The Tag Bearer

Chapter 5 - Matthew

"So, you're the new Tag Bearer then."

I stood in the towering shadow of a building, examining the rather tall teenage boy standing profoundly in front of me. He was grinning from ear to ear; forcing his bright eyes to light up in a dazzling display of cheekiness. His scruffy, unkept hair accompanied his bony hands, but his exposed arms held some muscle definition which made him boaster more when he realized I was staring at them. I was wholeheartedly regretting the decision to stay by our cart instead of taking up F89's offer. 

"Well," he continued, as he leaned on his cart and flexed his forearm. "You like 'em?"

I glared disgustedly back at him, adjusting a green tag on a limp wrist as he grinned and kissed his flexed muscle. 

"This one here is Thumbelina."

I furrowed my eyebrows in silence, wondering why somebody would even bother to name a part of themselves. He was clearly delusional. 

"What? You don't like the name?" he asked, watching me intently. "Well then, I guess you don't want to meet Gretchen then?"

"No," I finally said, low and drawn out. I glanced at the ground. He was an idiot that would get us all killed if he didn't shut up about Thumbelina and Gretchen soon. Or maybe I would die of utter boredom before that happened if he kept it up? That would be a blessing in disguise. I missed the sound of my own thoughts. 

He plucked his lips. "So you wanna know what happened to Old Mac, eh?"

I shook my head. "No." 

I really didn't want to know who this 'Old Mac' guy was. In fact, I just wished F89 would return and save me from his mouth that just would not close itself and leave me alone in peace. He was making my hairs curl up in frustration just by the sound of his voice, but he didn't seem to notice my reaction. 

"The poor guy who's shoes you filled, yeah, Tim I think his name was, yeah he tried to run. And you know what happened to him?" he cocked and before I could answer him, he spoke again. "Some say they saw him go down in the gunfire. Others say he made it to safety. But I reckon, he just got caught."

He pointed to the side of his head and made a gun with his hand.

I gritted my teeth. I never asked for this delightful little story, nor wanted to encourage him to keep on talking. "So they executed him?" 

"Yup. Saw it with me own two eyes."

"Ahuh, I'm sure you did," I said plainly, gesturing at the attention seeker. "Don't you have work to do?"

He ignored me, bending over the cart so he was in my face. I could see every freckle that danced in a splattering across his nose as though Picasso himself had put them there. "I hope you're not thinking of running now, miss?"

"Well now that you mention it, no," I said, staring at him blankly and unamused. I definitely didn't have any intention to run away. I didn't want to die; not like everyone else in this sad, sorry world. I hated to even think of such a thing. I hated that I had to slip tags over people I might have once known. I hated the smell. The heat. Everything. And I especially hated how this idiot seemed to not care about anything but himself. At least I didn't have to touch people, that I was grateful for. 

If you were careful enough, it was possible to slip a tag over someone's foot without having to physically brush skin-to-skin against them. I shivered, watching as the boy shrugged lightly and went to grab a body near his cart, still smiling across his shoulder at me.

"He only mess with you," a voice, thick in accent said over my shoulder. I jumped, startled at the abruptness of the voice and its accent. I turned thinking it was the same boy playing a joke on me and he had somehow materialized behind me.