto the roof. The rain had stopped, but everything was still wet.

I walked over to the edge and took in the view. It was breathtaking. I could see the large, gently sloping roofs of the factories before us, and row after row of glass greenhouses that comprised the market gardens. Beyond the factories and market gardens was North End. I was struck by how different it was to Newhome proper. Roads paved with coloured bricks, beautiful apartments, the multi-storey Chancellery that tapered to a spire, and the five-storey Genetics Laboratory with exterior walls made entirely of one-way glass.

"Quite a view, isn't it?" Sofia said, wrapping her arms around her slim torso. "I like coming up here."

"It's amazing, except the Genetics Laboratory looks even more daunting from up here."

"Daunting?"

"You know, intimidating, scary," I said.

"What's scary about a place that makes new strains of veggies, fruit, and chickens? Hey, you ever seen a photo of what chickens used to look like? Ours are a far cluck from the originals," Sofia said.

I laughed at her lame joke. "I know, right? Original chickens were capable of a few seconds flight, but not our biologically modified specimens. They're so plump that they can't get off the ground at all. But to your question, it was pointed out to me the other day that the geneticists are in that place all day, every day, seven days a week. Do they really spend all their time trying to improve the strains of vegetables, fruit, and chicken? Or are they working on something else? Something sinister."

Sofia raised her left eyebrow. "Sinister? Oh, come on. Like what?"

"I don't know. Just thinking aloud." A shudder wracked through me as I contemplated the geneticists dissecting children with mutations like mine. If that was true, those men were monsters of the worst degree. The men who told them to do such barbaric things were even worse. Thinking of monsters reminded me of Con and the others, and ultimately, my brother.

Sofia noticed my mood change. "Is everything okay?"

"No. I've gotten myself into a jam, and I don't know what I should do."

"Why don't you bounce it off me?"

I took a deep breath and opened my heart. "I know some people who did something really bad, and if I don't report them, they're going to get away with it."

Sofia didn't even hesitate. "You have to do what's right."

"Complication is, one of them's my brother, and if I inform the authorities, he could get the death sentence," I said, letting my eyes wander down a red brick road in North End.

"Oh."

"See what I mean?"

Sofia nodded. "What is your conscience saying?"

"To do what's right, regardless of the cost."

"I'm so sorry." She laid a hand on my elbow.

"But I can't face the thought of life without him, Sofia. Brandon's always been such a big part of it."

She looked at me quizzically. "A question?"

"Go ahead."

"Are we talking about your actual brother, or you pretending to be your brother?"

"Come again?" I groaned. Did everyone know my secret?

"Does your brother even exist? It occurred to me I've never seen the two of you at the same time, and then the other day, it dawned on me that the two of you are actually just you."

"You little sneak!" I said with a laugh. "And you're right – you've never seen my brother. He is real, though."

I spent the next ten minutes explaining to Sofia what I had been doing and why, and she proved an attentive listener, as usual. When I finished, I told her about the pending escape and asked her to come with Brandon, Karen, and me.

At the prospect of leaving the town, her eyes had lit up, but then the light faded and she shook her head. "Thank you for asking, but I cannot come. I have to stay here and look after my mother."

I cocked an eyebrow. "I think it's your turn to come clean, Sofia."

Her eyes widened in alarm.

"Your mother's already passed away, hasn't she?" I asked gently.

Tears sprang into her eyes. "Yes. Yes, she has. Last year, in fact."

"So why hide the fact?"

"Because I'm only seventeen and will become a ward of the town if they find out. I don't want to be placed with some random family I don't know. A family who won't want me and will keep me at arm's length because I'm so deformed and ugly." She looked away, unable to meet my gaze.

I touched her chin and turned her head gently to face me. "Don't be silly, Sofia. You're the most beautiful person I know. I dream of becoming more like you one day."

"You're too kind," she said.

"Not at all."

She sniffed back a tear.

"How on earth did you manage to hide your mother's passing, anyway?"

"Official departments in Newhome apparently don't talk to each other. The hospital knows she died, of course, but when I told the supervisor my mother would be back when she'd recovered, he took my word for it and never raised the matter again."

"You know what this means, don't you?" I gave her hand a squeeze and an encouraging smile. "You've got no reason to stay here. So I implore you, come with us on Friday night."

Sofia looked tempted but undecided. "I...I don't know if I can. I've been here so long, you know? It's my home now."

"I don't need to remind you how bad this place is, Sofia. Just think of the freedom of living in a place without stupid rules that treat girls like second-class citizens? A place without Custodians. A place we're free to take hold of our own destiny. A place that's not the homeless shelter."

Sofia smiled shyly. "You think I'd like it there, in Ballarat?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Okay, count me in."

"Good on you!" I gave her a big hug with my right arm.

* * *

I went back upstairs and got the surprise of my life when I saw Jack lounging against the wall near our 'apartment,' looking out the window.

"Jack?" I spoke carefully, reminding myself to be me, not Brandon.

"Oh, hi, Chelsea. It's, ah, nice to see you." He turned to face me and wrung his hands together shyly. And looked inquisitively at the sling.

"Slipped and fell."

"Nothing broken, I hope."

"Just a sprain."

"That's a relief. Hey, I went to your old place but your apartment was empty, and your neighbours said you moved here."

I nodded.

"Because of your father?"

I nodded again.

"Sorry about that."

"No need to apologise. It's not exactly your fault, now is it?" I said, smiling.

He laughed. "Hey, I urgently need to speak to Brandon, but your mother said he's out. Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Just tell me and I'll pass on the message." I tried to encourage him with a disarming smile.

"Oh, ah, sorry, it's kind of, um, private."

I moved closer to him. "My brother and I don't keep secrets, Jack, so don't hold back on my account."

"Did Brandon, ah, tell you what we have planned this week?" he asked, watching me closely.

"You mean the breakout on Friday night?" I whispered.

"Oh, he did tell you." He breathed a sigh of relief. "In that case, tell Brandon that this is completely off the record – if Con finds out I told you this, he'll kill me. The breakout's not on Friday night; it's on Wednesday. We meet at 2 a.m. behind the apartment block just south of the eastern gatehouse."

"Why wasn't Brandon told this?"

"Con originally told Brandon it was Friday 'cause he's friends with Ryan and was afraid he'd let it slip. He was gonna tell him it was Wednesday closer to the day. But, ah, Brandon's been in Con's face a bit lately. Arguing with him, mucking up his plans, even threatening him. And as Con has zero tolerance for those who won't do what he wants, he doesn't want Brandon joining the breakout. So he's not gonna tell him its Wednesday at all."

"So we get left behind?"

"That's what Con wants, but stuff him, I say. Brandon's my buddy, you know? Not to mention this whole breakout thing was his idea in the first place."

"So you want us to turn up on Wednesday night anyway?"

"You cotton on quick." Jack was all smiles now.

"I'll give Brandon the message. And don't worry, we'll be discrete."

"Thanks, Chelsea. You're the best. And, um, I'm glad you're coming too. Maybe once we've left Newhome, we can get to know each other a bit better? You know, since we won't be restricted by Newhome's rules and regulations anymore."

"Sure, I'd like that," I said, but a little part of me died on the inside. I really liked Jack. Why did he have to have a darker side?

He bid me farewell and darted off with a bounce in his step, leaving me feeling betrayed and angry. They were trying to leave without us!

I wondered if I should turn them into the authorities before Wednesday for murdering Dan, or simply turn up at the eastern gates on Wednesday night like Jack suggested and go out with them anyway. That's if Con would let me. Then again, if I went as myself instead of masquerading as Brandon, surely Con would let me go.

What was it with men? Every male I knew, even Ryan – no, especially Ryan – was turning into a major disappointment.

# Chapter Thirty-Five

I was still awake in the early hours of the morning, alternating between heartache because I'd never see Ryan again, and disappointment because he let me down so badly. I kept going over our parting conversations, wondering how differently things could have turned out if I hadn't told him I was a mutant. His reaction hurt me more than I cared to admit and caused me to doubt my conviction that he was a man of honour and integrity.

I also wrestled with the things Sofia (and Ryan) told me about doing the right thing where Dan Smith was concerned. I debated the topic from every possible angle, trying to justify doing nothing about it so the escape attempt could go ahead.

It was after three in the morning when I heard a voice whisper my name outside in the hallway, causing me to jolt in alarm. I relaxed when I realised it was Brandon.

I grabbed a coat off the back of the chair closest to my mattress and pulled it over my shoulders with great difficulty. That done, I popped the door open and stole silently into the hallway.

My brother was standing there, unshaven, eyes bloodshot, and wearing filthy clothes. He stank too. He had put on weight, though, so he must have been eating.

He noticed how I cradled my left arm. "Those guys hurt you again?"

I nodded and filled him in on what happened.

"Right, that's it. I'm taking care of them. No one hurts my sister," he snarled.

"No!" I squeaked. "Don't aggravate the matter any further. The escape is this Wednesday. Once we've left town, who's going to care? We'll be free of them."

"Wednesday – I thought it was Friday?"

"Change of plans."

"Right."

There was a pregnant pause, in which my anger got the better of me. "Why didn't you tell me the truth the other day?"

"About what?"

"That you helped the others kill Dan!" I whispered.

He looked at his feet, and shuffled about nervously, but didn't speak.

"I don't know you anymore, Brandy. You're a smuggler, into drugs and porn, and a murderer. What on earth happened to you?"

"How else could I have turned out? Living in a place like this saps the life out of you!"

"Oh come on, adversity doesn't make someone turn out like that. You've got only yourself to blame for the choices you've made."

"Really? I was like you before I started foraging, idealistic and with a head full of good intentions, but Con and the others corrupted me in no time flat. They introduced me to the thrill of smuggling stuff and getting loaded, getting high, and, ah, um, other stuff." He spoke angrily, as though he was the victim.

"Ever heard of the word 'no?'" I said. "Even better, did it occur to you to report them to the Custodians? I never figured you'd be so spineless!"

"If I reported them I would have ended up like Dan!" He glared at me, brows furrowed.

"The Dan you helped kill?"

That comment knocked the fight out of him.

"Why are you here tonight, anyway?" I asked.

"Because I don't know what to do, Chelz. Ever since that day, I can't get the image of Dan out of my mind. His trusting face as I manoeuvred him beneath the wall. He just stood there, smiling at me, trusting me, while I pretended to take a photo of him. Then the others pushed the wall over, and as it fell on top of him, he managed to meet my eyes one last time. His expression was one of stunned disbelief – he couldn't accept I could have done such a thing to him." Tears were streaming down his cheeks now. "Every time I close my eyes, that's all I see."

"So what do you think you should do now?" I asked, mindful of my friends' advice.

"I know what I should do. I should hand myself into the Custodians and tell them what happened. And do it before Wednesday so the Custodians can arrest the other three goons before they escape."

"But Brandy, if you do that..."

"You think I don't know that? It's the death penalty for murder and drug dealing." He looked up now, eyes wide. "I don't want to die, Chelz."

My heart shattered. "I don't want you to either, but..." My voice trailed off.

"Just say it."

"But you had a hand in Dan's murder, and as much as I hate myself for saying this, you have to face up to the consequences of your actions. And like you, I don't want Con, Matt and Jack to waltz out those gates on Wednesday night and get away with blue murder."

Brandon nodded, shoulders slumped as though carrying the weight of the world. "Just give me a bit longer to think it through, okay?"

I nodded, a tear slipping down my cheek as I contemplated the horror and loneliness of life without him.

He wiped the tear away with the back of his hand, and with a forlorn smile, made his exit.

* * *

Knowing the breakout was set for Wednesday instead of Friday sent me into a fluster. There was one thing I had been planning to do but kept putting it off, leaving it until the last minute. Now suddenly, that last minute was here.

I wanted to visit my father before I left. I knew this would probably be the last time I saw him. On the one hand, I didn't want to see him because I was still mad at him, but on the other, I knew I'd regret it forever if I didn't.

I decided to visit him on Tuesday afternoon and get it over and done with. I asked mother and sister to come, but they refused, as expected. That was annoying because it meant I had to visit him masquerading as Brandon, rather than be myself. The requirement for a chaperone was so infuriating!

I arrived at the prison-factory half an hour later. The factory was as bleak and depressing as I imagined, with pre-fab grey concrete walls and a corrugated tin roof. It was big too, with a barbed wire-topped cyclone wire fence surrounding the property. The Custodians at the gate glanced at Brandon's ID card and let me through.

I had to wait an hour in the foyer in an uncomfortable plastic bucket seat until they called my name. A Custodian took me to the prison visiting room, a large room with worn blue carpet, low ceiling, and clusters of bucket seats.

Several prisoners were present – all men of course – since this was a male only prison-factory. Parents, wives, and children were visiting all of the prisoners in the room. All except for one man, who sat alone with his head bowed, hands clasped tightly, and knees bouncing up and down.

I sat in the bucket seat across from him, but couldn't find my voice. This man was my hero when I was a child, but also the one responsible for all the disasters that had overtaken our family recently.

It soon became apparent he wouldn't raise his head or look at me.

"Hello, Father." I spoke with my brother's voice.

"Brandon?" He didn't raise his eyes.

"Chelsea," I whispered.

He looked up at that, clearly astonished. I felt a pull at my heartstrings. He had lost weight, and what little light had been in his eyes previously was gone.

"You came alone?" He seemed to collapse into himself, like a folding deck chair closing.

"Yes."

"Oh."

It was a couple of minutes before he was able to look at me again. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Because I wanted to see you and this was the only way."

"You shouldn't have bothered."

Whatever compassion I felt for him suddenly evaporated under an unexpected surge of anger. "Shouldn't have...do you have any idea of what you have put us through?"

"Put you through?" A spark of confusion flashed across his face.

"We lost the apartment, furniture, clothes, the works. Because you didn't pay the rent!"

"What? But – why didn't Brandon pitch in and pay it?"

"He still hasn't come home. And you stole all his money anyway, remember?" I spoke too loudly and one of the Custodians on duty looked over in our direction. I made a mental note to keep it down.

"Not all of it. And I was going to pay back what I took."

"When? After you paid off the thirty-thousand gambling debt?"

He looked up, eyes wide with panic.

"Yeah – we know all about that."

"How?"

"What do you think Deacon and Wells did after the magistrate threw you in here?"

"They shouldn't have done anything. It's my gambling debt; it's got nothing to do with the rest of you." He stumbled over his words as he spoke.

"They beat you up, didn't they, Father? The day the Custodians arrested you," I said.

He just looked at me.

"They threatened you the day before, and when you didn't come through with more money, they beat the daylights out of you."

He shifted uncomfortably on his chair, but still wouldn't speak.

"So you rang the Custodians. You're the one who gave them the 'anonymous' tip-off, and then hid Brandon's drugs under your bed to implicate yourself. You put yourself in prison."

"I had to...I didn't have any choice."

"What are you talking about? We always have choices."

He didn't speak, just stared forlornly at the floor.

"I wish you'd let us know what was going on so we could have worked something out together. I wish you'd thought things through instead of leaving us – leaving me – at the mercy of Deacon and his stupid sidekick." I pointed to my chest and the sling.

My father's face paled. "They did that?"

"And more."

"Daughter, I...I don't know what to say. I had no idea they'd go after you if I was locked away. I thought it would put an end to their schemes if I was beyond their reach."

"Well, you thought wrong, didn't you?"

"They're just chasing you for money, right?" he asked, even more alarmed.

"Yeah, 'just' thirty-thousand dollars."

For a moment, he looked mightily relieved, but then his eyes alighted upon my sling, and his expression fell. "I'm so sorry, Daughter, I really am."

"Really? Then prove it. Tell the Custodians you set yourself up and demand they release you from prison." A thought suddenly occurred to me. If he was released from prison before tomorrow night, our whole family could quit the town. We'd be free of the debt collectors and could rebuild our family when we got to Ballarat.

"All the Custodians care about is results, and they've got one."

"I can't accept that, Father. And from your experience with them, you know that some stand up for the truth," I said.

"There's still the matter of the drugs, Chelsea. If I do as you suggest, they'll arrest Brandon for possession. I won't do that to him."

