Alternative Chapter 1 - is this a better chapter 1 or should it be later in the story

At the moment this is kind of chapter 19 or so.  however i did write it as an alternate chapter 1 to the novel and there are 3 more chapters after this.  

I just want to know if this is a better start for the book than the chapter 1 i have already uploaded.

Chapter �" Doors

Islands of a tasteful dark green paint hinted at the lost magnificence of the door.  Islands growing smaller and less familiar, shrinking under the tides of years of heat and neglect.  Islands giving way to the relentless dark brown sea of rotting crumbling wood.  The dimly lit sea would soon be all that remained to greet the anxious eyes of those chosen to queue in the makeshift waiting room.

A misshapen wooden sign clung slackly to the door with its ever weakening hands.  Loose screws ready give up their grip with the next firm slam.  Scott’s eyes were studying it while waiting for the dreaded call to enter within.  Although the waiting room was baking hot, his body trembled as if in a frozen land.  It was just bright enough to highlight the scorched contours and tones of the words “Fitting Room” on the soon to be absent sign.

The darkness of the shack was disturbed by the setting sun creeping in through every fissure and hole in the wood panels.  A cascade of orange lines streaked across every wretched surface and miserable face waiting in line.  Like the door, every panel had blistered and split due to the heat.  Ever widening gaps had appeared between the panels from the constant barrage of sand blowing against the walls outside.  Children’s eyes peered through the gaps to see who was going into the wastes.  The whack of a police baton on the wall sent the back into the shadows as whole place shook. 

He wondered if the gaps would eventually become so wide that they eclipsed the panels themselves.  Would the door follow suit and succumb to its surrounding, be worn down and crumble to nothing�"like him.

The disrepair of the waiting room transformed his nervous jangling into a church bell that struck and chimed through his whole body.  The building could not keep out light, sand, or even the tiny lizard scurrying across the floor.  Just the slightest pinprick in the hazmat suit was enough to give him radiation poisoning.

His forlorn figure was illuminated by a harsh white light which intruded through the gap between the door and frame.  Having already been stripped and had his shackles removed, he was stood wearing nothing but his underwear.  A messy ball of his clothes sat tucked carelessly under his arm while his boots hung from two hooked fingers, a dulled white T-shirt that had been dusted in a ruddy-brown tone, blue jeans worn thin and torn that somehow where still holding themselves together with frayed threads and several shoddy repairs.  It was his boots that he was worried about losing.  He had traded and worked to get a fine pair�"brown leather, rare real leather.  They were thick and hard and just high enough to keep sand out.  No holes, none at all and almost the right size for his feet.

In his other shaking hand, he gripped a few papers.  ID mainly but also another sheet he had been handed an hour ago.  The eyes he had been trying to drag away from it returned home once again to the paper headed “Picking Volunteers.”  It showed the names of all eight volunteers for that day but his eyes couldn’t move from one line, his line.  However many times he had managed to avert his eyes they were always dragged back to see the truth, Inked on recycled paper, Sharp black on the yellow page.

“Volunteer 5 �" Scott Perdido.”

With each tremor of his hand, the letters jumped around the page in front of his disbelieving eyes only to settle again and reform in the same order.  Each glance he took dashed his hopes that the letters formed the name of someone else.  That he had somehow misread it and he wasn’t actually named to volunteer.  Not that he or any of the remaining line of glum faces behind him actually did volunteer but there he was.  Volunteered like they all were.  Shoeless and clueless, at least to a way out, he silently waited for the inevitable with mouth dry and stomach empty.

He tore his eyes away again with clenched teeth and looked at the looming door willing it; begging it to fall from its hinges and crush him.  Knock him unconscious.  Break his bones.  He welcomed anything to injure him just enough so he didn’t have to step through it.  There had to be a way out.

Next to, and looming almost as large as, the door stood a Policia who was much more likely to cause Scott injury.  Hateful hidden eyes burned into Scott from beneath the standard issue mask waiting for him to move, run, or try anything stupid.  Although uniformed and masked like every other Policia Scott recognised this one.  He knew the tear on the lapel on his dark blue jacket.  He recalled the slight bleach splash across the left leg of the matched trousers.  He read the way he stood there eyeballing him.  But it was those shoes that was the giveaway�"terrible, unstylish black faux leather shoes with synthetic laces. 

