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

  “Don’t feel you need to rush into it on my account, Father,” I said.

  “I’ll pop into one of the marriage agencies in 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 of 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 gym, our instructors have been teaching us how to use our own 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 before hand.

  “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 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 consider
able 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, whereupon they were taken away and never seen again. It was rumoured they were euthanized 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 into 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 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.