He was just making excuses, and I knew it. "You're afraid of seeing Deacon and Wells again. I get it. What if I told you they won't be a factor for much longer. Would you do as I suggest then?"

"How is that possible?"

"I can't tell you. You just have to trust me."

He shook his head. "Sorry, I can't."

"What about when you've served your time?" I snapped.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. "I'll probably arrange it so I stay in here."

My mouth dropped open. "You're never going to get out? What about Mother?"

"What about her? Hasn't even bothered to visit me."

"She's waiting for you to get out!"

He snorted.

"Fine! Hide under a rock for the rest of your life! Goodbye!" I stood angrily to my feet, knocking my seat back, and stormed from the room. His refusal to cooperate or make even the slightest effort to be there for us, made me so mad!

I signed out of prison and headed home, muttering under my breath. Yet, as I walked, my rage began to fade when I realised how big a mess I made of the visit. Instead of a touching farewell, or even convincing him to try to get out of prison so he could come with us, I lost my temper and blamed him for everything. Now I would have to carry this as the last memory of my father for the rest of my life.

# Chapter Thirty-Six

After a night of tossing and turning, Wednesday arrived at last. I got out of bed at the crack of dawn, excitement coursing through me in anticipation of escaping tonight. I could scarcely believe that after all these years, today was the day.

Filling my pockets with money from Brandon's secret stash, I popped out to the market and bought as much dried fruit and unleavened bread as I reckoned we could carry. I also bought two backpacks for Karen and Sofia. Back at the apartment, Karen, Sofia and I packed the bags, filling them with water bottles, the fruit and bread, and other necessities including sanitary pads and rolls of toilet paper.

* * *

My mother, sister, Sofia, and I stepped outside the first-floor cafeteria after a nourishing dinner of stale bread, overripe fruit and past their sell-by date doughnuts when we bumped into the last person I wanted to see.

Ryan stood outside the door, still in his work clothes.

"What do you want?" I snapped.

"I need to talk to you," Ryan said, searching my eyes.

"We have nothing to talk about." I pushed my way past him.

He grabbed my right elbow. "Please."

I looked at my mother. I knew she still wasn't happy I'd spent three nights at his home, even though she now grudgingly accepted it had been necessary. "Mother?"

"It is unbecoming for you to talk to him," she said.

"I work with him every day during the week, remember?" I whispered.

Mother frowned. "Well, you're not talking to him without a chaperone, and you can count me out."

"I know I'm not old enough to be a chaperone, but I can go with them, if that's okay with you, Mrs. Thomas? We are inside the shelter, our collective home, after all. It's not like we're in public," Sofia suggested.

"This is very important, Mrs. Thomas," Ryan said.

"Oh, very well," Mother replied. She turned to my sister. "Come, Youngest Daughter."

Karen followed my mother down the corridor, glancing back wistfully, no doubt wishing she could have played the part of chaperone rather than Sofia.

I looked up at Ryan. "Well?"

He glanced at Sofia and then me.

"Why don't we go up to the roof, and then I'll leave you two to talk in private," Sofia suggested. Didn't miss much, that girl.

Several minutes later, Ryan and I stood alone on the roof. Sofia had escorted us to the fifth-floor but came no further. I barely noticed the view today, though. I couldn't stop wondering what he wanted to say.

A brisk, cold wind blew loose strands of hair across my face. I tried to pull my shawl closer about my shoulders, but with one arm in a sling, it wasn't easy. Noticing my predicament, Ryan helped pull it into place. He stood so close that I could smell him – a subtle mix of sweat and cologne.

"Is there a reason you've dragged me up here or are you going to just stand there staring at me?" I asked.

"I can't stop thinking about you, Chelsea."

"Seriously? That's what you wanted to say?"

"And I want to apologise for freaking out when you told me about your...abilities. It just took me by surprise. But you know what? It didn't take me long to realise you were wrong. I do know you. Your secret changes nothing. You're still the most amazing person I know. And I still can't bear the thought of not having you in my life." He spoke with such passion that his words stirred my soul, reaching through the barriers I had erected around my heart.

"Ryan–" I began.

"I spoke to my father–"

"I already told you there can be no future between us!"

"And I told you we can work through every obstacle we encounter together." He reached out to take my hand in his. "My father is not opposed to our union. He is willing to talk to your father."

"He's in prison."

"He can have visitors, can't he?"

The touch of his fingers on mine sent tingles up my arm, and for the barest fraction of a moment I considered accepting his suggestion and staying here with him, but the terrifying image of Wells shooting the spring-loaded gun at Ryan shattered the vision immediately. Then a new thought came unbidden to my mind. There was another option. One that would work for me, and for him too, I believed.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What if I told you there was another option. Another way we could be together."

"I don't follow."

I knew Con told me not to tell him, but Con was a slimy, insidious, paranoid criminal of the nth degree. And he could nick off!

"What if I told you a group of us are going to break out of Newhome and go to Ballarat?"

"You serious?" The incredulous look on his face was worth framing.

"Yes."

"And just how do you plan on getting out?"

"Through the town gates, of course."

"The gates are guarded by two squads of Custodians!"

"We've worked out a way to get past them."

"You're going to kill them?" he asked, alarmed.

"Of course not – that would be murder! It will be by trickery, not violence," I assured him.

"Wow, I don't know what to say." He ran his hand through his hair.

"Why don't you come with me?" I spoke carefully, my voiced filled with hope. "It would be a brand new beginning. No debt collectors beating me up or trying to kill you, no stigma over our heads because I have a criminal for a father."

"When is this breakout?"

"Tonight."

He shook his head slowly. "Chelsea, this is not the solution. You can't spend your life running away from your troubles. You have to face them and overcome them."

"To be honest, Ryan, I have been planning to escape the town ever since I was five," I said.

"What – why?"

"I live every day here in fear of my life. I have such an awesome ability, but if I use it, I'll be executed simply to keep the human race 'pure' – whatever that means. Hasn't it occurred to them that I may be the next stage of human evolution rather than mutated by nuclear radiation? Whoever heard of radiation causing mutations like this? Extra toes and fingers, cleft palates, and cancers, but not this."

"Is that where you think your ability comes from?" he asked.

"It's a better explanation than radiation," I said.

He nodded. "I guess it is. Not something I've ever thought about, to be honest. But what if you're wrong? What if they don't kill mutants like you?"

"Just lock me up and study me like a lab rat instead? Sorry, not willing to risk ending up like that. Besides, that's not the only reason I want to leave. I can't stand living in an oppressive society like this. I want to be free to go where I want, do what I want, to take hold of my own life," I said.

"If you feel so strongly about these issues, why don't you try to do something about them?" He looked at me intently.

"And get thrown in prison like those guys who did the stop-work protest?"

"They went about it the wrong way. They used blackmail instead of dialogue. Instead of working from behind the scenes."

"Man, you sure live in a fantasy world, Ryan. This town is a police state, can't you see that?"

"I'll admit it's not perfect, but consider this. The Founders, and the Chancellor and councillors since them, have outlawed multiculturalism in their attempt to create a society without division. They even encouraged the different nationalities here to intermarry so we would become one people. Yet, for the past century, the people resisted this attempt to rob them of their unique national characteristics by refusing to let their children marry outside their own race. So in spite of the Founders and Chancellor's efforts, we still have Anglo-Saxon Aussies, Yugoslavians, Chinese, Malaysians, Vietnamese, Koreans, Sudanese, Greeks, Italians, Indians, Turkish – need I go on? Melbourne's pre-Apocalypse multinational identity has been preserved."

"What's your point?" I asked.

"If the people can resist the Chancellor's efforts in this area, they can beat him in other areas too. They just need to find the right strategies and get the right people behind them."

"I still don't see what that's got to with me. Or you, for that matter."

"This town has so much potential, Chelsea, can't you see that? Instead of running away, why don't you become a visionary committed to changing the town into the sort of place you would like to raise your children in."

"Sorry, Ryan. I've had enough of this place."

"Chelsea, I don't know who's behind this escape attempt, but it's fraught with danger. Firstly, the Custodians at the gate won't be the pushovers you think they are. Secondly, even if you do get past them, the ruins are infested with Skel and Ballarat is too far away. In ideal conditions, it would probably take a couple of days to get there, but if anyone gets sick, injured, or their shoes fall apart, it's going to take a lot longer. Many of you won't make it at all. You've got to see this is just wishful thinking! Please don't go!"

"Honestly, Ryan, I'm surprised at you. Considering I'm your only friend, and how you feel about me, I figured you would have jumped at the chance to come with me. You'd be a real asset on the journey too," I paused and looked directly into his eyes. "Besides, I want you to come."

He dropped my hand and stepped back. "Sorry, Chelsea, I care for you, I really do. But my family is here, and I care about this town and its people. Please stay here. Please stay with me."

Disappointed by his refusal to come, I felt a deep sorrow weigh heavily on my heart. Still, I tried to be understanding. His family meant a great deal to him, and I was asking him to abandon them on a moment's notice. And he wasn't rejecting me, for he was asking me to stay here with him.

"Who is in charge of this breakout? Is it Con?" he asked.

"I don't want to say."

"Fair enough, but if he is the leader, I want you to consider this. If Con, Matt and Jack are responsible for Dan Smith's death, they need to be brought to justice. They mustn't be allowed to leave tonight and get away scot-free."

"You think I don't know that?" His words weighed heavily on my conscience.

"The clock's ticking."

With an angry flick of my head because he was right and I knew it, I rushed down the stairs. Just like the last time, he did not come after me. I guessed this was truly the last time I would see him.

Sofia was waiting for me. She raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Things didn't go well?"

"Don't ask." I grabbed her hand. "Come on, let's go back to your place. He won't think to look for me there."

We popped down to Sofia's room. Now that I knew her mother had passed away, she no longer kept me out. The room was Spartan, but she had laid out her few items of furniture in a way that gave the room a homely atmosphere.

I helped her prepare for the breakout, mending some of the clothes she was going to bring. Because of her burns, she was not good with sewing needles and thread.

Finally, sometime after midnight, we hurried upstairs to my apartment.

However, as soon as we reached my room, I knew something was wrong – the door was hanging wide open. Fearing the worst, I rushed inside and was shocked to find the room empty. There was no sign of my mother or sister.

Panicking, I bolted out of the room with Sofia in tow, going as fast as my dress would allow, pausing only when the elevator pinged and the doors ground open.

I found myself face to face with my mother, who was red-faced and flustered. "Where have you been, Daughter! I've been looking all over for you!"

"With Sofia, why – what's wrong? Where's Karen?"

"They took her!" she shouted in my face.

"They?"

"Those horrible men, the debt collectors!"

# Chapter Thirty-Seven

I had to reach out and grab my mother's arm to keep my balance. It felt like I had been slugged in the gut. Why did they take her? Were they going to force her to perform sexual favours instead of paying back the loan?

"Why did they have to do this today!" I wailed. "In another half an hour we would have departed for the rendezvous point."

Mother stuck her face in mine. "That's why they took her. They said they heard of the breakout and kidnapped Karen to stop Brandon leaving town because he still owed them so much money. They said he could pick her up in the morning."

I staggered back, barely able to process what I was hearing. "What a disaster! What are we supposed to do now?"

"What's it got to do with you? Go join your friends and escape." The derogatory manner in which she spoke revealed the depths of her animosity towards me.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mother. I'm not leaving without her!"

"So you'll stay? And get her in the morning wearing your Brandon disguise? I would have asked your brother, except I don't know where he is," she asked, clearly surprised. It saddened me that she continued to have such a low opinion of me after everything I had done for them. All because of that fateful day when my parents' relationship reaching breaking point many years ago and I sided with my father against her.

I shook my head. I just couldn't believe Karen had been kidnapped, right before the breakout. Why did the universe plot and conspire against me? Every time I tried to escape, something catastrophic popped up and ruined my plans. And tonight's escape attempt was my idea, my plan.

"Actually, Brandon will be here soon. When he turns up, I'll tell him what happened, and we can go and rescue Karen together. Did Deacon say where they took her?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Daughter. Those men will eat you alive!" She shook her head frantically. But was that concern for my brother, or for me?

"Not Brandon, they won't – they won't know what hit them. Where are we supposed to pick her up from tomorrow?"

"I will tell you in the morning."

I squeezed her arm. "Tell me!"

"Let go of my arm!" she bellowed.

"Is it the Derby Snooker Hall?" I asked.

Her eyes lit up at the mention of the snooker hall. Too late, she tried to hide her reaction.

"Thought so." I turned and hurried back to our room. "Give me a hand getting changed?"

"Incorrigible child – you'll get no help from me!" Glowering at me, she remained near the elevator.

I gestured for Sofia to follow me. When we got to our room, she looked extremely concerned. "I think your mother's right. You shouldn't do this. Those guys are too dangerous."

I took hold of her hand. "Sofia, please – we don't have time for this. We have less than an hour to join the escape, and I won't go without my sister."

"Still–"

"Please help me change?"

She finally acquiesced and helped me out of my clothes to complete the transformation into my brother. All the same, by the time we were done, my face was pale and my hands were shaking from pain.

I took a few deep breaths to get myself back under control. We looked almost like a brother and sister, me in Brandon's clothes and Sofia wearing her best ankle-length dress.

Putting on my backpack and throwing Karen's pack over my right shoulder, I put my left hand in my pocket instead of the sling, and we headed for the door. Which was blocked by my mother. She stood there, denying our exit.

"Please move, Mother."

"If you try to rescue her, they'll do worse than just shoot you." She pointed to my wound.

"This is our one and only chance to leave, and I'm not going to let those losers ruin it for us."

She still wouldn't move, so I shouldered her gently but firmly aside. A feat that was surprisingly easy – she had lost a lot of weight since coming to the shelter.

"On your own head, then, foolish girl! And if you do see Brandon, don't you dare take him with you!" She turned her back on us and stomped back inside, slamming the door closed.

With Sofia dogging my heels, I hurried off to look for my brother, who should have been here by now. As I stood in the urine-scented elevator, I realised I would probably never see my mother again, and that just like my father, my final moments with her had been of anger. Couldn't I do anything right?

The TV was off in the foyer, and the room was eerily empty, the lone fluorescent light in the ceiling flickering randomly. Darting out the front door, I immediately went into full stealth mode, darting from shadow to shadow while keeping an eye out for Custodians. Sofia followed me as best she could, her footfalls so loud I cringed. We would be in a world of trouble if they caught us outside at this time of night.

We hadn't gone far down the road when I detected furtive footsteps heading in our direction. I pulled Sofia behind a bush and hunkered down beside her. A minute later, Brandon slunk into view. He face was grim, his movements purposeful, and he carried a new bag on his back.

"Brandon!" I hissed loud enough for him to hear.

"Chelz?" he whispered as he crept over to join us. He looked inquisitively at Sofia.

"Sofia, Brandon – Brandon, Sofia."

Sofia studied my brother wide-eyed, but he fixed me with a penetrating gaze.

"Where's Karen?" he whispered.

I quickly explained to him what happened to our sister.

"I am sick of those mongrels," he exclaimed when I finished.

"Me too. Let's go rescue her, shall we?"

He looked at me intently, as though he wanted nothing more than to help, but then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head. "Sorry, I can't."

"Say what? Brandy, if we don't rescue her, she won't be joining the breakout, and neither will I. I won't go without her."

He expired deeply, clearly distressed. "I wish I could help, Chelz, I really do, but there's something else I have to do."

"Like what!"

"I'm going to stop Con, Matt and Jack from escaping tonight. But I have to stop them at the moment of the actual breakout. If I do it any earlier, it will sabotage any chance the breakout has of succeeding, since they're the leaders and all, and that wouldn't be fair on the others. And then, when everyone else has gone, and we four are the only ones left, I'll turn us into the Custodians for murdering Dan," he said.

Sofia's eyes popped out of her head, but she wisely stayed out of it.

"And how exactly are you planning to stop them?" I asked.

He patted his backpack.

"Tell me you're not going to shoot them."

"Nothing so barbaric or noisy. Now, sorry, but I have to go."

"Wait – take Sofia with you, please. I don't want her missing the chance to escape if I don't make it in time," I whispered urgently.