Then the horrific reminisce of them smashing against his body and face again and again.  The bruises they caused had healed but the pain and anger since he last saw them hadn’t.

The Policia had his un-holstered Cuatrabolt waiting menacingly in his hand.  The gloved fingers of the brute danced merrily around the trigger telling Scott they were ready to squeeze.  He was at the very least instore for another brutal beating if he as much as spoke.  Maybe the beating would be worth it to get out of picking but the posture of man adjacent to him suggested something much more malicious.  Even that might be better than what would happen out there in the wastes but in a choice of die now or die later, later seemed better.

Once again, Scott’s eyes found their way home to the picking volunteers list.  For around two years, it had been mandatory for “none-essential” residents of the town to volunteer.  Of course, anyone with the right contacts, and the money, could bribe their way on to the “essential personnel” list but like most, Scott had neither.  So none-essential he was and therefore fair game to be picked as a volunteer.  He was sure he was essential or could be at least if things were different but they weren’t.

It was the height of the water shortage but then it was always the height of the water shortage, the perpetual water shortage, the incrementally worsening water shortage.  A water shortage that Scott could not remember the start of and was sure he would never see end.  Fifteen years he stood and fifteen years he stood thirsty.  The thirst for knowledge, the thirst for achievement, the thirst for exploration all overtaken by the actual thirst for water.  The growing need for water followed the growing heat and the growing desert.  Eating away at the fertile land in the same way as the once proud green paint of the fitting room door he was about to step through.  In that town like every other town on the line there was a saying “thirst is first.”  Obviously, whoever came up with this had discounted the colossal overriding power of money.

What should have been the main source of water was the town’s closely guarded moisture collector.  A huge and hugely complicated apparatus situated on the town centre square.  From the ground, a tethered Balloon floated high in the air and harvested and condensed water vapour.  In addition, a buried pipe sucked moisture from deep within the earth.  The collector was seemingly under constant repair and when it did work collected only a few drops.  No one seemed to want to admit that the real problem was that there no moisture to actually collect.  Only the sweat of the town rose into the air.

The other option was the water recycle units or “piss cyclers” that like everyone Scott owned and used to recycle his own urine back to a drinkable form.  This could only be used so many times though.  It was meant to make up the shortfall in water not as the primary source.  Plus the filters never lasted long enough.  They always seemed to need replacement and failed without warning, usually when Scott had no paper which was always.

There was also once a series of desalination plants around the east and west coasts that converted sea water into its drinkable form.  It was then transported by huge tankers all over the network of towns and cities of the south.  A series of strategic long range missiles disabled them all during the war and they were never rebuilt or repaired.  The aim was to cut off water supply to the militia and disrupt their ability to fight but once the militia supplies ran out they raided the towns and cities of every last drop.  Robbing the very people, they claimed to be liberating of the life giving fluid.  There was no war now though, not for around fifteen years.  The wall had put an end to it according to the stories Scott had heard.  Once it was completed, there was no way past it.  All the militia either gave up or were killed.  Fifteen years later, it remains there and its automated turrets still fires upon anyone who crosses that yellow line�"the kill line.

‘Next,’ shouted a woman huskily from behind the door.

Suddenly the door swung open and the previously suppressed electric light snapped Scott’s eyes shut.  With the sudden painful jolt of a Policia’s baton in his back in tandem with a twisted arm he was pushed forward into the light and droning noise of the fitting room.  A cloud of white powder filled the air covering his body and face as he was released from the robust grip of the Policia with a shove.  Before he knew it his feet were already inside the boots that formed the base of the hazmat suit.

He felt the papers slip from his hand then his clothes pulled from the crevice of his armpit.  His hooked fingers became barbed as his boots were snatched from his grasp.  His hand traced their path as they moved away hoping to reclaim them.  He turned and almost started to make chase to retrieve his property from the thieves.

