The Last Reader



  The Last Reader

  Thomas Norwood

  Copyright 2013 by Thomas Norwood

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Norwood, Thomas

  The Last Reader

  ISBN-10: 0992355222

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9923552-2-7

  Global Activision Limited

  PO Box 94

  Flinders Lane

  VICTORIA, 8009

  Australia.

  More information: https://www.thomasnorwood.com.au

  The Last Reader

  Thomas Norwood

  Sam clambered over the piles of rubbish, keeping a lookout for the man they called Spudhead. Spudhead helped the trucks unload, and if he ever saw one of the kids he’d beat them ’til they were nothing but pain all over and then he’d threaten to throw them into the crusher.

  It had happened to him one time. He’d been sneaking up behind the shed where they kept all the electrical items — old televisions and radios and computers, not that anyone used that old stuff any more — and Spudhead had grabbed him from behind. The life had almost jumped right out of him and left him dangling there limp in Spudhead’s hands. Afterwards, he almost wished it had.

  Today, however, Spudhead was over the other side of the dump, whistling a truck into position and waving crazily with his hands for it to back up, and Sam and a few of the other kids were down into the massive steel rubbish hoppers as fast as the rats they shared them with. Sam had his backpack in his hand and was loading anything edible or of value into it. He’d already found a half-full box of cereal and a bag of slightly bruised apples. He could only imagine what it must be like living over the other side of the fence, in the regulated zone, where people were so rich they could afford to throw away treasures like these.

  Then he came across something strange: a book. He’d only ever seen books once before, in the house of Old Man David, who lived down the street from him and his mother. When he’d asked what they were David had told him they were what people used before tablets, and when he’d asked what tablets were he’d told him they were what people used before coms. Sam didn’t have a com, but a few of the kids in the neighborhood did, so at least he knew what they were. Computers built into your brain.

  Sam picked up the book and leafed through it. It was full of words, but Sam could only recognize a few of them.

  “What you got there, Sam?” It was Bill, leering down at him from on top of the dumpster.

  “Nothing. A book.”

  “What you going to do with that? You can’t even read.”

  “Neither can you.”

  “Give it here, then.”

  “No.” Sam shoved it into his bag and closed it up. It was time to leave. He could hear the truck in the distance groaning away.

  Just as it looked like Bill might climb down the mound of split bags to take the book from him, something made the older boy turn around.

  “Oh shit,” Bill said, and before Sam knew it, he had run off.

  “Get here you little bastard,” Sam heard Spudhead yelling.

  What should he do? If he got out now, there was a good chance he’d get caught. Spudhead was much faster than he was. If he stayed where he was, though, he might get caught too. Or worse — crushed. Once these bins were full they took them over to the crusher and then emptied the contents into a big hole.

  Footsteps. There was nothing else for it. Sam dove under a pile of bags, pulling a dirty piece of wood over himself. A nail scratched his arm but he clenched his teeth. He heard the big man above him, and then rubbish was falling down on top of him and around him. Spudhead was kicking at the ground. Then there was silence. Sam didn’t breathe. Spudhead cleared his throat and spat, and Sam watched as the slimy ooze dripped from a broken plastic doll’s face just meters from where he was hiding. And then there was silence.

  In the distance, Sam could hear another truck coming towards them. He had to get out now. If they put a whole load on top of him he’d never get free. He scrambled quietly up the side of the bin and peeked over the rim. Spudhead was about thirty meters away, turned towards where the truck was coming up.

  Sam climbed out of the bin, slinging his pack on his back, and bolted towards the fence.

  “Hey. You. Come here.” Spudhead’s voice was like the growl of a large dog.

  Sam could hear his huge feet slapping the ground behind him, two meters to every stride. He ran for his life, his lungs aching, his thighs aching, pure adrenalin propelling him forward. He reached the fence about fifteen meters ahead of Spudhead and leapt up onto it like a possum. Normally he’d try to go over the barbed wire at the top but this time he went under it, scratching his back and tearing his t-shirt but landing safely with a thud on the other side.

  Spudhead reared up like a horse. “If I ever catch you little bastards in here again, I’ll kill ya…” Sam looked at his thick arms and his cruel eyes and he didn’t doubt it.

  And then he turned and ran.

  Sam made his way back through the crowded streets of the de-reg zone. He had to be careful — there were kids, and even adults, who would steal from kids returning from the dumps. Gangs would lie in wait and ambush them, punch them up, steal their goods. Sam knew the safest route, though, and kept his pack turned around against his chest rather than on his back so that nobody could do a snatch-and-run.

  “What the hell have you done to yourself?” his mother cried when he pushed through the blanket which hung over the hole in the side of their shipping container house. He had dried blood on his face, arms and back.

  “Nothing. Was down at the dump, that’s all.”

  Sam handed her his bag. She lay it on the table and went to a cabinet on the wall where she kept a couple of medical items.

  “Sit down,” she ordered.

  Sam sat, and she slipped off his shirt and padded him with alcohol that stung worse than the cuts themselves did.

  “Put a clean shirt on,” she said. “You’d better hope that doesn’t get infected. Last thing I need is to have to take you down to the clinic.”

  “Look what I got,” Sam said, opening up his bag and pulling out the apples, the cereal, and the book.

  “What the hell is this for?” She held up the book. “You gonna light a fire?”

  “I want to learn to read.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to know what it says.”

  “Don’t go wasting your time on that crap, Sam. That’s for rich people. People in the reg-zone. Fat load of good it’ll do you here. You’re better off learning a trade, a real skill.”

  “Like what you do?” It just slipped out before he could stop it.

  Sam’s mother provided them with food by disappearing off into the night with strange men.

  Sam felt a searing pain across the side of his cheek accompanied by a loud “thwack”.

  “Don’t ever talk to me like that again. Do you hear me?”

  That evening, when his mother had left the house, Sam walked up the street to Old Man David’s house. He could see light coming from under the rug which hung across his door and he called out.

  “Excuse me. Old Man David?”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Sam. I live just down the street.”

  Sam hadn’t had much to do with Old Man David himself, but he’d seen his mother talking to him on enough occasions, and he’d leant her a saucepan once when someone had stolen hers.

  “Come inside, boy.”

  Sam went in and found the man sitting alone in a broken ar
mchair in a corner of his corrugated iron cabin. A candle flickered on a steel drum next to him. A dog sat at his feet and looked up at Sam and growled.

  “It’s okay, Fido. Stay down, boy. What can I do for you, Sam?”

  Sam held up the book. “I’d like you to tell me what this says.”

  The old man held out his hand and Sam went across to him and placed the book in it. A smell like the one that used to come from his mattress after he’d peed on it in the night hit him. He tried not to cringe.

  The man looked at the front cover and held it up to the candlelight.

  “Foundation. By Isaac Asimov. This is a very good book, boy. A very good book. What do you want for it?”

  “I want you to teach me how to read it.”

  “Hmm.” The man shook his head and laid the book down on his lap which was covered with a scrap of old blanket.

  “Well?” Sam said, when the man didn’t respond.

  The man shook his head again. “Too much. Learning to read is a difficult thing, Sam. It’s not something you can learn overnight. It’s not something you can learn even in a year. It’s something which takes many years.”

  “Well, I’m young. Teach me.”

  “You’re young but I’m old. I don’t think I have enough time left. And even if I did, I don’t know if I want to spend it teaching you how to read. There aren’t even enough books left in the world. At least not around here. What are you going to do once you’ve read this one?”

  Sam pointed to the books on a piece of timber suspended between two piles of bricks. “How about those?”

  “And once