"Why, what are you going to do?" Brandon eyed me with suspicion.

"I'm going after Karen."

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he hissed.

"Then come with me!" I knew I should be relieved he finally found his backbone and was going to bring Dan's murderers to justice – himself included. But all I could see was Karen, kidnapped by Deacon and stuck in some dingy room somewhere, trembling and in fear for her life, unable to join the escape.

"I already told you why I can't. Just go home and get her in the morning like Mother suggested."

"I second that," Sofia said. "I'll come home with you."

"What, and miss the breakout? No way! I've been waiting for this my entire life! You two go on ahead and I'll meet up with you when I've got Karen. And Sofia, if for some reason we don't make it in time, go with the foragers. Be free of this place. For me."

She made to protest, but I stopped her with a shake of my head. "Promise me!"

She nodded once, looking most unsure of herself. I gave her arm a squeeze.

"Make sure she's with the other foragers before you take out Con, Matt and Jack, okay?" I said to my brother. He nodded, and our eyes met. "Don't worry; we'll be there. Now go!"

He nodded, and the two of them slipped quietly off into the night, Brandon guiding her each step of the way.

I went back to the homeless shelter and rummaged around until I found a sturdy three-foot long metal pole. Then I raced off as fast as I could to Derby Street. Luckily, it was roughly two-thirds of the way between here and the eastern gatehouse.

I hadn't gone far, though, when a series of massive explosions shattered the early morning air. Spinning around, I spotted four huge fireballs climbing lazily skyward from the direction of the factories.

It was the distraction designed to keep the Custodians busy so the foragers and their families could pass through the town undetected on their way to the gates. I hoped Con didn't put the bombs anywhere near the prison factories. I didn't want anyone to die, and besides, my father was in one of them.

A squad of Custodians suddenly came rushing around the closest corner, shouting into their radios as they hurried in the direction of the burning factories. I kept still, hiding in the black of the night until they were out of sight, and then continued on my way.

The front of the snooker club was dark and lifeless, having closed several hours ago when the curfew came into effect. I recalled Deacon telling me they operated out of the staffroom, so I dumped the bags, gripped the metal pole tightly in my right hand, and crept through the narrow gap that ran down the side of the grey-brick building.

When I reached the rear of the property, pale golden light illuminated piles of haphazardly stacked empty beer crates, cardboard cartons, and discarded furniture.

Stepping silently around the corner, I spied one man standing outside the back door. He had his back to me and head down as he lit a cigarette.

I looked at the pole in my hand, knowing what I had to do but wondering if I had the guts to do it. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt another human being. However, these scum had manoeuvred me into a corner. If Karen and I were to join the escape, talking wasn't going to get the job done.

I stole quietly behind the gangster, and then, just as he straightened up again and turned to survey the yard, I brought the pole down on his right collarbone with all my strength. There was a sickening crack as the bone snapped. The man immediately arched back, a scream forming on his lips. But before he could make a sound, I bounced the pole off the side of his head, though with much less force. All the same, he crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Stepping over his prone body, I pulled open the rickety wire door and the heavy wooden one behind it, which thankfully, was not locked. I slid through the gap and entered the passageway beyond. A toilet and bathroom was on my left and a kitchen on my right. The lights were on, but both were unoccupied. I heard voices beyond the door at the end of the passageway, so I kept moving. I passed two more rooms, an office and a restroom containing a couple of double bunk beds.

Just my luck, they were empty too. If Karen had been in one of those rooms with only one minder, I could have had her out of here in a flash. Continuing towards the door at the end, my spirits sank when I recognised not only Deacon's voice, but also Karen's, and two others I didn't know.

Heart thumping wildly, I stared at the door handle and wondered what to do. For a fraction of a section, I considered rushing in there, waving my pole around, and seeing if I could cower them into letting me grab Karen and go. But seriously, even with my weapon, how much of a threat would they deem me to be? No, my only chance was to use the element of surprise to my advantage.

Taking a deep breath, I hefted the pole, and gritting my teeth in anticipation of the pain, used my left hand to open the door. Then I darted inside and took in view in one glance. The room was a staffroom wider than it was long. It had filthy red-brown carpet and stained striped wallpaper.

Still wearing her beige dress, Karen was sitting on a single-seat sofa to my right, back straight and knees pressed firmly together. To say she was petrified was an understatement. She looked up as I barged in, confused, as though unable to comprehend that it was actually me.

Deacon and Wells were on my right as well, the former pouring himself a glass of vodka from the bar in the corner. A large, three-seater sofa was to my left, upon which sat an older man with greying hair. He was talking to a younger man in a suit, who had his back to me.

I went immediately on the offensive, swinging the pole at the head of the younger man in the suit. It connected with a horrible thump and he went down, sprawling over the sofa. One down, three to go.

"Whoa, whoa, what do you think you're doing?" Deacon shouted, springing straight towards me.

A couple of swings in his direction and he ducked back, allowing Wells to push past him. At the same time, the older man sprang up from the couch, a razor-sharp four-inch knife in his hands.

Panicking, I swung the club at his head, which he blocked with his knife, the impact sending his weapon careening from his hands. Deprived of the knife, he jumped forward and attempted to grapple with me. Too close to swing the pole, I smashed my fist into his chin, hoping to knock him senseless like Ryan almost did to Wells.

The man's lower lip split and blood gushed forth, causing him to fall back, but still fully conscious and shaking with rage. But before I could follow up the attack, a shadow blotted out the light, and I turned just in time to see Wells towering over me with his arm pulled back.

His fist connected with the side of my head, and the next thing I knew I was on the sofa, my head reeling and seeing stars. The impact with the sofa also sent agonising waves of pain throughout my chest. I tried to push myself back to my feet, but he started kicking me – in the legs, the hips, anywhere he could reach.

I dropped the pole and pulled myself into a ball. I could hear someone screaming, and it took a moment to realise it was me.

"Stop it! Don't hurt her!" Karen's shrill voice suddenly cut through the orgy of violence and pain as she jumped to her feet, tears flowing down her cheeks.

The kicks ceased immediately.

Deacon suddenly hauled me roughly to my feet, pulling me around to face him. I fought to maintain my balance, spots dancing in front of my eyes. It also felt like someone had taken to my right leg with a sledgehammer – if it wasn't broken, it would be black and blue for sure.

"Chelsea Thomas," Deacon said as he pulled off my cap and looked at the birthmark.

# Chapter Thirty-Eight

"What of it?" I snapped, giving Deacon the death stare.

He sighed. "It's been you all this time, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"Where is your brother?"

"Don't know – ran away from home a week before they arrested my father," I replied.

"So you thought you could just slip into his shoes and enter a man's world, did you?" he scoffed.

"We needed the money. Besides, I've been doing just fine."

"Idiot! You've gone and made a fool of yourself! Why didn't you tell us your brother had gone AWOL? We would have hunted him down and saved you all this trouble," Deacon said.

"What on earth were you trying to achieve, charging in here like that? Are you entirely bereft of your senses, girl?" the older man asked. His voice was muffled since he was pressing a handkerchief against his bloodied lip.

"She was trying to rescue her sister so they could join the escape tonight," Deacon replied.

I just glared at them.

"Good thing we found out about that, could have lost a source of income," the man said.

"We really want a girl masquerading as a guy to repay her father's debt, Boomer? We need to find the brother quick smart and put him to work," Deacon said. Suddenly alarmed, he looked back at me. "Unless he's planning on escaping too."

"As I told you, I haven't seen him. You think I'd be impersonating him if he was around?" I said.

The door at the other end of the room opened and three men entered. Two were in the late twenties, one so full of himself that he walked like he was God's gift to women. It was the third man, though, that caught my attention. He was tall, with a muscular, solid build, greying hair, with an atmosphere of authority that preceded him. Those already in the room nodded in respect.

The man took in the scene with eyes that missed nothing. He indicated me with a flick of his head. "Who's he?"

"Not he, she. This is Chelsea, the older Thomas girl, Boss." Deacon proceeded to explain the situation. How I'd been masquerading as my brother.

The boss looked me up and down like a butcher examining a piece of meat. "She would have done just fine. Shame about her father getting thrown in prison."

"Would have done just fine for what?" I snapped, worn down by the throbbing pain in the side of my head, legs, and hips. Uneasiness took hold of my stomach.

"You will not speak unless spoken too!" the boss growled.

I turned to Deacon. "What's he talking about?"

It was the boss who answered. "Didn't your father tell you, girl? We made him an offer the day before he was arrested. To get his gambling debt written off all he had to do was sign two marriage contracts. My nephews here wanted to get married, but with our family's reputation and all, that has proved difficult. Your father's situation was the perfect solution – two girls from a reputable family, able to further my nephews' social standing, available for marriage. One now, the other when she turned eighteen."

I looked at him, and then at Deacon, and the uneasiness in my gut twisted into full-blown nausea as I connected the dots. It was with a terrible sense of finality that I realised I had been completely wrong about my father.

I remembered when he came home the day before he was arrested, scared out of his wits. Deacon and Wells must have bailed him up after work that night, pressuring him to give away Karen and myself in marriage to the syndicate boss' nephews. I glanced at the two younger men who came in with the boss. The arrogant one was running his eyes up and down my body with such undisguised lust that it made my skin crawl. The other was doing the same to my sister.

I realised then that my father didn't put himself in prison to avoid another beating, he did it so they couldn't make him sign those marriage contracts. A crippling sense of guilt descended upon me like a crushing weight. Having mistaken my father's actions, I rejected him, refused to visit him in prison until the last day, and even then, I blamed him for all of our woes. True, his gambling habits created the whole mess, but at the end, when it came down to it, he sacrificed his freedom to save us.

"Worked it out, have you?" Deacon asked. He was wearing his empty, patronising smile.

"He wouldn't sign the contracts, so you beat him up. And because he knew you wouldn't leave him be until he signed them, he put himself in prison so that he was beyond your reach," I said.

"Spot on, Chelsea–" Deacon said. But before he could say another word, the lights went out, plunging the entire building into pitch darkness.

"What now?" the boss asked.

"Blown a fuse?" the white-haired man suggested.

"I'll get a torch," Wells said. I heard him feel his way in the dark past Karen, heading for a cupboard behind her.

Suddenly, the strains of a strong, male voice singing rapid staccato notes at an ultrasonic pitch floated into the room.

It was Brandon!

I spun towards the corridor, matching his ultrasonic song with my own, creating a haunting harmony. The darkness instantly fled away, and I could see perfectly. My brother was sprinting up the corridor towards us, a fire raging in his eyes.

Darting into the staffroom, he acknowledged me with a nod and pulled a long, serrated blade from his belt. I moved back quickly so I wouldn't be in his way. He darted past Deacon, slashing his blade across his throat in one flowing movement as he did so. Holding on to his neck with both hands, the debt collector went down, blood bubbling from his lips and escaping between his fingers. He would be dead in seconds.

Brandon went for the older man next, who was still holding a handkerchief to his split lip, eyes darting around in the dark, trying to work out what was going on. With barely a hitch in his stride, my brother buried the blade to the hilt in his stomach. The man collapsed with a strangled cry and laid still, his blood staining the carpet.

Terrified, and having no idea what was happening, Karen began to rise from her chair.

"Don't move, Karen!" I shouted.

"Where's the blasted light!" the boss bellowed.

"Got it!" Wells shouted as he pulled a torch from the cupboard. He thumbed it on and swung it around the room.

As soon as the beam illuminated Brandon, the young men with the boss attacked, one pulling out a knife, the other an expandable police baton. My brother ducked beneath the torchlight by diving to the floor. He scooted to the left, and as he came up again, he stabbed the first hoodlum in the side and as he stepped past him, the back as well. As the thug went down, he slashed the second man's throat, putting him out of the fight too.

"Keep the beam on him!" the boss shouted as he backed away from the sounds of frantic combat until he collided with the far wall.

Locating Brandon with the torch again, Wells drew the spring-loaded gun he used to shoot me, and aimed it at him.

I scooped an empty beer bottle from the sofa and flung it at the gangster, striking his hand. The shot went wide, the dangerous metal spike flying past Brandon's shoulder to stick in the wall behind him.

Growling in frustration, Wells discarded the empty gun and took two giant steps, reaching my brother.

Brandon tried to stick him with the knife, but the massive thug dropped the torch and caught his hand. A game of push and shove ensued in the flickering torchlight that illuminated their shoes, but my brother was no match for Wells.

Still using echolocation, I watched, petrified, as Wells took hold of Brandon's knife hand and slowly twisted the weapon back towards his chest, a grin of evil anticipation on his ugly, scared face.

I jumped forward and took hold of Well's hand. Together, Brandon and I managed to stop the blade twisting towards his chest. That was all we could manage, though, the big brute was too strong!

I suddenly remembered how Ryan beat the monster.

"He's got a glass jaw!" I shouted.

Without a moment's hesitation, Brandon slugged Wells in the jaw with his free hand, and then again with even more power, snapping his head back and rattling his teeth. The thug staggered back in a daze. His grip on Brandon's knife hand weakened, and in a heartbeat, my brother twisted his hand free and plunged the knife into his chest.

The six-foot-six monster crashed to the floor, clipping Karen's chair on the way down. My sister screamed in fear and curled into a ball on the chair, hiding her head in her arms.

"No one touches my sisters!" Brandon snarled at Wells, who stared at him open-mouthed as the light faded from his eyes.

I was about to congratulate Brandon for ending Wells' reign of terror, when he was suddenly fully illuminated in torchlight, followed immediately by a deafeningly loud double-clap of thunder. He immediately collapsed and writhed around on the floor, blood soaking his shirt and hoodie from two gaping holes in his stomach.

"No!" I screamed.

The Boss stood there near the wall, holding Wells' torch in one hand and a smoking gun in the other. A sadistic smile creased his lips. "Hurts, doesn't it, you stupid git. Death will be slow in coming, too. Just who did you think you were dealing with? Huh?"

Watching the syndicate boss gloating over Brandon caused something in me to snap. In one smooth motion, I snatched the old man's knife from the floor and slashed the back of the boss' right wrist, severing muscles and tendons. The gun hit the floor with a thud.

"Forgot about me, didn't you?" I said.

Undeterred by the injury and livid with rage, the boss swung the torch at my head with all his strength. I ducked under the wild swing, came up inside his arms, and buried the knife in his chest to the hilt. He took one step, tripped, and went down, his body wracked with involuntary spasms as he died. Somewhere, at the back of my mind, I realised I had just killed someone, but I didn't have time to think about it then.

I darted across the room and flung myself beside my brother. Tearing the jacket off Deacon's corpse, I tried to staunch the blood flow from Brandon's stomach. At the same time, I used flash sonar to examine the wound, immediately regretting it. His intestines had been pulped.

Brandon placed one bloody hand on my cheek and grabbed my right hand with the other, crushing it in an iron grip.

"Don't waste your time, Chelz, I'm not going to make it," he said between gasps of pain.

Realising the fight was over, Karen crawled off her chair and joined us, able to see just enough in the weak torchlight to realise Brandon had been shot.

"Elder Brother?" she asked, tears flowing.

He grabbed one of her hands. "Promise me you'll look after Chelz, okay?"

"No, Brother! You can't leave us; you can't!"

Brandon placed a bloody finger on her lips and pulled me closer with his other hand. His voice came out in a rasp. "Chelz, you have to finish what I was trying to do tonight. Stop Con, Matt, and Jack from escaping. I already put a signed confession in the mailbox outside the magistrate's office this evening. As long as they're still in the town tomorrow, those guys are going down."

"How am I supposed to stop the three of them?" I asked frantically.

"My backpack's outside. Inside you'll find what you need to knock them out. Do it during the mad rush to get out the gates and no one will notice." His whole body shuddered and he arched his neck, crying out in pain.

"Brandy!" I cried out. Tears poured down my cheeks and mingled with the blood seeping through Deacon's jacket.

His grip on my hand intensified. "Promise me, Chelz!"

"I promise – I'll stop them!"

"Thank you." He sagged against the floor, strength gone. "I love you, Sis – you too, Karen. Sorry, I let you down."

