Easy Target

Chapter 2: Pima

     “Ration,” reported Leroy’s monotone voice. “Ration’s here, Pima.”

     Pima rolled her eyes and looked over at the small box Leroy’s shaking hands offered, as a yellow, greasy liquid dripped, leaking through the side.

     “Please don’t tell me it’s pasta again,” Pima complained, indignant.

     Pima was sick of pasta, and with good reason, she believed. In the rather poor, crime-filled area in which she lived, nearly the only government shipment of food that got through was pasta boxes.

     She thought that, maybe, just maybe, the thieves who normally raided the delivery wagons were sick of pasta too.

     Ignoring the complaints Pima offered, Leroy tossed the box to her, as she caught it with fast reflexes and precision.

     “Shut it, stupid.” He growled angrily. “At least you have food.” The dark-haired boy’s face turned from one of annoyance to shutting down completely, devoid of emotion, as he told the same story again in his head, wanting to believe it.

     My name is Leroy Neilson. I am seventeen years old, ID number 60322. Black hair, brown eyes, and freckles. I am five foot eleven, and I weigh 172 pounds. My parents amassed a large amount of debt, were put it a homeless shelter, and there was where they died. Food supplies were cut off, and the owner of the shelter ran off with the money.

My name is Leroy Neilson. I am seventeen years old, ID number 60322...

     “So, where’s Loren?” Pima yelled obnoxiously, interrupting Leroy’s rather serious mindset, her mouth full of unwanted butter-covered pasta, shoveling it in with her hands, with no thought to manners or table etiquette.

     Silverware was nearly nonexistent where they lived, as it was way too expensive, and it was a regular thing to disregard any polite traditions, and accepted as normal.

     Pima licked her lips and continued eating, and it was not a pretty sight.

     “Pima...at least attempt to be the tiniest bit polite?” Leroy replied, ignoring the question.

     Truthfully, this change was accepted as normal to nearly everyone, and a well-known skeptic to this adaptation was Leroy Neilson himself, among other sticklers for these types of things.

     “Shut it, stupid,” Pima squealed in a mocking tone, throwing Leroy’s words back at him, at the opportunity to misbehave without general consequence. “So, seriously. Where’s Loren?”

     Loren, the siblings’ next door neighbor, was a constant troublemaker. Along with Leroy and Pima, the three were supposed to do chores for their community. There were no public services in the poor areas, so the people who lived there were forced to work to keep the place clean and tidy, and crime-free, as best they could.

     However, it didn’t work too well, considering all the help they received. Loren was a constant slacker as well, and he chose this morning to sleep in and laze around instead of appearing at seven sharp to help out, like he was supposed to.

     The three had one of the worst jobs offered in the community, because Pima was stereotypically considered to be at a “genetic disadvantage.”

     Her mismatched eyes, one purple, one gold, were a mark of sin in the City, and preached as a clear mark of genetic failure.

     Working underneath the City, in the pipes and sewage water muck was the occupation given to anyone with two different colored eyes.

     Why have the perfect citizens die when you can just “humanely” kill off the genetically lacking ones?                       

     Such is the logic of the current government in place.

     Danger lurked around every corner in the way of misplaced rat poisons, puddles easily slipping and turning from shallow water into the rushing rivers that ran through the places, and the sharp metal spikes sticking out of construction never finished.

     Many a death occurred during the job, mostly very young children, and Pima and Leroy lost a friend two months ago, watching him fall into the river, drowning quickly with screaming, bubbles forming at the surface as his lungs filled with water, the precious air forced out.

     His name was Nik, and he had the potential of someone who could do much better than work in the sewage and pipes. Tall and muscular, he had the build alike to a blacksmith in the City, and would have been perfect as one, but that was impossible.

     Two different colored eyes meant the worst treatment. The least money, the least food, the least jobs, the poorest housing, and anything that was available, or better than the usual quality, was stolen.

     Shops hardly had the need to exist anymore; they were always broken into. Pima got up from the table, wiping her mouth on her wrist, earning a disapproving grunt from Leroy.

     “Shut up. I’m going to go look for Loren.”

     Walking out of the house, Pima snorted when she saw Loren lugging a huge bag of what seemed to be rocks up the street. “What the hell are you doing, idiot?” she shouted at him.

     When he finally caught up to her, he said, “Stole ‘em. They’re potatoes from that field we saw last week. Easy grab, really. I heard it’s totally abandoned.”

     Pima giggled and grabbed an end of the bag. “I’ll help you.”

     Wow, this is really heavy, she thought. How did he manage to drag this up here all by himself?

     Pima couldn’t entirely ignore that Loren had become rather muscular in the last few months, and she quite often heard the other girls she saw around him squealing about how “cute” he was.

     Pima didn’t think he was very attractive at all.

     “Well, come on, Pima,” complained Loren, poking her in the arm. “You daydreaming or what?”

     Pima shook herself out of her reverie, and began to help Loren drag the potatoes to her house. He had been thieving instead of helping, true, but now they had something to eat for a few weeks.