The dirty white suit began to rise up over his body as one of the fitters pulled the zip on the rear up from the floor to his neck.  The powder cleared and with a few blinks to clear the powder, his eyes adjusted and focused on the source of the incessant drone�"a doctor, or at least a man in a white coat.  The small grey man sat behind an even smaller and even greyer table in front of Scott reading words from a clipboard.

It was the really the same room as the waiting room split into two sections by an additional partition and the out-of-place door.  To the right was a couple of filing cabinets and a huge disorderly pile of the same suit he was being rapidly fastened in to.  The electric floodlight was directed right at him producing an almost blinding haze that filled his field of vision.  The glowing remains of the powder fell all around him like burning confetti as a spray of words bounced off his chest falling instantly from memory and on to the floor. 

‘…You agree,’

‘…risks involved’

‘…dangerous or defective equipment’

‘…health-related reasons’

‘…negligence’

‘…Agents are not responsible’

‘…Acts or failures to act’

Rusted metal shelves leant against the wall to his left with eight compartments to house the possessions of the volunteers.  His possessions had been quickly sealed in a plastic bag like the four people before him and placed on the shelf marked “5.”  The boots were sitting on top of the bag and he wanted desperately to grab them and run back out the door.

Either side of him were the two fitters who were hurriedly and routinely dressing him.  The fitter to his left was female but her features didn’t give this away initially, she was more man than Scott was, though he would never admit it.  She had cropped ratty hair and a ratty expression to match.  She was busy manhandling his arm into the left sleeve.  The man to the right was dark skinned with short hair and like the woman was dressed in dirty white coveralls and a surgical mask to match.  Both avoided making any eye contact with theirs seemingly chained to the ground.  Behind the doctor leaning up against the exit was another Policia who was casting a bored eye over proceedings.

A few of the doctors more compelling words began to form sentences and adhere themselves to the inside of his skull.

‘In the event of non-completion you agree to forego an enquiry’

You mean you will kill me

‘You agree to cover the cost of the suit and accessories’

You mean I have to pay you to kill me

‘In the event of your death your property becomes that of the state’

You’re not taking my boots when I’m dead

He truly considered it for the first time since his name was called�"Death.  What would death be like, an ending or if he believed the words of the Padre a beginning.  He didn’t believe that for a second�"Nothingness or something else.  Was it better than living like this, the nothingness of death would at least be peaceful.  Starving, dying of thirst in the dusty shadow of the wall was his life.  Racing his motorbike, drinking, the shapes of girls, not a lot else jumped out and fell into the positive column.  He was exasperated.  Was this it, two years out of the children’s facility and in this town then sent off to die.

Suddenly the noise stopped and the doctor peered through his white bushy eyebrows towards Scott expectantly.  He desperately searched the floor and tried to assemble any of the words spoken in the proceeding moments.  All he found was a muddle of baffling terms and expressions with no beginning or end.  His mouth hung open ready to speak but with no words ready to leap out to the rescue.

‘Just say yes’ barked the Policia from his slumber.

‘Yes’ uttered Scott grateful to clear the silence and avoid having the word beaten out of him by the stirring attack dog.

The doctor then looked back down to the clipboard and scribbled something while mumbling to himself as if reciting the rest of the procedure.  He then tore off a sheet of paper and placed it in the broken plastic tray to his side.  The fitters had finished dressing Scott in the hazmat suit and placed a yellow mask over his head restricting and blurring his vision.  It also seemingly restricted his ability to breathe as he gasped for air inside the suit.

‘Breathe normally,’ sighed the doctor.

He wouldn’t say that if he was inside it.  The smell of the last person to wear it, maybe the last two or maybe the last fifty, lingered ominously in the suit.  Layers of old dry sweat pressed against his skin�"the sweat of the dead.  He grabbed on to a comical hope that the smell would somehow keep the radiation away before the humour quickly evaporated into fear.

The fitters began to tighten a series of straps around the suit to pull it closer to his slender frame.

Firstly, feet, a few belts and laces sized the boots snugly to his ankles and toes.

‘On your chest is your number, you are number 5, you will be addressed and must respond to and as number 5’ instructed the doctor.

My name is Scott

Midriff, two thick belts squeezed each thigh then one around his waist.