He took one more, laboured breath, and then he was gone. An empty shell lying in a pool of blood. A deep, agonisingly painful sob tore from the depths of my being, and I half-collapsed over the top of him. His blood soaked into my clothes. His clothes.

"Elder Sister – is he?" Karen asked, her voice quivering.

I barely registered she had spoken, for the loss I felt was beyond anything I would have thought possible. My twin brother, my other half, the one who'd shared my world even before birth, was gone.

# Chapter Thirty-Nine

"Elder Sister?" Karen said between sobs.

Remembering the promise I made Brandon and how little time I had left in which to carry it through, I clawed my way back to the world of the living. "He's gone, Karen. Now come, we have to go." I stood, grimacing from the pain in my leg, and pulled her to her feet. Spotting my cap on the floor, I scooped it up and put it on.

"Go? Go where – we can't leave him here?"

"We have to get to the breakout right away or we're gonna miss out," I said. Using echolocation, I watched her shake her head emphatically. "It's what he wanted, Karen!"

She still wouldn't move, and having no time for pleasantries, I pulled her roughly after me. When we got outside, I noticed that the thug I rendered unconscious had a knife wound in his chest. Courtesy of Brandon, no doubt.

Spotting my brother's bag beside the back door, a quick ultrasonic scan revealed the items he had planned to use to stop the murderers. I unzipped the bag and took out three capped syringes he must have stolen from the hospital. According to their labels, they were filled with anaesthetic – presumably enough to knock out a grown man. I would just have to trust that Brandon knew what he was doing.

I put the syringes in my pocket and pulled Karen close. "Stay with me and do exactly what I do. If we bump into a Custodian patrol the only place we will be going is jail."

Although suffering from shock, Karen somehow managed to nod and we were off, first retrieving our backpacks, and then sticking to the shadows and avoiding the street lamps as much as possible. I had my senses on full alert and concentrated on listening for any sign of Custodians, using this activity as a distraction to keep from dwelling on Brandon's tragic demise. I need not have worried though, for we encountered none. The distraction was obviously doing its job in pulling all the Custodians over to the other side of town.

The eastern gatehouse wasn't far from the snooker club, so we reached the rendezvous point fifteen minutes later. Picking our way carefully through hedges, flower gardens and small vegetable patches, we came across a small crowd of foragers and their families – several dozen of them – that had gathered secretly behind the ten-storey apartment block closest to the gates.

Con, Matt and Jack stood near the corner with several other foragers. A freckled teenage girl stood in their midst. They were putting bright red tomato sauce on her face, arms, and clothes to make it look like she had been attacked. So she was the one who would approach the guards to distract them. It occurred to me that I fitted the part since I was already covered with blood and was one big walking wound.

I looked out for Sofia, hoping against hope that Brandon had been able to get her here before he doubled back to help me. For one terrifying moment, I thought she wasn't here but then spotted her at the back, looking into the night, waiting for us.

"Sofia! You sure are a sight for sore eyes," I whispered as I took her hands in mine.

"You made it!" I had never seen her so relieved. But then she frowned. "Where's your brother?"

My face clouded over, and Karen sobbed quietly. "He...didn't make it," I said.

Sofia squeezed my hand, and then Karen's. "Oh no, I'm so sorry!"

"Thank you." I gave her a quick hug and stepped back. "There's something I have to do now, so stay close to Karen, okay? And remember, both of you, I'm Brandon."

If I was going to stop Con, Jack and Matt, I had to get closer, so with Karen and Sofia in tow, I threaded my way through the crowd, which paid me no heed. The people were too busy adjusting their bags, checking their gear, and looking scared out of their wits, especially the family members. I felt a surge of pride knowing these people would be free of this prison town tonight because of me.

Jack spotted us first. "Whoa! What happened to you, Brandon?" he whispered. "Are you hurt? You're limping something chronic!"

"You should see the other guys," I replied. I was thankful it was pretty dark here behind the building. Otherwise, he would have freaked out big time since I was covered with blood.

"What other guys?" Matt asked, frowning as he caught sight of me.

"A couple of thugs trying to collect on my father's debts," I said.

Matt suddenly grabbed me and twisted my head so the light from an apartment window above us fell onto the right side of my face. "You've got a real shiner forming there, mate. And what's that, blood?"

I pushed his hands away. "It's not mine."

"What on earth happened?"

"Long story."

Jack noticed Karen and Sofia behind me and smiled bashfully, before looking frantically all around. "Where's Chelsea?"

"She's isn't coming."

"What? No, she has to!" He looked absolutely crestfallen.

"Sorry, she changed her mind. Wanted to–"

Con was suddenly in my face – and he wasn't happy. I could tell he wanted to ask how I found out the breakout was tonight, but to do so would reveal his hand in attempting to deceive me. Plus, if I reacted badly, it could create an ugly scene, something he needed to avoid with so many witnesses present.

"Where the blazes you been this week, Boy? You seriously expect us to believe you were sick for a whole week? Again?" he growled.

I drew up to my full height, grimaced from the extra weight on my battered leg, and looked up into his beady eyes, which glinted in the poor light. I was about to make an excuse that I hurt my arm, but recalled just in time that I already gave that explanation to Jack when he saw me as myself with my arm in a sling.

"We gonna stand here yabbering all day or we gonna get this show on the road?" I asked. I needed to get this over and done with before fear got the better of me.

Con sneered at me and turned back to the other foragers, who had just finished putting the finishing touches on the girl who would be the distraction. She looked a real fright: messed up hair, torn clothes, and covered in tomato sauce.

"All set?" he asked.

The foragers nodded.

"Do I have to do this? I'm scared." The girl's voice was wavering. I wondered who she was.

"Just do exactly what we told you and you'll be fine, Younger Sister," Gerry said. So, his kid sister.

Con grabbed a walky-talky from his pocket, whispered into it, and nodded. "The guys on the other side of the gate are ready."

"Okay, let's do this!" Matt said. Immediately, a dozen strong, muscular foragers congregated around our position. They were armed with baseball bats, wooden clubs, expanding batons, and in Con's case, a metal battering ram. A few of them, including Con and Gerry, had handguns tucked in the back of their trousers.

My heart was hammering away with such intensity I thought it would burst. I fingered the three syringes in my pocket. What if I didn't find a suitable opportunity to knock them out? What if someone saw what I was doing and stopped me?

"Okay, Younger Sister, do your stuff!" Gerry said as he pushed his sister towards the corner.

But instead of cooperating, the poor girl turned around and clung to him for dear life. "I can't do it!"

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Con hissed. "You want me to hit her?"

"Come on; we've been through this." Gerry was begging her now.

"Get her out there now, Gerry or this whole plan's off before it even starts!" Con said, starting to panic. And he was right; if we couldn't distract the Custodians at the gate, this breakout attempt was going nowhere.

I turned to Karen and Sofia. "Stay at the rear with the other families."

"What – why?" Karen asked, alarmed.

"Just do it!"

"Okay already!"

Sofia nodded but looked just as concerned.

As they pushed their way back through the crowd, I turned to Con and the others.

"I'll do it. I'll distract the Custodians," I said.

# Chapter Forty

"Don't be daft, Brandon," Matt snapped.

Ignoring him, I hobbled past the building corner and into the light cast by the spotlights atop the gates. Now they could see my blood-soaked hands, face, and clothes.

"What the–" Matt said.

"Get back, Brandon, you fool – you'll ruin everything!" Con hissed.

Turning to face them, I ripped off my cap and pulled out the hair tie fastening my hair into a ponytail. I shook my strawberry-blonde hair out over my shoulders and down my back and turned in the light so they could see the birthmark above my left eye.

"Chelsea?" Jack gasped.

"No way – that's impossible!" Con stammered.

I flashed a wan smile at them, pulled my left hand from my pocket, and cradling the arm with the other, limped along the path that ran between the apartment block and the imposing twelve-foot town walls.

"Someone want to tell me what's going on?" I heard Matt say from around the corner.

"Brandon is Chelsea! And she's covered in blood!" Jack replied.

"I don't understand!"

Following the curving path, I stepped past the building and into full view of the guard tower and gates. The Custodians in the tower would be looking out towards the ruins, so they wouldn't pose a problem.

The five Custodians guarding the gates, however, noticed me immediately as I staggered towards them, dragging my aching right leg behind me. And as I was now fully illuminated by the spotlights and no longer wearing a cap, they could see everything. The bruise swelling on my check, the blood spattered all over me. I was the real deal.

"Halt, or we will shoot!" the Custodian sergeant shouted. All five of them trained their guns on me.

I almost faltered then, for the Custodian officer was none other than Sergeant King. What were the odds it would be squad's turn on guard duty tonight? Still, this could work in my favour.

"Sergeant King, help me!" I called out, my voice breaking from emotion. It was no act either, for my brother's face, contorted in agony as he died, filled my mind.

King lowered his gun and approached me cautiously. "Chelsea Thomas? What the blazes happened to you? What are you doing out here?"

"I was attacked," I gasped as I stumbled towards him.

The sergeant shouldered his gun and grabbed my arm, helping support my weight. The other four were suddenly surrounding me; concern mirrored on their faces.

"Who did this to you?" King demanded.

As I haltingly shared my tale of trying to rescue my sister from the syndicate thugs, and how they kicked and punched me when my rescue attempt failed, nine foragers crept out of the shadows on the far side of the road. The Custodians were so engrossed with my tale they had no idea of the peril they faced until the foragers were literally upon them, fists and clubs swinging.

Four went down immediately, knocked out, but King shrugged off his attackers and pulled the gun off his shoulder. He leaped back and was about to open fire, but I grabbed the gun with my right hand and with all my strength, tore it from his grasp.

King looked at me in disbelief, but then he ran out of time. Nine foragers descended on him and rendered him unconscious with a flurry of blows from their clubs.

The moment King fell, Con, Jack, and several other muscle-bound foragers came charging out from around the corner of the building. Armed with the battering ram, Con bounded up the steps to the guard tower two at a time. I watched him draw back the heavy metal ram and with one mighty blow, smash the door in. He immediately moved aside so Jack and the others could spring past him into the guard tower. I heard the sounds of a furious scuffle, and then silence reigned.

The victorious foragers trotted back down the stairs.

"Anyone found the keys?" Con asked as they hurried over to join us.

A forager who had been rifling through Sergeant King's many pockets stood and held up his hand, a set of keys dangling from his fingers.

"Right, get those gates open! Matt - get everyone over here, pronto! We go out together!" Con shouted.

A moment later Matt appeared, shepherding several dozen men, women, and children out from behind the building and towards the gate. I was relieved to see Karen and Sofia trotting along at the rear.

The foragers who overcame the first squad of Custodians removed the heavy crossbeam from the gates, while the guy with the keys struggled to slot them into the lock. Eighty or so people crowded around him, eager to take the first steps into freedom. Unfortunately, my job wasn't done yet.

Slipping a syringe from my pocket, I thumbed off the cap and threaded my way through the crowd, looking for my targets. I found Jack first, now at the rear, helping shepherd everyone closer to the gates.

"Chelsea!" he exclaimed, his face alight with wonderment. "You did good! But how come you're wearing Brandon's clothes? Is that your blood? What happened to you?"

"I'll tell you later. Right now, I need your help. Brandon's over there, near the building, but he's hurt. Can you give him a hand? He's too heavy for me."

"Hurt?"

"This is his blood."

"What? How badly hurt is he?"

"Come!" I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him after me, leading him into the recessed entrance of the closest building, where we couldn't be seen by the foragers and their families at the gates.

"Where is he?" He turned to face me, confused.

I stuck the needle in his stomach and pressed the plunger home.

The shocked, betrayed expression on his face was one I'd never forget. In spite of what he'd done, he had always been nice to me – whether in my Brandon alias or myself. Waves of guilt and relief assailed me in equal measure.

"What are you doing?" he drawled as his strength left him.

"Make a plea bargain with them, don't go throwing your life away over nothing," I whispered in his ear as I struggled to catch him with one arm and lower him onto the doorstep with his back against the door. I hoped he could avoid the death sentence if he gave evidence about the drug and smuggling operations.

That done, I hurried back to the crowd, looking for Matt and Con.

"Hurry up and get those gates open! We're running out of time!" Gerry shouted.

"I'm trying – the blasted key won't go in!" The forager at the gates shouted back.

I found Matt near the middle of the throng. He was a step back from Con, who was swearing like a trooper at the forager with the keys.

I grabbed his arm to get his attention.

"Where's Brandon, Chelsea?" he asked. Unlike Jack, he was clearly unimpressed by my deception.

"He's over there, talking to Jack." I pointed to the building where I hid Jack.

Matt strained his eyes. "Where?"

"He's afraid to show himself in case Con goes ballistic and won't let him join us. He knows Con lied about the breakout date to stop him escaping tonight. Do you think you can convince him to come? Jack's not getting anywhere with him, and neither am I."

"We don't have time for this, Chelsea."

"Then come on!"

Matt frowned but let me lead him to the recessed entrance.

"What the–" he said when his eyes adjusted sufficiently in the darkened entryway to notice Jack collapsed against the door.

He bent down to check on him, but as he did so, I stabbed him in the side with the next syringe and injected him with the anaesthetic. He surprised me by grabbing my hand and ripping out the needle.

"What are you..." Before he could say any more, his eyes closed and his legs collapsed. I half caught, half dropped him on top of Jack.

Two down, one to go.

I reached into my pocket for the third syringe, stepped out of the entrance, and looked up. And then did a double take and staggered back in fright, for Con was standing right in front of me, a look of disbelief and pure and unadulterated fury on his corpulent face.

"What are you doing?" he spat

"Keeping a promise," I replied.

I pulled the syringe from my pocket and pushed off the lid, preparing to strike, when a cheer went up from those clustered at the gates.

I heard a loud click.

"Finally!" Gerry called out. "Helps when you use the right key, doofus!"

"Now get those gates open!" shouted another forager.

Seeing Con distracted by the events at the gate, I lunged forward with the syringe. Somehow, he sensed my attack and spun around, smashing the syringe from my grasp. It flew off to the side and shattered on the concrete path.

"You stupid little git, I'm going to blow your brains out!" he hissed, stepping menacingly towards me while reaching behind his back for his gun.

I looked at him, petrified, wondering if I should try to make a run for it, when the foragers pulled open the gates accompanied by a soft cheer. The road to freedom stretched out before them, beckoning to me as well, offering the future I had sought for so long.

"Come on, people! We have to get to the ruins before they come after us," Gerry called out. He motioned for the crowd to hurry through the gates and into the broad expanse beyond.

Foragers, their wives, children, parents, and relatives, hurried out of Newhome and into the concealing darkness, heading for the ominously quiet ruins that were once part of the suburb of Kensington. Five men picked up the assault-rifles dropped by the unconscious Custodians and ran out with them.

No one noticed Con and me standing on the steps in front of the recessed entrance since the area was outside the spotlights' cone of light.

Con risked a quick glance behind at the throng as they hurried quietly out of the town. I saw Karen and Sofia falter, panicking because they couldn't see me.

Gerry rushed over, took them each by the hand, and pulled them after him through the gates. I felt a huge sense of relief. If he was looking after them, I was confident they'd be fine out there.

Meeting Con's fierce gaze with my head held high in defiance, I made to hobble past him towards the gates. I had to get out while I still had the chance. I didn't want Con to come, but in my condition, there was nothing I could do about it. Maybe I could convince the authorities in Ballarat of his crimes, but I doubted it. Two out of three would have to do. Shame the worst one was going to escape.

"Take another step, and I'll put a bullet through your head!" He drew his gun and aimed it at me.

"We don't have much time," I said, desperate to get after my sister and Sofia.

"What was in those syringes, Chelsea? Did you kill them? Were you trying to kill me?" His body quivered with rage, his finger already tightening on the trigger.

"It's anaesthetic."

"What – why?"

"'Cause I promised my brother I wouldn't let you three escape justice."

"You stupid cow! Your brother's just as guilty over Dan's death as the rest of us! What is it, one yardstick for him and another for us?" His finger tightened on the trigger a little more.

"Brandon's dead, Con." I couldn't take my eyes off the gun.

