Tourist - Part Three
I watched as Darren paced nervously in front of me. I sat on the ground, my back to a wall, legs crossed in front of me. The guitar seperated us, and it glowed in the firelight with curious life. We had spent the past two hours diligently cleaning it, reworking and shining its green finish. And there it sat, the last of its kind, on a pile of cleaning rags.
Darren abruptly stopped pacing and slid down the wall next to me, until we were sitting so close that our hips touched. "This is a big deal," he whispered conspiratorily. "You're lucky no one saw you bring this down here. Other than Ben, I mean. Him, I trust. But everyone else...they're just squatters. No one has chosen sides yet. The time is nearing, and they haven't even chosen bloody sides!" His voice rose as he spoke, and he shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose in a effort to calm himself. "This means big things for us, Daniel. I haven't seen an instrument like this in ages."
I stared at him, agast. "You mean you guys down here...you don't even sing? Or play music at all?"
He looked at me with that familiar distainful expression. "They'd hear us up above. Besides, do you see any instruments left? Other than that thing," he paused to motion to the Fender, "it's all been destroyed."
If we had managed to find the Fender without digging too deep in the dumps, then either someone had thrown it out recently, or things were beginning to surface from the bottom. There were two obvious options: dig deeper, or scour the city for someone who might know something about the guitar.
At Darren's command, Ben lead scouts to the Central Disposal System, which, I learned, was the greater whole of the trash heap Ben and I had plowed through yesterday. With the increased population, whole cities had been cleared and abandoned to make room for the trash that would accompany such numbers. These cities had become the CDS. I'd sketched out on paper what a few intstruments looked like, and realized for the first time how disturbing it was that I was the only one with this knowledge. Darren only confirmed things.
~*~*~
"You're practically leading the revolution now," he murmured one morning, staring absentmindedly at a candle. The flame jumped as a gust of air rushed down one of the circulation vents. I made a noise of reluctant agreement and continued with my attempts to reconstruct a jacket I had managed to find. I could tell he was somehow upset, I just couldn't figure out why. I hadn't asked for this job, he had thrust me to it.
"It's not like I know what I'm doing or anything," I muttered as an excuse. He smiled at me. Before he could make any kind of remark, however, the doors to the small room flew open and a beaten, bleeding Ben was dragged in. The members of his crew surrounded him like angry lionesses to their cubs, all of them dragging bags of goods they had managed to scour from the dumping grounds.
Darren and I managed to get Ben down on a palate, and I started stripping nearly clean rags for bandages. "What happened?" Demanded Darren harshly, looking from one scout to another. No one said anything. They shrunk back, unwilling to speak. "Darren," I whispered. "Take care of Ben for now, okay?" His angry eyes met mine, and softened a little. "Fine," he muttered.
I stood, and turned from the makeshift bed. "Leave what you found in the corner, and get out," I snapped, borrowing Darren's delegatory tone. I was no good at ordering people around. This crowd of strangers made me nervous, the way the acted like rats. Scurrying, hiding, rummaging through filth. I bolted the doors after them.
I spun around as a sharp cry of pain echoed through the small, bare room. Darren glanced up at me, his hands still wrapped around Ben's leg. "Had to realign the bone," he explained. "We need something to set it with." I found a few pieces of wood from the wood pile near the fire pit that resembled chair legs and brought them over, snapping them down to size.
"How bad is he?" I asked. Darren shrugged, and began bandaging some of the more nasty cuts. Ben's eyes fluttered open as I began to set his leg. Boy scouts to the rescue.
"I could use some strong liquor," groaned Ben as he tried to move his leg. I clamped my free hand down tighter on it as I tried to line up the second piece of wood. "Hold still," I chided. "And tell us what happened while you're at it."
He grumbled but complied, and satisfied himself drumming little rhthyms with his fingers to distract himself. I continued binding the splint. "Stupid sods couldn't mind their own bloody businsess," Ben swore. He pointed to the ceiling. "Up there. Them. On our way back, we ran into some Preservation Officers. I was lucky enough to earn the brunt of their punishments." I finished with his leg, and he bent it at the knee, testing mobility. Darren had finished dressing Ben's wounds, and realized I was jealous of the attention the two were giving each other. Trouble was, I couldn't figure out who I was jealous *of*. I shook it off, and stood slowly.
"Well, let's see if your trip was worth it," I said with more conviction than I felt, and picked up the first bag. I emptied its contents onto the floor, and shoed it around with the toe of my boot. A few sticks, some wire, and fishing line. Mostly crumbled paper. I picked up a piece and unfolded it, finding it to be "Rhapsody in Blue" by George Gershwin. I had played it for a piano recital in the fifth grade. A grin broke out on my face as I looked at the pile on the floor. Creative thinking could turn this war in our favor. Fishing line could be used as strings for the guitar I had salvaged; the wood as drumsticks if they were wittled down...and when you had drumsticks, anything was your drum. The war could be won.
The only problem was, no one knew how to attack.
to be continued in part four...