“There’s no point getting angry, amigo!” Tony stepped next to him. “It’s just the way it is…”
“We’ll see about that! Things are going to change after we win the Trials,” said Flynn. “Leo Van Zandt won’t ever talk to us that way again!” Flynn spat in the water and threw himself on the car seat, patting the space next to him. “Let’s head back, Tony… I’ll do all the pedaling.”
Flynn placed his feet on the pair of rusty pedals sticking out of the square well-hole cut into the platform. Tony sat next to him and allowed his tired body to finally relax. “Home, sweet home!” cried Flynn, popping open a can of soda that had long lost its original fizz. He took a swig and then pressed on the pedals. Suddenly, he felt his spirits rise. He loved the Seeker. Although it was a very basic type of water vessel, the raft had served him well over the years. Flynn grabbed the steering rudder and the raft started to turn slowly, until it faced the setting sun.
Far in the distance, surrounded by miles of water, were the familiar buildings of their Archipelago… or what once used to be known as the City of New York. Of course, Flynn knew these buildings looked different from the Olden Days. He had seen enough faded photos of the city before the Flood… For a start, the skyscrapers had been much taller… Today, they were half their original size. What remained of the fabled and once proud metropolis now rose straight out of the ocean, creating a string of islands. With no solid land to build on, there were awkward-looking structures sticking up from every single rooftop that had remained… And a spider-web of cables had been strung between them, with cable cars moving back and forth… and bridges and walkways, suspended in mid-air, connecting the old skyscrapers… What had once been Manhattan was no longer a single island… It had become a string of inhabitable outposts, little pockets of life, a seemingly haphazard cluster of everyday survival above the waterline. This was the Archipelago and the place Flynn and Tony called home.
“See that building there, Tony?” Flynn pointed to a tower on the Upper Side, not far from the one they used to call the Empire State. “That’s where we’re going to live in just a week, my friend! Let’s see how the Van Zandt boy can stop me from moving in right next door to him!”
“If you win the Trials, that is!”
“Of course we’ll win. We’ve got to win, Tony!”
Tony said nothing. He just shook his head and stared at his aching feet.
TWO
Mike Foley stood on the edge of the Customs Platform. Overweight and puffy faced, he didn’t look like the majority of the Archipelago’s people. Unlike Mike, most were lean and fit… But then again, Mike didn’t get to do much physical work… he just sat counting boats and rafts passing by his designated outpost. His station was a mid-sized pontoon, moored between the roofs of two partially submerged buildings, with only their top three stories still above the water line. The space in the middle worked like a gate for the boat traffic to pass through. The last two floors of these derelict buildings were used to temporarily store the Customs booty. Mike’s checkpoint was on the west side of town, over what once used to be called Brooklyn. It was one of the many stations positioned at regular intervals around the Archipelago. The stations were connected with big nets to prevent unauthorized traffic, forcing all rafts and boats to go through these gate-like checkpoints.
Of course, the Government officials couldn’t possibly keep an eye on the miles of nets encircling the Archipelago’s limits. Holes kept appearing, allowing vessels to sneak in and out unnoticed and to constantly supply the city’s Black Market. It was a risky business, though. If the traffickers could bypass the nets, they then faced a much harder task… that of evading the sharp eyes of the Watchers. These men kept a constant vigil over the waters around the Archipelago from their Watch Towers… And they were watching Mike Foley, too! He had to be careful.
The day was almost over. All of the big rafts had already passed through and gone back towards the city. Mike was not expecting a lot of traffic between now and the end of his shift. He squinted at the setting sun, then, just to be sure, glanced behind his shoulder at Big Al, his shift mate. The man was snoring like a boat engine in major distress; his huge body slumped against a pile of dirty fishing nets. A bleached out Customs sign threw a long shadow over him as he slept. Mike took one last puff from his hand-rolled seaweed cigarette and tossed the butt in the water. He repositioned the short spear gun from his hip to the small of his back and crouched down. His fingers dug under the edges of a sheet of faded plastic and pulled it back, revealing a square hole in the deck. Furtively, he pushed his pudgy hand in the opening, found the wire string and yanked it up. A rusty six-pack, dripping with water was tied to the end of the string. Mike took a can from the plastic holder, lowered the remaining cans back in the hole and closed the lid. He popped the can open, remembering to turn his back on the Watch Towers.
Mike Foley closed his eyes and savored the taste of the cold beer. He loved his job, especially the perks that came with it… As a Customs officer, he had first-hand pick of all the items salvaged and brought home to the Archipelago. Every vessel entering the Outer Zone had to stop at one of the check points and offload its salvaged goods. The stuff deemed valuable was kept in Customs and later shipped to the city’s distribution wharfs. The Scavenging Crews were allowed to keep the junk for their own personal use.
Mike had worked the Customs shifts from the age of sixteen, continuing the family tradition, like his father had done before him. He didn’t consider it stealing when it came to keeping small quantities of the booty for himself… Everyone was doing it, he knew that much. And if you were to get caught… Well, there was no such thing as prisons any more. Depending on the crime, you were either given the worst job in town, like working on the Garbage Collection rafts for life, or worse…. You were banished from the Archipelago! Sent away on the open seas to die a slow and agonizing death… Mike shuddered at the thought. But the beer in his mouth tasted so good! Nothing like that algae moonshine they home-brewed and passed around as alcohol… Mike took another swig from the can, relishing its bitter taste and slowly opened his eyes.
“Damn!” Much to his annoyance, he had seen a small raft approaching his checkpoint. Mike swore again under his breath, hiding the beer can in the large pocket of his faded cargo pants. He shifted the spear gun back on his hip and grabbed for his uniform’s hat.
“Hey there, Mikey!” a voice called out.
Mike Foley relaxed. He had now recognized the raft as belonging to Flynn Perry and the Romero boy. Within seconds, the beer can was back in his hand again.
Flynn took his feet off the pedals, allowing the Seeker to slow down and glide gently, until it bumped into the row of car tires that lined the side of the Customs platform. “How’s it going, Mikey?” he asked.
“Shh! Don’t shout like that, you idiot!” Mike hissed, glancing back at Big Al. “And stop calling me Mikey! I ain’t your friend, y’know. Have some respect, and follow the protocol.”
“Alright, Officer Foley,” said Flynn, grinning. He raised his hand in a mock salute, “For the Greater Good, sir!”
Mike Foley greeted him back with a growl.
Flynn then nodded his head toward Big Al. “Something wrong with him?”
“Nothin’s wrong! I just don’t wanna share, that’s all.” Mike finished his beer and shoved the empty can in his pocket. “Now,” he said, clearing his throat and straightening his back, “got anythin’ to declare?” He began to make his way slowly toward the edge of the Customs platform.