"What?"

"He was killed an hour ago trying to rescue my sister and me from the debt collectors who've been hounding us ever since Father was arrested."

A host of different expressions paraded across Con's face as he digested my words. Finally, he snorted. "Served the little loser right." He lowered his gun slightly and began to back away. "As for you, you can stay put. I'm grabbing Matt and we're getting out of there. If you take a single step through those gates, I'll put a bullet in you. I'm leaving Jack behind because I know you like him. Let's see how your conscience feels when you watch them execute him."

"Actually, Con, you're not going anywhere except before the magistrate," said a familiar voice.

Con and I jolted in surprise when Ryan stepped out from behind the corner of the building. He was aiming a gun at Con, and it wasn't a hundred-year-old relic like the one Con had, but a Custodian automatic pistol.

# Chapter Forty-One

Ryan came over to stand beside me, and I stared at him in horror. There was something different about him, an air of authority I'd never noticed before. My mind began doing backflips and my stomach twisted in knots as I considered this new development.

"I knew you were a Custodian informer," Con snarled, pointing his gun at Ryan now.

"Not an informer. A Custodian undercover operative. Now slowly put your gun on the ground and kneel with your hands behind your head."

With Brandon gone, what little remained of my world came crashing down. Ryan was a Custodian! Con had been right about him all along, and there was I, the trusting fool, telling him everything.

The blood drained from my face as I contemplated what would surely follow. After he subdued Con, Ryan would arrest me and have me shipped over to the Genetics Laboratory to be dissected. How could I have gotten him so wrong? I thought he was the most amazing guy I'd ever met, a man of integrity and honesty. I even bought his story that he lost all his friends when he turned in a fellow factory worker. How gullible could I be – he never even stepped foot in a factory!

But then another thought occurred to me, bringing that line of thinking up short. I told Ryan about the breakout and that meant he could have stopped it, but didn't. He was here without any backup, allowing us to go. Allowing me to go. Unease and nausea swept through me as I tried to work out exactly where I stood with him. Was he still the Ryan I thought I knew?

Con stared daggers at Ryan but then turned his fierce countenance upon me. "You stupid cow, Chelsea! I told you not to tell him anything, but no, you wouldn't listen, would you? If you think Matt, Jack and I are going to the executioner's chair so you can walk off scot-free with a clear conscience, you're gravely mistaken."

"I said to put the gun down, Con!" Ryan commanded.

Con glanced at Ryan, but then suddenly aimed the gun at me. "Die, cow!" He pulled the trigger.

I thought that was it, the end of the road. But even as Con pulled the trigger, Ryan dove in front of me, taking the bullet in the chest.

Taking the bullet for me.

"No!" I screamed out, distraught. He couldn't die, not now, and especially not for me!

I tried to catch him as he collapsed, groaning in pain. But he was a lot heavier than me and I had only one working arm. All I managed to do was slow his fall. We hit the ground together, Ryan dropping the gun beside him.

Glancing at Con, I saw him aim the gun at me again, determined not to miss this time. Incensed, and needing to distract him, I shrieked as loudly as I could near the maximum range of human hearing. He staggered to a stop, instinctively covering his ears.

I immediately scooped Ryan's automatic pistol from the ground and fired several shots at Con, causing him to stagger backwards as round after round tore gaping holes in his chest. He still tried to shoot me with his last breath but dropped face down on the asphalt before he could. He twitched a couple of times and fell still.

I frantically turned back to Ryan, who was somehow still conscious and let rip with flash sonar so I could see inside his body and study the wound. I was alarmed to see that the bullet had nicked an artery, which was bleeding profusely. Without hesitation, I pressed both hands against the wound, locked my elbows, and put my entire bodyweight behind my arms. Pain shot throughout my torso, but I gritted my teeth and tried to ride it out. I couldn't let him die!

"What did you do that for?" I demanded gruffly

"Nothing you haven't done for me," he replied, managing a weak smile between grimaces.

"But you could have been killed!"

"Don't you get it, Chelsea? I care for you! Now hurry up and get through those gates before more Custodians arrive."

I glanced over my shoulder at the open gates and the enticing glimpse of freedom. I couldn't see the others any longer. I hoped they had reached the ruins by now because I doubted the Custodians would go after them in there in the dark. And though I despaired that I was once again so close to freedom yet unable to taste it, I felt a sense of exhilaration that Karen and Sofia were free of this place. I hoped they'd be okay out there without me to protect them but figured Gerry and the other foragers would get them safely to Ballarat. The ruins were their element, after all.

"I can't, Ryan. You'll bleed out if I remove my hands." I didn't even realise I was crying until I noticed tears drip from my chin onto the back of my hands. So I still cared for him, even after discovering his deception. He was a Custodian, but he was still the same selfless Ryan I had come to know. He was still my friend.

"I'll be fine. Now go! Please?"

"You don't understand. The bullet nicked an artery and if I reduce the pressure on the wound, you'll be dead in minutes."

He stared at me, no doubt recalling what I told him about my mutation, and nodded in understanding. "You'll go to prison for your part in the breakout if you stay."

"I know." I gave him an encouraging smile.

Before we could say anything else, Sergeant King stirred from where he lay over near the gates. With dried blood all over his nose, mouth and chin, he quickly regained his feet. Seeing me leaning over Ryan, he drew his pistol and rushed towards to us.

"Step away from Lieutenant Hill and put your hands behind your head!" he bellowed.

"Step down, Sergeant!" Ryan said with as much strength as he could muster. As a lieutenant, Ryan outranked King.

The sergeant glanced at me, and then glowered at Ryan with undisguised animosity. "She's one of them, Sir!"

"She just saved my life, Sergeant. Now report the breakout and get a medic over here pronto!"

"Yes, Sir," King said, still scowling as he grabbed his radio to request a medic and report the breakout. That done, he turned back to Ryan. "How is it you're even here, Lieutenant?" he asked suspiciously.

"Got a call to report to the warehouses that went up in flames, but then followed a hunch it could have been a diversion for something greater, so got here as fast as I could. Now get those gates closed, Sergeant," Ryan replied.

"Yes, Sir." The sergeant quickly closed and locked the gates, and then went to his men, who were beginning to stir. Once back on their feet, he sent two to check on those in the guard tower, and another to watch over me with his pistol drawn.

When he reached us, I could tell this Custodian wasn't exactly enamoured with Ryan either. And that was weird. I thought the Custodians were a tight-knit bunch – why did they dislike him so?

Then it hit me. Ryan's story about dobbing in a workmate who injured another due to his negligence wasn't a fabrication at all. He simply changed the facts.

"Ryan, you reported the Custodian who accidentally shot my father, didn't you?" I asked.

"Worked it out at last, have you? Wondered when you would."

I knew the Custodian standing guard over us could hear what I said, but I didn't care. "Didn't the other Custodians ostracise you because of that? And force you to quit the force?"

"I was universally despised, yes." His eyes flickered in the direction of our minder. "But my request to resign was denied. They just transferred me to a different department."

"Undercover Operatives?"

"Correct." He suddenly arched his back with his face contorted in pain. I struggled but managed to keep the pressure on the wound. He smiled at me weekly. "Hey, I just want to say how proud I am of you. I saw what you did. I knew you'd do the right thing in the end."

"Did you?" I snorted. "Truth is, I was just keeping a promise."

"To?"

"My brother."

"Where is–"

"He's dead."

"I'm so sorry; I know how much he meant to you. That his blood on you?"

"Yes. If you send some men over to the Derby Snooker Club's staffroom, you'll find him. Along with the men who ran an illegal gambling operation out of there, including Deacon and Wells, the two debt collector's who've been giving me hell."

"I heard a report of gunshots and an ultrasonic detector going off near there. A squad has already been despatched," he said.

I stared at Ryan, conflicting emotions swirling through me. "You sure pulled the wool over my eyes."

"You're hardly one to talk."

"Not like I had any choice. What about you? Why did you infiltrate the foragers?"

"Because Custodian HQ suspected Dan Smith met foul play. They also wanted to find out where the foragers got their drugs from and how they smuggled them into town."

"Oh."

"Care to shine some light on those matters for me?"

I didn't know if I'd be charged as an accessory for murder if I told him what he wanted to know, but as I was probably going to be put away for life for my part in the breakout, what did it matter?

Our minder quickly pulled out a notebook and pencil, ready to record my answers. I sighed, seeing little point in protecting the villainous activities of the foragers any longer. Especially since most of them just escaped.

I proceeded to explain how Con, Matt, Jack and my brother murdered Dan because they believed he was an informer who would blow the whistle on their drug smuggling. I also told them where the drugs lab was, and how they used the interior of the truck doors to smuggle things into town.

Just as I finished relaying this information, an ambulance came roaring up the road and parked beside us. Two paramedics rushed over, faces grim.

"He's been shot. The bullet's nicked an artery," I said as they knelt beside us.

"We'll be the judge of that, Miss. Just step aside, thank you," the paramedic said, giving me a condescending stare.

Ryan, who was now an unhealthy shade of white, grabbed the medic's arm feebly. "Listen to her. She knows her stuff – more than you can imagine."

Puzzled, the paramedics acquiesced to Ryan's order. One took over applying pressure to the wound while the other checked his blood type with a handheld device and attached an intravenous drip to the back of his left hand. Ryan fell unconscious a moment later.

Stumbling back from Ryan and the paramedics, I clenched my teeth as I rode out the pain exploding in my chest now that I was no longer exerting pressure on the wound.

When my vision cleared and I looked up again, I saw an extremely irate Sergeant King standing before me.

"Chelsea Thomas, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say..."

# Chapter Forty-Two

"Prisoner Thomas, you have a visitor."

I looked up at the Custodian guard and sighed, wondering who it was. It was probably Ryan again, but maybe my mother finally decided to visit me after I had languished in here for two months.

Poor woman, her life had been destroyed. First, her husband was falsely imprisoned and set free, and then months later imprisoned again for drug use. Then, on another night, her beloved son was killed, her not-so-beloved daughter was imprisoned for her part in the breakout, and her youngest daughter escaped from the town. At least she didn't have to go through the anguish of seeing her son executed by lethal injection, as I heard happened to Matt. I felt a twinge of guilt every time I recalled his fate, but in all honesty, he reaped what he sowed.

From what Ryan told me in confidence, Jack had done as I suggested. He made a plea bargain with the Custodians, giving them the names of those he knew were involved in distributing and selling drugs throughout Newhome in return for a life sentence. Oh, he also told them the breakout was my idea and everything else I did while masquerading as my brother.

His stab at revenge almost paid off, too, because the magistrate handed me a death sentence for being the instigator of the breakout and tricking the guards at the gate. However, the sentence was reduced to life in prison because I remained behind to save Ryan's life and gave them information on the smuggling and drugs operations.

So that was it for me, consigned to spend the rest of my life behind bars making clothes for people who lived in a different sort of prison. I would never choose my own destiny, never have the 'freedoms' I enjoyed while living in the homeless shelter. I would live out my days as an embittered inmate, ruing the lost opportunities to escape.

I didn't regret staying back to save Ryan's life, but the cold reality of staying in this inhospitable, sterile prison until I died wore me down. Sometimes I found myself wishing I had let Con shoot me.

They woke us at six every morning to exercise in a concrete yard surrounded by walls topped with razor-sharp barbed wire. Then came a breakfast prepared by the prisoners, which was often inedible due to an inmate with a grudge or bad attitude seasoning it with phlegm, dirt, sawdust, or worse.

I made some friends, but the inmates backstabbed each other constantly, forming and reforming cliques in endless attempts to one-up each other.

I spent sleepless nights and painfully long days making clothes while mourning the loss of my brother. I was also plagued by guilt because I let my father down so badly, even mistaking his sacrifice as nothing more than self-preservation.

The Custodian led me out of the cramped factory workshop, through a set of iron doors, and into a private visitation booth. I sat upright in the seat, too afraid to look at who sat on the other side of the glass. I hoped it was my mother. I wanted to see her.

"Eldest Daughter."

My head snapped up. "Father?"

He looked uncomfortable and guilt-ridden but smiled hesitantly. He probably thought I was going to bite his head off like the last time we met. He looked much better than when I last saw him, with colour in his cheeks and some flesh on his bones.

"They let you out of prison – that's wonderful!" I said.

"Your brother put a signed confession in the mail before he died," Father said. "He explained that the drugs found under my bed were his and that I put myself in prison to escape the debt collectors. Apparently, pretty much everyone in the criminal syndicate is now either dead or in prison. The magistrate even ruled that all those in debt to the syndicate be given back a percentage of the money we paid them, saying that the games were not only illegal but had been fixed. I was discharged from prison and given two-hundred hours of community service for engaging in gambling."

"So you and Mother–"

"Are back together, in a two bedroom flat. Someone even arranged for our furniture to be repaired and sent back to us. Still, it's like a morgue in there without you three kids."

The furniture was obviously Ryan's doing, working quietly behind the scenes and taking no credit for his good deeds. I would thank him next time he came to see me, which was about once a fortnight.

"Karen got out safely," I whispered. I wanted to tell him this two years ago, but there was no way of getting a message to him. All of our letters were vetted.

He looked at me strangely and seemed to struggle with his answer. "I heard rumours about the breakout. You think she's okay out there?" he said at last.

"She was with a bunch of foragers, and they know the ruins like the back of their hands. She'll be living the good life in Ballarat by now."

"Right." He nodded, and then with pain in his eyes, asked, "And Brandon?"

"What did they tell you?" I asked.

"Not much, just that he died taking down the gambling syndicate. Also that we have to keep his and your involvement in that, as well as his death a secret so that there are no recriminations from any syndicate members who may have slipped through the cracks."

"He went there to rescue Karen and me."

"That sounds like him. Were you with him, you know...?"

I nodded. "Yes, both Karen and I were with him at the end."

He looked comforted.

"Father, why didn't you tell me the reason you put yourself in prison? Why didn't you tell us Deacon was trying to make you sign marriage contracts?"

"How could I? It was my stupidity that got us in that predicament in the first place. Eldest Daughter, look, I just want to–"

"Don't say it," I said quickly, cutting him off. "We let you down just as much, Father. We knew you were in a bad way after you got out of prison the first time, but we weren't there for you. We saw your pain, but didn't try to alleviate it. We should be apologising to you."

"You did try to help, I just wouldn't let you," he said.

The guard came back in and stood behind me. "Visiting time is over," he said gruffly.

My father stood.

"How's Mother?" I asked quickly.

"Same as usual."

"Sir, if you don't mind?" the guard said, pointing to the door.

"Please look after her, Father. In spite of what she says, she cares for you," I said. Which was true. She refused to join the breakout because she wanted to wait for him to get out of prison so she could take care of him.

Father looked surprised, but nodded in understanding, and took his leave.

I sagged in my seat, relieved to see him out of prison and back with Mother, and glad I finally had a chance to apologise for the way I treated him. Maybe he would keep visiting me over the years? Something to look forward to.

* * *

Two years passed since they let my father out of prison. Two painfully long years of endless spats between the inmates, sometimes mediating between them, sometimes keeping my distance.

I was in the workshop, sewing the hem onto a set of work overalls when a guard stepped into the room.

"Prisoner Thomas, your presence is requested in the interrogation room."

I rolled my eyes in exasperation but followed him without complaint, wondering what was up. When I was arrested, the Custodians interrogated me for hours on end, but I hadn't seen hide nor hair of them since. All their questions had been related to the breakout, Dan's murder, the drug dealing and smuggling. I even advised them to remove the contents of the drugs laboratory in Hosier Lane and destroy them elsewhere, rather than blow up the building. They did _not_ want a war with the Loopers. And thankfully, there had been no questions about my ability to echolocate. Ryan kept it secret.

The Custodian led me to one of the prisoner interrogation rooms.

He opened the door. "Go in."

Fearing the worst, I entered the Spartan, windowless room, and did a double take when I saw Ryan Hill sitting at the table, wearing his Custodian uniform. But why was he visiting me here and not in the visitation centre? Was he here on business? Sometimes, when I was particularly down and beset with doubts – which was often these days – I wondered why he continued to visit me. It's not like we had any chance of ever being together, considering my life sentence.

