Impersonator (Forager Impersonator - A Post Apocalyptic Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  IMPERSONATOR

  Forager Impersonator: Book One

  28th January 2016

  Copyright © 2016 Peter R Stone

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Books in Peter R Stone’s Forager Series

  Forager Trilogy

  Forager

  Infiltrator

  Expatriate

  Impersonator Trilogy

  Impersonator

  Specialist – due out 2016

  Revolutionary – due out 2017

  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.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Other Books by Peter R Stone

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Forager Online

  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 through 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 about 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 vegies 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 rankled 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 to be ashamed of. 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 vegies, 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 normally stayed at a friend’s place for a few days to get Mother out of his hair.

&
nbsp; 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, a 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 female 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 own 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 judgement. 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 used to. 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. Brandon hadn’t 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 before – 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 had a fight 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!”

  Father was 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.’ This 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 wha
t 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 vegies 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 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?