Contra Dystopian Press

 Old rusty junk and waste of steel and rubber. Scrap metal falling apart, everywhere. Bolts, used nails, and screws. More rubble and rust, a lot of it. Five pairs of hands were ransacking in search of treasures when the sunset light started to fade alongside the Mississipi river. It was getting late, but no one was waiting for us: stranded, stray dogs. Gonzalo had called for another scavenger hunt that morning, and we obeyed our self-proclaimed leader because we have nothing better to do.

"Comrades," he would say, "keep salvaging these shores. Time particles! We need more steel and time particles; the time machine is about to be completed." Yes, the time machine again. I was impatient to leave the slums of Minneapolis and this lost decade of broken dreams, but our safe heaven was not reachable in this decade.

I was exhausted; my muscles felt sore, like about to collapse, and my clothes soaked in sweat. I lowered my shovel and dropped my body to the ground to catch my breath. It was getting dark anyway.

Pedro started complaining again. Someone was whispering something next to me, but I didn't pay attention. Gonzalo and Pedro would fight throughout the day as his defiance becomes more frequent. Noncooperative and selfish, but we know how he feels. So many years have passed, wasted in this forgotten city. I recall our blind excitement of landing in 2031. That doesn't matter anymore, but my mind was making excuses to call off the day.

Our journey. Why was all that for?

I observed the pile of scraps next to me—my findings of the day. A few broken computer screens, drive arrays, copiers, outdated mobile devices, and an undetermined pile of plastic and fake steel. I disdain living like stray dogs, but we have nowhere else but to go back to the future. Pedro should know that. This labor has been hard for everyone, but he keep burdens us with his negative. I cannot stand talking with him. You say something, and he responds with excuses followed by complaints.

Their shouting continued.

Although we were supposed to prompt the reconstruction after the big war, the logistical support never arrived at the locations and itinerary that we memorized as part of our training. After a few years without contact from the future, we all agreed on the harsh truth. We were left behind kicking stones.

We embraced and discussed different theories about what could happen to our future. What if a second big war occurred in the future, making time-traveling impossible again. I'm not particularly eager to speculate. At the end of the day, the fact remains: We are stranded. No shuttle bus will come to rescue us.

"Just shut up and work," I said without looking at Pedor, "hearing you moaning all day is worst than this dumpster." Some laughs followed.

I suppose Pedro looked at me with rage before catapulting the first chunk of corroded metal he found. I don't know what triggered him so fast. Pedro was not that sensible, so I suspect that he just aimed to scare me. How far could a burst printer fly through the air? The pain that arose from the open wound in the back of my head did not provide a clear answer.

Some confusion followed. I was bleeding, and a crisis like this reminded us that we are children. Engineers disguised as children. The chief was the first one to provide me with some aid. Pedro began explaining his case in front of an absent jury, but no one was listening. I saw him in the middle of the crow, but he looked alone or isolated from the whole commotion.

After Gonzalo cleaned the wound, it resulted that it was not deep, but it made a hell of a cut in my head. I wish I took the time to tell Pedro that I was not upset with him. "You may need some stitches, lad" Gonzalo concluded. That was just a drop of old protocols without meaning these days. There are no hospitals or doctors in the slums. Both of us knew that.

Gonzalo dismissed us. I started looking for Pedro when I was told that he had left. "I'm going to report him with the central commander. His behavior is unacceptable," said Raabi.

Raabi and other two survivors from our original tripulation escorted me home. Raabi was originally assigned to a family of three, who quickly adopted him as their kind with the openly annoyance of Raabi. "I'm an officer, not a milk baby." He said. Raabi and the rest of the crew remained disguised as twelve-year-old lads.

When I knocked that night, my foster father opened the door. He saw my face and let me in. No questions, apparently. He looked troubled after I entered the house, but he always does. We agreed on this unspoken rule in which we don't need to fake that we care for each other. I entered my bedroom and noticed that my wound has been bleeding again.

"I will clean it anyway tomorrow," and I slowly let my mind slip away as the angel of silence came to put order in my life before the sunlight woke me the following day of 2033.