"Sit," he said. And not kindly, surprising me.

The guard closed the door behind us, and Ryan's unpleasant demeanour dropped away immediately.

"Hey, Chelsea, how have you been?" he asked.

"Couldn't be better," I replied.

"That's the spirit." He studied my face for a moment, and then suddenly went to the door. "Want to get out of this place?" A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

I rose from my seat and touched his arm. "Don't kid about, Ryan, not on something like this."

He smoothed a strand of unkempt hair behind my ear. "You didn't think I was going to let them keep you locked up in here forever, did you?"

He opened the door and I followed him in a daze down the hall to reception, where the Custodian behind the desk signed documents Ryan was carrying. I glanced at the papers, thinking they must authorise my discharge from prison, but confusion reigned when I saw the document was titled 'Prisoner Transfer.'

Before I had a chance to ponder what that meant, Ryan opened the heavy steel door and I followed him out into a world of brilliant sunlight glinting through trees that swayed violently in a strong wind, a world of crows cawing and dogs barking.

He looked at the wonder on my face. "Never thought you'd see all this again, eh?"

"Ryan, what's going on?"

He pointed to a G-Wagon parked a further up the street, occupied by a driver and passenger. They were engaged in conversation, but were out of earshot, thanks to the wind.

"Chelsea, you uncovered in a few short weeks what we Custodians couldn't find over several years of raids, spot searches, and investigations."

"So?"

"So, rather than let you languish in prison forever, I found a way you can use your unique abilities for the good of the town."

"By doing what, exactly?" I asked, highly suspicious. Alarm bells were ringing on a number of levels.

"Serving the Chancellor masquerading as a young man who can go into places that no Custodian – even one like me – could ever go."

"My brother's dead, remember?"

"Apart from your parents, who have been sworn to secrecy, no one knows that," he replied.

"I won't do it," I snapped. Serve the Chancellor, the primary cause of this town's problems? No way!

"You'd rather serve out your life sentence?"

"Prefer that to spying for the Chancellor."

"I'm trying to help you, Chelsea! Why do you have to be so stubborn!"

"Didn't ask for your help!"

"Look, I don't know how to break this to you gently, but I told them you can echolocate when I found out this would get you out of prison."

"You did what?" I nearly shrieked. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I trusted him with my darkest secret, the one that would result in my death should it be discovered. And here he was telling me he actually revealed that secret to the Custodians. I thought I could trust him! And now this, the ultimate betrayal! I stared daggers at him, my head spinning in circles. I thought I knew him, but I was wrong, so wrong.

"I didn't tell you at first because I didn't want you to freak out when you found out where I'm sending you," he said, oblivious to the effect his betrayal was having on me. Did he not know what they did to echolocators?

"Where are you sending me?" I demanded angrily.

"See the G-Wagon over there? Specialist Madison Taylor is going to accompany you to–"

"Wait, the specialist is a woman? How is that even possible? What's going on, Ryan, where is she going take me?" I asked.

"The Genetics Laboratory," he said slowly.

# Chapter Forty-Three

"What? No!" I stammered. My worst fears had been realised. I was going to the one place I feared more than any other, the place I would be dissected.

Confused by my panicked reaction, Ryan grabbed me by the shoulder. "What's wrong, Chelsea? You will be safe there, I promise!"

I tried to pull away from him, shaking my head. "No, I won't! They'll cut me up so they can study my mutation."

"Just listen, will you?"

"I won't be a lab rat – I'd rather die!" I frantically tried to pry his hand off my shoulder, but his grip was like a vice. From the corner of my eye, I saw the woman in the G-Wagon turn to appraise me.

Ryan suddenly put his mouth to my ear and whispered. "You aren't a mutant or a result of evolution."

I ceased struggling. "What?"

"Around twenty years ago, one of the senior geneticists carried out illegal genetic experiments on a number of foetuses. You are one of those children."

I was about to refute his statement as ludicrous but remembered the elderly Chinese gentleman who warned Brandon and me to hide our abilities when we were five.

I looked up into Ryan's eyes. "The geneticist who altered us was Chinese, wasn't he?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Because he warned my brother and me to hide our abilities or we would be dissected by the geneticists." I always wondered how he knew we were echolocators. Now I knew – he was the geneticist who altered us. He must have kept track of us after we were born. However, learning that Brandon and I were biologically engineered was quite a shock. I didn't know whether to be relieved or furious that this was done to us without our parents' permission. Without our permission.

"He really said that?"

"Yes, and that's why I know they'll cut me up if you send me there! Please, Ryan, don't do this!"

"I don't know what that's all about, but Specialist Madison over there is an echolocator like you, and not the only one either. She told me there is a group of girls like the two of you living in the Genetics Laboratory."

_"Living_ in the Genetics Laboratory?" Living as in not dissected? I was shocked. Here I was thinking Ryan had betrayed me to my death. Was I wrong? Had I spent my life in fear for nought?

"That's right."

The penny dropped. "But working for the Chancellor as spies, right?"

"Something like that."

"I still won't do it," I said.

"There's something else I need to tell you." He sent a sidelong glance at the G-Wagon and continued to whisper. "I need you to go there and find out what the geneticists are really up to. And when you uncover what it is, report back to me."

I looked at him in surprise. "This isn't exactly above board, is it?"

"What do you think?"

"What are you, Ryan, a double-agent? Who do you really work for?" How many layers deep did this guy go? Just when I thought I finally worked him out, he went and surprised me again.

"I'm just one of several citizens who are very concerned about what's going on in that lab. You're our first and probably only chance of getting an agent in there."

I was mightily tempted to do what he asked, since I considered the geneticists the personification of evil and I would do anything to destroy them.

"I don't know, Ryan."

"The need to know what the geneticists are doing in that lab is the reason I wouldn't leave Newhome with you," he said.

Another revelation, and one that made more sense than the reasons he gave me earlier. "It means that much to you?"

"Yes."

"What exactly are you afraid they're doing?"

"Let's just say we don't believe the Founders established this town out of the goodness of their hearts. There's a lot of things that just don't add up. Our culture was supposedly designed so we wouldn't make the same mistakes our ancestors did. But how can that be relevant when there are other inhabited towns dotted all over Australia, none of which adhere to the Founders' teachings.

I searched his eyes, saw the sincerity in them, and realised I couldn't deny his request. Not if it meant that much to him. To us all, perhaps.

"Fine, I'll do it."

"Thank you, but be real careful, okay? And then, when this is all over and the town is safe–"

"Don't say it–"

"–I promise nothing can keep me away from you."

Hearing him declare that he still wanted me in his life caused my heart to race and my face to burn. I saw his determination and wished I could share his enthusiasm that such a future was possible. I just wished we could go back to when I was impersonating Brandon and we spent our days foraging together and evenings working out at the gym.

"Sorry, Ryan, I no longer believe in happy endings," I said.

"Then I'll believe for the both of us. I'm sorry, Chelsea, but you really need to go."

Fearful, and beset with a world of doubts, I nodded and turned towards the waiting vehicle. After a few steps, I looked back at him and memorised every line of his face. I didn't know when I would see him again, but however long it was, I knew I would miss him dearly.

# Chapter Forty-Four

I reached the G-Wagon and the woman gestured for me to climb in and sit beside her. I did so, even though I was shaking like a leaf. I couldn't believe I was going to the Genetics Laboratory, and that it wouldn't result in my death.

She was a girl around my age even though she wore a Custodian uniform. Her face was heart shaped and her golden blonde hair was up in a tight bun. As I sat apprehensively beside her, she examined me as though I was something unpleasant she'd stepped on. Then to my astonishment, she sang out with flash sonar, studying my throat.

"Lieutenant Hill was correct. You are an echolocator. Good. Put on your seatbelt. Driver, you may go." With that, she faced forward, a haughty expression on her face.

The driver took us to the twelve-foot wall that separated Newhome proper from North End. He was waved through the gates without having his papers checked and he proceeded to the imposing Genetics Laboratory.

"You really live in the lab?" I asked Specialist Madison.

"Yes."

"And there are others like us?"

"Yes."

"What will I have to do there?" I wanted to hear it from her, just in case Ryan got it wrong.

"You will serve the Chancellor by keeping the town safe from internal and external threats." She still refused to look at me as she spoke.

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"We carry out espionage, threat assessments, and interrogations on those deemed to present a clear and present danger to the welfare of Newhome. Our targets typically include insurrectionists, malcontents, and corrupt Custodians and town officials."

I didn't have a problem spying on crooked Custodians and town officials, but I felt sick to the stomach at the thought of reporting on simple townsfolk who, like me, were dissatisfied with life in this hole. I knew I told Ryan I'd go along with this, but there was no way I could destroy the lives of innocent civilians who justifiably protested the town's draconian laws. Maybe I would find a way around this? I felt my temperature rise as I considered the enormity of what I was getting myself into.

We arrived at the Genetics Laboratory in short order. I stepped hesitantly out of the vehicle and stared up at the imposing building with its one-way reflective glass windows that covered every inch of its five floors. I looked at my reflection, but I didn't see my gaunt face, lifeless hair, or the despondent set of my shoulders. Instead, I pictured the hellish environs that must exist within that vile building – rooms to dissect children and rooms in which they hatched secret, malevolent projects.

Specialist Madison tapped a code into the keypad located beside the front door, and it swished open.

"After you," she said.

I stepped into the Genetics Laboratory, clenching my fists in a futile attempt to stop my hands shaking. It had taken all my willpower to simply step over the threshold. I suddenly wondered if I'd ever step foot out of this building again.

We were in a small foyer, but the reception desk unattended. Everything was immaculate – from the computer screen on the desk to the gleaming one-piece linoleum floor, off-white walls and rows of fluorescent light panels in the ceiling. A security camera in the ceiling swivelled towards us, and I shivered in spite of myself.

Madison led me through a security door and down a long corridor. From there we entered a fully equipped gym filled with top-quality exercise machines, weight machines and free weights that made the gym I went to with Ryan seem like a poor man's substitute. One half of the room was taken up by a large exercise mat.

However, it was the inhabitants that caught my attention - eleven girls – all around my age, and every one of them muscular and physically fit. Half used the gym equipment, while the others spared with each other on the exercise mat.

The girls stopped what they were doing when we entered, turning to appraise me with varying expressions. Some looked curious, others suspicious or hostile, and a petite dark-skinned girl examined me with absolutely no emotion whatsoever. It was as though she didn't even possess a soul. I shuddered in spite of myself.

The only male in the gym, a muscular, middle-aged Asian man, left the exercise mat and came over to us.

"Seon Saeng Nim Cho," Madison said, bowing her head in respect. He acknowledged her with a nod.

He examined me from head to foot until his eyes finally settling on my face. There was an air of authority about him and a no-nonsense attitude. I figured he was more than a simple gym or martial arts instructor.

"So you're the one who's been turning the town upside down – masquerading as your brother, instigating the breakout, and then remaining behind to save the life of a Custodian." His voice was deep, powerful.

"That's right." My voice wavered as I spoke.

"With the abilities, determination and passion you have displayed, I can see you becoming one of our most valuable assets, Miss Thomas. Shame we didn't find you earlier, though. We will have to deprogram you from the misconceptions of your upbringing and established behavioural patterns so you can better serve the Chancellor," he said.

My eyes widened with apprehension; I didn't like the sound of that at all. Like he planned to divorce me from myself and mould me into someone else entirely. Someone who would do their bidding without a qualm. If so, they were in for a surprise, because I would fight any attempts to reprogram me tooth and nail.

He flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But don't let that trouble you. Come, meet your sisters."

The other girls crowded around, introducing themselves and welcoming me to the family, although in most cases without the slightest sign of affection. All the same, I felt a special connection with each and every one of them. They were all echolocators like me, all altered in the womb by the same rogue geneticist. I wondered briefly why there weren't any boys. Maybe they segregated the echolocators like the rest of Newhome?

The stone-faced Indian girl greeted me last. "Bhagya Singhe. Welcome to the family," she said, speaking emotionlessly.

I looked at her deadpan expression, and at the suspicion and hostility visible in many of the other girls, and hoped I could find a friend amongst them. Because in this place, I was sure going to need one.

# Specialist – _Impersonator Book Two, Sneak Peak_ Chapter One

Mr. Cho was the only male present in the Genetics Laboratory gymnasium. Twelve girls about my age surrounded him on the rubber exercise mat that covered the floor, all wearing white taekwondo uniforms. Mr. Cho wore a similar outfit, and had eight white stripes on his black belt. From what my brother told me about the martial arts, that meant he was ranked very high, and had been studying the art most of his life.

"Get changed and meet us in the interview room," he said to Bhagya Singhe, a slim Indian girl. She was the last of the girls to have "welcomed" me to their exclusive world.

The girl nodded and hurried from the gym. The other eleven girls continued to stare at me as though I was something dragged in from the gutter. Considering I spent the past two-plus years in prison, that analogy wasn't far off the mark.

Studying Mr. Cho as he watched me in return, I had to fight the urge to step away from his imposing presence. He was pushing six-feet, had a square jaw and thick black hair, and appeared to be of Korean descent, like the chancellor and councillors of Newhome. I wondered how highly placed he was in the hierarchy of the town's leadership.

"Follow me," he said before striding purposefully from the room. The way he spoke gave me the impression he was not someone to be trifled with.

I rushed after him, almost tripping on my ankle-length prison dress in my haste to keep up. He took me through two long white-walled corridors and finally to a nondescript, windowless room with a table and three metal chairs.

"Sit." He indicated a chair.

Gathering my beige dress into my hands, I sat as gracefully as I could manage. He sat in the chair on the opposite side of the table. He didn't speak, just studied me carefully with an invasive stare. I met his gaze without blinking, refusing to be cowed.

After a lifetime living in fear of the Genetics Laboratory, I could scarcely believe I still ended up here. And all because of Ryan Hill, the only person I trusted with the secret that I was the product of genetic engineering. I hadn't always known that my advanced hearing and ability to use flash sonar, or echolocation, were due to my biological enhancements. I used to think they were mutations caused by nuclear radiation.

My emotions fluctuated wildly at the thought of tall, handsome Ryan, often brooding over past injustices. He was the first to see through my disguise when I masqueraded as my brother in a desperate attempt to earn enough money to put food on the table for my family. He later confessed that he had feelings for me, going so far as to ask his father if he would allow our union. A union I refused to consider because of the rather significant baggage I would bring with me.

It became a moot point, though, when the magistrate handed me a life sentence for my part in instigating a breakout that saw two-dozen foragers and their families escape Newhome.

Refusing to give up on his hope that we could one day be together, Ryan saw an opportunity to get me out of prison when he met Specialist Madison Taylor, a biologically engineered echolocator like me. After she told him that a dozen other such girls lived in the Genetics Laboratory, serving the Chancellor as spies, he told her I was an echolocator too.

From his perspective, it got me out of my life sentence, and perhaps as importantly, into the Genetics Laboratory so I could spy on the geneticists and find out exactly what they were doing. They worked feverishly, day in, day out – on what, no one knew. I always assumed they were developing new strains of vegetables and fowl, but Ryan assured me that could not be the case.

And so, here I was, in the last place on earth I wanted to be, risking my life to find out what the geneticists were really up to.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

"Come," Mr. Cho barked.

The door opened and Bhagya Singhe slipped in, now wearing a Custodian camo uniform, though with an ankle length skirt in place of trousers. Without even glancing in my direction, she sat stiffly beside the man.

"As you have gathered, my name is Cho," he said. "You may address me as Sir, Teacher, or Seon Saeng Nim."

I raised my eyebrows.

"'Teacher' in Korean," he said. "As you have no doubt deduced, I am in charge of the Specialists Program."

He was Korean, just as I thought. A flash of insight hit me. "Are you one of the councillors, Sir?"

"Just so."

My eyes widened slightly in fear. I was with one of the handful of men responsible for maintaining Newhome's oppressive society created by the Founders a century ago. That meant I was in more danger than I had ever been in before. This man could order my execution on a whim.

"The purpose of this interview," he began, "is to determine if you require deprogramming from the influence of your parent's questionable ethics and exposure to the numerous malcontents and criminals you've met in your...colourful past."

I was about to protest his opinion about my parents, but then realised that although my mother was an extremely vocal supporter of the Founders' teachers, my father was not. From the privacy of our home, he had bucked the system whenever and wherever possible.

"Before we begin," he said, "Let me explain why Miss Singhe is here. She has a unique ability that allows her to determine with one hundred percent accuracy whether someone is lying or telling the truth."

I looked at Bhagya in alarm as unsettling tendrils of fear curled in the depths of my stomach. If she could tell when I was lying, Mr. Cho might unearth the real reason I was here. How would he react if he discovered that Ryan and I were part of a resistance movement? A movement that sent me here to infiltrate the laboratory to find out what the geneticists were doing.

"Do you revere the Chancellor?" he asked.

"Of course," I answered, but then jolted as though struck because as soon as I began to speak, Bhagya sang out with short musical notes pitched in the ultrasonic range.

"Miss Singhe?" Mr. Cho asked.

"She's lying, Sir."

"Is she now?" He leaned closer. "How do you really view the Chancellor, young lady?"

I sighed. It looked like I would have to forgo my original plan of concealing the way I really felt and go with the truth. "My feelings towards the Chancellor aside, Sir, can I just say that if you want me to spy on corrupt Custodians and dishonest managers and public servants, no problem. I'll give it my all. But if you want me to ferret out and report on innocent civilians who have issues with the Founders' teachings and our culture, you may as well send me back to prison. I won't do it."

"And why is that?"

"Because their complaints are justified and I'll never be able to look in the mirror again if I report innocent civilians who, like me, are dissatisfied with living in this repressive society."

"It's important that you remain true to yourself?"

"Yes, Sir, it is."

"More important than keeping the town safe from internal and external threats that could lead to its destruction?"

"Yes, I mean, no..." I paused, confused by his question.

He raised his eyebrows.

"There has to be a better way to keep the people safe, Sir, than removing their freedoms and forcing them to adhere to the Founders' teachings with barrel of a Custodian gun."

"Have you forgotten the road our ancestors walked? They were free to act as they chose and were tolerant towards all forms of sexual orientation – heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual. They accepted of all forms of religion. They practised equality in all areas for men and women. Nations warred incessantly and radicalised terrorists spread chaos across the globe."

"I have not forgotten, Sir. But our society is not the answer to those problems."

"She's is not convinced of that, Sir," Bhagya said.

I glanced at her, irritated, expecting to see disapproval mirrored in her eyes. But there was nothing, no hint of emotion. She may as well have been looking straight through me.

"Care to revise your statement, Chelsea?"

"There are towns out in the countryside like Ballarat, Sir – towns that are flourishing. They don't adhere to the Founders' teachings."

"Who told you they were flourishing?"

"Foragers from Ballarat, Sir."

"I see. Tell me, if you were to travel a hundred years back in time to the days before the nuclear apocalypse, do you think the people of Ballarat would have said their town was flourishing?"

"Yes, I expect they would have."

"And what of the people in the rest of the world? Would not most of them answered in the same way?"

"Many, perhaps, but not all. Some nations were in a very sad state of affairs, from what I've heard."

"My point, Chelsea, is that the masses who considered their nations to be flourishing were wrong, weren't they? They cultivated cultures and a worldwide environment that created the war that practically destroyed the world. In fact, as far as we know, Australia could be the only continent to have any survivors. That the inhabitants of Ballarat consider their town to be flourishing today is therefore irrelevant. Given enough time, their descendants will eventually make the same mistakes their ancestors did."

"I know Australia was hit by multiple nuclear warheads, but surely our ancestors were not involved in the war, Sir. We didn't have any nuclear weapons from what I've been told," I protested.

"Australia despatched jet fighters to the Middle East to combat the rise of the Islamic Caliphate, as well as warships and troops to the Sea of Japan to combat the rising threat posed by the United Democratic Republic of Korea and their Chinese allies, who were expanding into the South China Sea, their rightful territory."

I looked at him in surprise, wondering if he told the truth.

"He tells the truth," Bhagya said, as though able to read my mind.

"You are an uneducated and naive young girl with virtually no knowledge of the past. And yet you hold your personal beliefs above the teachings of the Founders, men of learning who possess firsthand knowledge of exactly where our ancestors went wrong," Mr. Cho said.

I bristled at that. There was far more to this than my personal beliefs. I may be young and uneducated, but I had spent my life watching the injustices of the Custodians. Beating those they arrested, arresting anyone who spoke against the ruling establishment, carting away children with biological defects to be euthanized. I also listening to my mother as she spouted the offensive nonsense taught by the Founders.

"Chelsea, are you willing to forsake your opinions and conclusions drawn from your limited experiences and whole heartedly embrace the Founders' wisdom and teachings?" he asked. He watched me closely.

"I can see your point that just because people think their society is flourishing, it doesn't mean it isn't already planting the seeds of its own destruction, but..."

He held up his hand, and I fell silent. "You're a stubborn one, aren't you? I'm not surprised, though. You have responded exactly as anticipated. Considering you are the one who instigated the breakout, I did not think I would be able to get through to you so easily."

"What does that mean, Sir?"

"It means you need to be deprogrammed." He stood and strode for the door. "This way, Chelsea."

A feeling of dread erupted in my stomach and spread slowly up my spine. What exactly had Ryan gotten me into?

# Chapter Two

"I would go with him if I were you," Bhagya said. I looked at her dead, lifeless eyes, surprised to hear her speak of her own volition.

Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, I followed Mr. Cho from the room. He led me down the corridor and opened a door near the end.

"Inside."

Noticing the determined set of his square jaw and hard eyes, I stepped quickly into the room. It was small, round room with a plain concrete floor and unadorned white walls. There were no windows, just a centrally located light panel giving off harsh white light. The only furniture in the room was a metal washbasin and a one-piece metal toilet, identical to those found in the prison factories.

Mr. Cho stepped back and closed the door, leaving me standing, alone, in the most nondescript place I'd ever seen. It was even blander than the room in the Homeless Shelter I shared with my family after we were evicted from our apartment.

"What I am supposed to do now?" I asked no one in particular, wondering if this was a temporary holding cell while they prepared for my deprogramming.

I sat on the floor and leaned back against the door. And waited. Time flew by – an hour, perhaps longer – but no one came. I let my mind run back over the events of the past two years, of when I masqueraded as my brother and foraged out in the ruins. Of my terrifying encounter with a massive Skel warrior, and of the endless troubles caused by my father falling further in debt to a vicious illegal gambling syndicate.

I didn't know how much time passed, as there was no way to keep track of it. My backside was numb from sitting on the concrete floor for so long. I got up, stretched, and rubbed some life back into my aching limbs. Then seeing nothing better to do, got down and began to exercise, doing the body-weight exercises my brother taught me. I alternated between sets of push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and lunges. The lunges were a bit of a challenge, though, because I kept tripping on the hem of my dress. I had always exercised in my pajamas at home.

When I was too tired to continue, I drank my fill of water from the basin, reflecting that the water tasted like it had been stagnating in the pipe forever. After that, I paced around the room until I was too hungry and tired to continue. I sat again, but thanks to the concrete, it wasn't long before I had to shift to a new position. I tried kneeling, but that became painful as well.

When I figured hours had passed and my patience was at an end, I banged on the door and called out. I did this several times, but there was no response. In the end, I went back to sitting against the wall.

I jolted in surprise when a panel at the base of the door snapped open. Someone pushed through a plastic tray with a bowl of soup, sandwiches, and cup of water.

"Hey!" I shouted as I scrambled to my knees and scooted towards the door. Unfortunately, my legs had gone to sleep from sitting too long and I tripped and banged my head on the door.

The panel snapped shut, leaving me alone with the tray. And a sore head.

I slapped the door again. "Excuse me, how much longer do I have to be here?"

There was no reply, of course, so I surveyed the food. Two salad sandwiches, pumpkin soup, and water. Wasn't much, but no doubt much healthier than the muck we ate in prison. Muck I often didn't eat thanks to a prisoner with a chip on her shoulder seasoning it with dirt, saw dust, spit, or worse.

Wracked by strong hunger pangs, I sat on the floor and consumed the meal, wondering if it was lunchtime. However, if that was the case, it meant I'd been in here for only three to four hours, which I found hard to believe. It felt like I'd been here for a whole day.

Having nothing else to do, I did more body-weight exercises until fatigue sent me back to sitting against the wall. After that, I waited until I was doubled over with hunger pangs. Remembering what happened last time, I banged on the door, hoping for the same result.

However, no food appeared.

Angry, I filled my stomach with water from the basin to trick it into thinking I wasn't hungry. Achieving some success, I lay on my side on the concrete, using my arm as a pillow. Too tired to keep my eyes open, I waited to fall asleep. However, sleep wouldn't come. I just lay there with my mind empty, yet still unable to sleep. And thanks to the concrete, it wasn't long before my hip, knee and shoulder ached so much that I had to roll over. When that became too painful, I tried my back, and finally, my stomach.

After what felt like hours passed, and feeling angry at my inability to sleep no matter how exhausted I was, I got up and gave the door a solid kick. I called out, but there was no response.

Sometime later, the door panel snapped open and someone pushed in another tray of sandwiches, soup, and water.

I dove for the door. "Hey! If you're going to leave me in here for so long, at least give me something to sleep on!"

The panel snapped shut before I had a chance to see my captor. Succumbing to hunger, I sat and ate, feeling a little better for it.

Tired to the point of exhaustion, I lay on my stomach again, using my arms as a pillow. However, just as I was about to close my eyes, I noticed the words ' _Remember who you are_ ,' scrawled in the dust near the wall. I wondered who wrote it and for what purpose. Did the previous occupant write it as a note for themself?

Sighing, I laid my head on my forearm and tried to sleep, but just like before, sleep was impossible. From that point, my awareness of my surroundings began to blur. I couldn't concentrate and was unable to form a single coherent sentence in my mind. I also began to experience flashes of rage interspersed with periods where I drew my knees to my chest and cried.

Trays of food were occasionally passed through the door – at least I think so – because I couldn't remember eating the food. I just noticed that the stack of empty trays near the door grew in height.

I also began to find myself in different places in the room, as though I was blacking out or sleep walking – though I had no memory of falling asleep. I wondered if Mr. Cho had slipped something into the food to keep me awake, though for what reason I couldn't fathom.

As if that wasn't enough, a horrific buzzing like a swarm of bees began to resonate within my head.

"It's not bees, silly, they can't get in your head," my brother said.

Confused, I crawled over to him. "Brandy? How did you get in here?" There was something else I needed to ask him, but couldn't put my finger on it.

"I live here," he said.

"In the lab?"

He suddenly grimaced and gripped his stomach. Blood poured out from between his fingers. "No, in this room, Chelz."

"You're hurt!" I reached out and tried to stem the blood flow, but it just kept coming.

"Why couldn't you be like other girls?" Mother said.

"What?" How did she get in here? And why wasn't she concerned about Brandon bleeding out in front of her?

"You never tried to follow the Founders' teachings, never adhered to society's dictates. You think I didn't see you sneaking into the lounge room in the middle of the night to read your brother's schoolbooks? Or the times you went into your room to exercise like a boy! No wonder you turned out like you did. You're a disgrace – an embarrassment to the Thomas family name."

"But..." I tried to refute her accusations, but then she was gone. Brandy remained, though. He had crawled over to the wall, leaving great streaks of blood on the floor.

I cried. I couldn't bear seeing him in such pain.

"Tried to save you, Sis," he said.

"You did save me," I assured him.

"No, I failed you. I failed you all. I should have listened when Mother tried to direct our lives in the way they should go, instead of making fun of her when she wasn't looking. I was a bad example and I led you astray."

"That's not true," I said as great, wracking sobs tore through me. Then even as I watched, he melted into the floor like heated wax, which for some reason looked completely normal. Other things began to move through the room at the edges of my peripheral vision, a Custodian, a wild dog, dark things without form.

A soft, persuasive voice entered the room, coming from no point in particular. I tried to ignore it at first, but it spoke with such passion and intensity that it seeped past my defences. Soon I was listening to it raptly, as though my very life depended on what it was saying.

"Chelsea Thomas, daughter of Malcolm and Abigail. You are a dissident, a nonconformist, a rule breaker. Self centred to the detriment of the wellbeing of those about you. Placing your trust in your own opinions rather than submitting to those who know better, those in authority." On it went, criticising my person and character, pointing out my faults and weaknesses, stripping away my outer layers until I felt exposed, useless, and a failure. I tried to fight it, to remember who I was and what I believed in, but it felt like a dream, a nightmare over which I had no control.

The voiced faded away and I blacked out. When I came to, Mr. Cho appeared in front of me. He was sitting on a simple metal chair, holding a large envelope. He stared at me with obvious displeasure, as though I was a hardened criminal he was about to sentence.

He lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his steely gaze.

"The breakout you instigated failed. Did you know that?" he said.

"If you're referring to the rumour that they all died, that's nothing but Custodian propaganda to discourage anyone else from attempting the same thing," I said. That rumour had circulated through prison soon after the escape, but like everyone else, we paid it no heed. What better way to discourage others from attempting another breakout than to tell them that everyone involved in the last one was killed or captured by Skel? Besides, I raised the matter with Ryan during one of his visits and he assured me it was a false rumour.

"The Custodians we sent in pursuit of the escaped foragers and their families found what was left of them outside Melbourne on the Western Freeway, the road to Ballarat," he said.

# Chapter Three

"I don't believe you." My voice wavered as I spoke.

"They had been butchered – over fifty of them, the children, the elderly, and others – their bodies left to rot in the sun."

I shook my head, trying to blot out his words. It wasn't true, it was just a rumour, even Ryan said so! The escapees were surely living safely in Ballarat now, living without Newhome's suffocating rules and regulations. Without Custodians enforcing the Founders' vision of the perfect society with the barrel of a gun.

Mr. Cho moved so close that his eyes merged into one. "Some bodies had so many Skel arrows in them that they looked like pincushions. Others had been bludgeoned to death."

I tried to move back from him, but as I was leaning against the wall, there was nowhere to go.

"And that's not even the worst part," he continued. "There was no sign of the other forty, so you know what that means don't you? The Skel took them to be slaves."

"It's just a rumour the Custodians created!" I insisted, though more to myself than to him.

"We don't know if your sister was amongst the dead. They were too badly mutilated and decomposed to identify."

"I don't be–"

"Would you like to see the photos the Custodians took before they buried the bodies?" He opened an envelope and took out a sheaf of photos. "If I was you, though, I'd just take my word for it. Don't look at them, they are quite disturbing."

My thoughts were sluggish and everything still felt like a lie, but I had to know if there was any truth to his claims. With shaking hands, I took the photos and slowly leafed through them, gasping in horror at the sight of so many corpses lying close together on a weed-overgrown highway. They had been herded together and butchered wholesale. I saw crossbow bolts sticking out of torsos, heads smashed, and limbs shattered with bones protruding through skin. Horrifically, many of the bodies were small, clearly children. My hands shook almost uncontrollably as I examined each photo, trying to spot my sister or Sofia. Unfortunately, the dead were so badly mutilated and their clothes stained with so much blood that I couldn't recognise anyone. Still, any of those women in long dresses could have been them. The backpacks and blanket rolls scattered about the bodies were further proof I was looking at the demise of the people I had helped escape town.

The photos slipped from my fingers and spread out on the concrete floor. Mr. Cho was telling the truth. And that meant my sister, and poor, sweet Sofia, were either dead or Skel slaves, being worked to death. What's more, Ryan must have known this and hidden it from me to save me the heartache.

"What have I done?" I wailed, my heart shattering. I had thought my intentions noble, my cause just. I thought I was giving those people a fulfilling life in Ballarat by helping them escape. However, if I was brutally honest with myself, it was my desperation to get my family and myself away from the syndicate debt collectors that prompted me to manipulate Con into arranging the breakout. Because of my selfishness, I doomed ninety people to death or slavery.

My face flushed hot and a roaring sound filled my ears. A dread stronger than I had ever felt consumed me as I realised the enormity of what I'd done. My hands were stained red with the blood of innocents. I was worse than Con, Matt, Jack and my brother.

"Those people are dead because of you, aren't they?" Mr. Cho spoke sternly, his accusing gaze attributing the blame for the disaster entirely upon me.

"Yes," I whispered.

He left me simmering in my misery for some time before speaking again. "We have three choices of where we can go from here, Chelsea. You could be executed for your crimes, as the law dictates. You could serve a life sentence lamenting what you have done. Or you could spend the rest of your life working to redeem yourself."

"Redeem myself?"

"Atone for your mistakes by serving the Chancellor in making Newhome a safer place, from both internal and external threats. Finding likeminded, dangerous dissidents and report them so that there can never be such a tragic loss of life again. Expose traitors among the Custodians and officials. Scout out the ruins looking for external threats. And then, when your life comes to a close, you can look back on it and reflect that out of that one terrible tragedy came a life of good. A life of correcting and preventing similar tragedies. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

My thoughts felt as though they were moving with the consistency of molasses, but everything he said still made sense. I also felt a sense of astonishment. My impression of Mr. Cho was that he was without mercy, yet here he was displaying that exact quality.

"I think so," I said.

"Think on it some more – you have a decision to make." He scooped the photos off the floor.

I didn't see him leave – wasn't sure he was there in the first place, for the persuasive, irresistible voice returned moments later. It continued to speak of the need to redeem myself and of the virtues of the Founders' wisdom and the benefits of the unique society they created. It spoke of the chancellor and councillors, and how they were worthy of respect and honour, how they should be revered and esteemed. How I needed to serve and obey the chancellor without question because he was right in all his ways.

After that, the voice presented line after line from the Founders' Manual, exhorting me to take it all to heart.

Interspersed with brief periods of eating, I listened and absorbed every word. I had to atone for my crimes, I had to make the loss of my sister, Sofia, and all those others, mean something.

* * *

Someone shook my shoulder. I forced my eyes open and saw Madison kneeling beside me.

"You going to sleep forever?" She didn't look impressed.

Pushing myself to a sitting position, I looked around, confused and disorientated. I was in a small round room with a concrete floor and white walls, metal washbasin and toilet. It seemed extremely familiar, like something I'd seen in my dreams. I had no idea what time it was. It felt like late afternoon or early evening.

"Where am I?" I asked. I felt like I'd slept for days. The last vestiges of disturbing nightmares were slowly fading from my consciousness.

"The Round Room." She handed me a neatly folded stack of clean clothes. "Shower and get dressed. Seon Saeng Nim Cho wants to see you."

The mention of the councillor's name brought back the horrific consequences of my selfish actions. My sister, Sofia, all those foragers and their families, dead or enslaved. If I could only go back in time, I would do it all differently. I would have willingly endured the torment dished out by the debt collectors if it meant the others could have avoided such a terrible fate.

I fought back tears as I thought of Sofia and her inspiring, gentle nature. Having suffered more than most, she had somehow remained positive. And for what – to be caught or butchered by Skel? All because of my selfishness?

The memory of the last time I saw my sister burst into my mind. She was standing before the town's open gates, trying to spot me in the darkness while I was taking down Jack and Matt. I was supposed to go out with her and protect her and the others from the Skel using echolocation. Instead, I remained behind so I could stop Ryan from bleeding out. I figured Gerry and the other foragers would protect her and get her safely to Ballarat, but I couldn't have been more wrong!

I was suddenly visited by a vague yet strangely compelling memory of Mr. Cho giving me the chance to atone for my crimes. Only by serving the chancellor in keeping the town free from internal and external threats could I be freed from the crippling condemnation I felt. But could a life of good deeds alleviate the horrific guilt and anguish that tormented my heart and mind now?

"We haven't got all day," Madison prompted.

I scrambled to my feet, and with muscles strangely stiff and unresponsive, followed her to the girl's communal bathroom.

As hot water cascaded over me, I squatted on the shower floor and rested my head on my arms. I pondered what had transpired to bring me to the lab, the very place I feared more than any other.

It was only a couple of weeks ago but it felt more like a lifetime had passed since I stood with Ryan outside the prison-factory. He had inclined his head and whispered into my ear so Madison couldn't overhear what he said.

"There's something else I need to tell you," he said. "I need you to go to the Genetics Laboratory and find out what the geneticists are really up to. And when you uncover what it is, report back to me. I'm one of several citizens very concerned about what's going on in there. You're our first and probably only chance of getting an agent inside."

Ryan was a Custodian Undercover Operative, but also a whole lot more. He was a member of a clandestine organisation concerned about the future of the town under the chancellor's leadership. In particular, they were concerned about what the geneticists were working on in the lab. He said they had finished genetically modifying vegies, fruit, and poultry decades ago, and wanted to know what had occupied their time ever since.

That's why I was here. To uncover that information and get it back to him somehow. But right here, right now, in the light of the deaths of the foragers and their families, I wondered if it even mattered. I also wondered if I should blindly trust Ryan and the shadowy organisation he worked for. Who were they? What were their objectives? Were they trustworthy?

I suddenly remembered that Madison was waiting for me outside the bathroom. I washed quickly and dressed in a full-sleeved, ankle length navy blue dress identical to the one she wore. That done, I hurried from the bathroom, my fingers weaving my damp strawberry-blonde hair into a thick braid.

Madison gave me a withering look. "Took your time."

"Sorry."

"This way."

She took me to an office at the other end of the first floor and I was summoned inside. Mr. Cho was seated at a large mahogany desk with his back to a window overlooking the street. Metal filing cabinets and bookshelves stacked with binders rather than books cluttered the room. A red, white and blue flag with a central red star hung in one corner. Reports and sheafs of paper littered the desk. There was even a white and black officer's uniform hanging on a mannequin in the corner.

"Sit."

I sat tentatively in one of the refurbished leather backed chairs before his desk, but kept my eyes lowered. I was too ashamed to look up. I wasn't the girl who turned the town upside down, but the girl whose selfish actions brought about the deaths of ninety people.

"How do you view the chancellor, Chelsea?" Mr. Cho asked. Strangely, Bhagya Singhe, the living lie detector, was not present. Maybe her services were not required after my stint in the Round Room.

"He is the epitome of the Founders' teachings, Sir. An enlightened leader, who by his matchless wisdom and great knowledge guides us towards a better future. And..." my voice trailed off. I didn't feel like talking. I just wanted to hide under a table somewhere and curl into a ball.

"Yes?"

"I am not worthy of the opportunity afforded me to serve him," I said.

"Why?"

"Because of my crimes, Sir." The faces of those I had let down fled through my mind in agonisingly slow motion.

"What do you think about the chancellor's benevolent offer to redeem yourself?" he asked.

"I will serve him to the best of my ability to the day I die, protecting him and his enlightened vision of a better future for the inhabitants of this town."

Mr. Cho leaned forward. "Is being true to yourself more important to you than anything else?"

"Sir, I must be true to the Founders' teachings and the chancellor. Everything else, including my own naive, insignificant opinions, are of secondary importance."

"What of other Australian towns – towns like Ballarat. Do you think they are flourishing?" he asked.

"How can they be, Sir? They have learned nothing from the Apocalypse. They continue to live in the same manner as their forebears, and in doing so, sow the seeds of their own destruction."

The councillor leaned forward. "What do you think should be done with these towns?"

"They need to be shown the error of their ways and introduced to the Founders' teachings."

"Forcibly?"

"If need be. The world cannot survive another nuclear holocaust."

Mr. Cho leaned back, his face devoid of expression. "Are you aware, Chelsea, that when I asked you these same questions a few days ago, your answers were markedly different? What do you think about that?"

I looked down. "I...I remember what I told you previously, Sir, but I can't believe I used to think like that. That I was so caught up in myself and in what I wanted, even to the detriment of others. I see everything more clearly now. My eyes have been opened to my erroneous ways, and I regret my previous beliefs and actions."

Mr. Cho pushed back his chair and stood. He stretched out a hand. I hesitantly accepted the crushing grip. "Chelsea Thomas, I am pleased with the progress you have made after your stint in the Round Room. I officially welcome you to the Council Specialist Unit."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Dismissed."

I bowed in respect as I witnessed Madison do previously, and then took my leave.

Although Madison was waiting for me outside the door, her attitude seemed to have softened somewhat. I guessed that with hearing as advanced as mine, she heard every word spoken between the councillor and myself. Perhaps she no longer viewed me as a potential dissident tarnished by the misconceptions of my upbringing.

"Hungry?" she asked.

"Not really."

"All the same, you need to eat to get your strength back. Come, breakfast is about to be served."

"Breakfast?" It was morning?

"You lose track of time in the Round Room," she said.

She took me to the cafeteria, a moderately sized eating area with tables and chairs that could seat two dozen. It led into a kitchen area with a large fridge, walk in pantry, oven, microwave, stove, and dishwasher. All top quality, built in our own manufactories.

Some girls sat at the tables, eating cereal, toast, and fruit, while others prepared their breakfast in the kitchen. They all wore long navy blue dresses like mine. If not for the expressions of cold indifference or barely concealed hostility that most of them wore, I could feel like I belonged here. I wondered if my "sisters" would ever warm up to me and accept me, or would I forever remain an outcast.

"It's self serve," Madison said before striding into the pantry without a further glance in my direction.

A girl with a heart-shaped face and a ponytail paused as she walked past me, holding a bowl of muesli – a cereal containing rolled oats, grains, nuts, and dried fruit. I remembered her because she had been the most hostile when I was brought to the lab. Her name was Romy if memory served.

"What's she doing here?" she said, glaring at me.

To continue reading, visit at your favourite online retailer.

## Specialist – out now

( **Forager Impersonator - A Post Apocalyptic Trilogy Book 2)**

After a lifetime spent trying to avoid the ominous building, Chelsea Thomas is now in the one place she fears more than any other – the Geneticists Laboratory. Sent there by Ryan Hill to ascertain exactly what the geneticists are up to, she soon finds out that the Lab is not the easy target they had supposed it to be. There is a reason the girls incarcerated there worship the very ground the chancellor walks on, and she is about to find out what it is.

Chelsea's world comes crashing down soon afterwards when the councillor in charge of the Specialists' program, Mr. Cho, makes a shocking revelation. Now she doesn't know who to trust, suspecting that even Ryan has a secret agenda he's keeping hidden from her.

Continuing to impersonate her brother, she stumbles across a terrorist group intent on using force and violence to topple the chancellor and his Custodian lackeys, by any and all means necessary. Mr. Cho's plan of using the Specialists to infiltrate the group is threatened with derailment when the chancellor reveals his own nefarious plan for the girls.

## Revolutionary – out now

( **Forager Impersonator - A Post Apocalyptic Trilogy Book 3)**

The Thrilling Conclusion to the Forager Impersonator and Forager Trilogies

The most dangerous man in Newhome, Councillor Cho, has been promoted to general. The first thing on his agenda is the complete ruination of the Japanese coastal town, Hamamachi. To achieve this, he makes the genetically engineered Specialist girls undergo an accelerated Custodian training course so he can send them off to war.

Chosen along with five of her biologically modified sisters, Chelsea Thomas is sent on the top-secret mission that will end the war with Hamamachi for good. What does General Cho care if several nearby towns suffer the same fate due to their close proximity to the Japanese town?

But what will Chelsea do when she learns that she will need to abandon her morals and go against everything she believes in to complete the mission? Will she ignore her conscience or defy Cho and go head-to-head against her sisters who are still under his mind-control?

Ethan Jones and Madison Taylor, serving in the Hamamachi Militia, are working tirelessly to rescue slaves from Skel controlled territories in an attempt to redress the Rangers shameful anti-immigration policies of the past.

At the same time, they are aware that time is running out for the biologically engineered girls imprisoned in Newhome. An opportunity arises for them to return home and rescue their kin, but a whole world of hurt is waiting for them should they decide to risk it.

Meanwhile, the chancellor moves forward the date to release the dreaded virus, sending Newhome's twin resistance movements into panic mode. If they don't act soon, theirs will be the last generation in Australia if not the world. But what chance do they have against a totalitarian regime policed by three-hundred brutal Custodians?

# Other Books by Peter R Stone

**Forager** , Book One in the Forager Trilogy

Twenty-year-old Ethan Jones lives in a post apocalyptic, oppressive society that terminates anyone with mutations caused by nuclear radiation in an effort to keep the human race pure. Because of that, he lives every day in fear for his life, for he has an incredible mutation that gives him an edge when foraging in Melbourne's ruins. An edge he uses to survive encounters with the vile Skel savages who roam those ruins.   
His life becomes complicated when he rescues a mysterious Japanese girl from the Skel and brings her back with him, for she breaks the town's rigid conventions in her pursuit of him, placing their lives in jeopardy. Her odd behaviour and probing questions baffle him, as does the fact that he understands her when she speaks in Japanese.

**Infiltrator** , Book Two in the Forager Trilogy

For Ethan Jones, Nanako, and the surviving members of his foraging team, the trip back to Newhome is a nightmarish journey fraught with danger.

When they do get back to Newhome, Nanako's dreams of a normal life are shattered when Ethan's jilted ex-fiancé makes it her personal goal to turn Nanako's life into a living hell. And as if that isn't enough, she and Ethan fall afoul of a senior officer of the town's draconian Custodian police force.

To complicate matters, more memory fragments from Ethan's missing year surface, bewildering him with their horrific implications - what exactly did he get up to with the Hamamachi Rangers two years ago? Did they - did he - really commit such heinous crimes?

**Expatriate** , Book Three in the Forager Trilogy – the thrilling and final chapter in the Forager trilogy.

Ethan, Nanako, and the other foragers have fled Newhome after being accused of being terrorists.

However, with Captain Smithson's parting words of "Don't forget us," ringing in their minds, they realise the only way to save Newhome from the Hamamachi Rangers and their Skel allies is to document and expose the Rangers' villainy.

Yet what sounds like a workable plan is nothing of the sort, for they have to journey into the very heart of Skel territory to obtain the information they need.

Leigh's warning that "nothing ever goes as you want or plan it to," turns out to be prophetic. An assassin, a botched raid, and the Skel and Rangers stopping at nothing to prevent them from revealing the Rangers' activities all complicate matters.

Forager - the Complete Trilogy

# Acknowledgements

Thank you, Lord Jesus, for being my refuge and my strength.

Thanks also to:

Dafeenah Jameel at Indie Designz for the most amazing book cover, even featuring the city of Melbourne.

Melissa A. Craven for her wonderful editing, guidance and suggestions for improving the manuscript. Also for the laughs from comparing Australian and American lingo.

Gordon A. Long for his invaluable help and advice, especially in helping me with the book's conclusion.

Amanda Septer for beta reading the manuscript.

# About the Author

Peter R Stone is an award-winning writer, winning the Faithwriters Writing Challenge on three separate occasions, as well as frequently being a Faithwriters Editor's Choice top ten winner. His winning entries include The Medal and Dreams Forsaken.

Peter R Stone, an avid student of history, was reading books on Ancient Greece from the age of four. Periods of interest include the ancient world, medieval era, Napoleonic times, and the Second World War. He still mourns the untimely passing of King Leonidas of Sparta and Field Marshal Michel Ney of France.

A product of the Cold War Generation, Peter Stone studied the ramifications of a nuclear missile strike when he was in his senior year of high school, learning the effects of nuclear fallout and how to (hopefully) survive it. He has ever been drawn to post-apocalyptic and dystopian novels and films, and eagerly devoured The Day of the Triffids and John Christopher's Tripod Trilogy when he was a child. He is also an avid fan of science fiction, and his favorite books include the Lensmen Series by E.E.Doc.Smith, anything by Alastair Reynolds, and the Evergence trilogy by Sean Williams.

Peter Stone graduated from Melbourne School of Ministries Bible College in 1988. He has been teaching Sunday School and playing the keyboard in church for over twenty-five years. His wife is from Japan and they have two wonderful children. He has worked in the same games company for over twenty years, but still does not comprehend why they expect him to work all day instead of playing games.

# Forager Online

http://foragertrilogy.blogspot.com.au/

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