‘On your right arm is the radiation detector, it is yellow, the darker it gets the more radiation.  If it goes black then you are going to die if you stay there.’

I know I’m going to die

Hands, small straps around his wrists tightened pulling the gloves back to meet his fingertips.

‘On your left forearm are the electronics. The timer shows how many minutes you have left before pickup.  You have to press it when you leave the van.  Also the wrist torch with is simply activated by pressing the large red button’

I’ve never even had a watch

Neck, a ring around the neck tightened and then twisted, pulling the suit up around his chest.

‘Above that is a small sealable pouch, this is where you will place your map after it is handed to you in the vehicle.’

I don’t know how to follow a map?

All the straps were now pulled in tight which seemed to stir the musky smells and push them up into his nose.

‘Good luck and thank you for volunteering’ said the doctor with the greatest of insincerity.

F**k you, the words were bursting to come out but he managed to hold his tongue.

‘Ok 5, ready to go’ declared the male fitter.  Then with a couple of heavy handed slaps to back of the head, he bounced Scott forward a couple of steps towards the exit.  His head rebounded back into position leaving the thought that he was not ready to go.  The doctor looked at him with eyes that seemed to question why he was still here.  The Policia then followed suit which seemed to motivate his legs to move.

He took a few more squeaking steps in his new world with his new name�"5.  The suit pinched his skin with every movement and tweaked at the spring buds of his body hair.  There was no door in the doorway just strips of clear plastic hung to keep out the flies and mosquitos.  He pushed through awkwardly with his gloved hands and covered face.  He heard the word ‘next’ shouted again as he exited the room and emerged outside on to the town square.

He looked around to take in what might be the last time he saw this dump.  Even the fading light could not disguise the grime, the slowly rotting buildings and quickly rotting people.  He paused his inspection seeing something odd.  A pair of glassy eyes were looking back at him, studying his shape, asking questions of him.  He dwelled for a second seized in the orange flicker of her sadness.  A small boy was clutching at her knee burying his dirty face into the folds of her flowing dulled white dress.  He took a glance from behind it with thumb in mouth before swiftly returning to safety.  Her hand lay behind his head stroking the blonde hair he inherited from her with a gentle but frantic thumb.

She cried ‘Francisco, is that you?’ through tears enquiring as to Scott’s identity. 

His confused motionless silence was her only answer.  He wasn’t whom she was crying for.  He continued his slow march in the squeaky fanfare of his suit.  A tickertape parade of trash swirled around him in the warm evening wind.  A few people were still littered around in heaps watching him walk to the van.  Mainly a bunch of old drunks and huffers collected in shadows morbidly watching the parade of volunteers.  A few other people were making their way home glad they were not walking to the truck taking guilty fleeting glances at Scott.  He hopelessly searched their faces for someone, anyone to take his place in that truck.  There was no one that kind or more realistically, that stupid.  Why him, why not them.  Why this f*****g town, why this side of the wall, why this life.

The tethered balloon of the moisture collector wavered high in the air and seemed to taunt him, flying free while he was trapped.  If only it had collected more water.  If only it had worked more often.  If only the people repairing it knew what they were doing.  If only he had learned how it worked then maybe he could make it work, he could fix motorbikes after all.  Then maybe he wouldn’t have to go.  Maybe he would be on the essential personnel list.

The orange reflection in the woman’s eyes grew to cover all.  The buildings and the people lit up by the falling fiery ball.  All but the picker truck which seemed to absorb all colour and show itself in its true unceasing greyness.  An old armoured truck with huge wheels and thick metal plating.  A relic of the militia, still functioning after the guns it was designed to withstand had stopped firing.

Standing next to the open door on the side of the truck was a man beckoning Scott forward.  He was dressed in a similar suit and mask to Scott’s but his was green and clean.  He was hollowly and simply called “the picking supervisor.”  He was the man who managed the operation, the man who sent man after man and woman after woman to their deaths.  As he was always masked and suited, no one knew who he was.  There were so many theories and wild accusations but no one knew who he was.  He must have lived in town, shopped, ate and drank beside everyone else but at night, he pushed pickers out into the wastes to die.  Not worth prying into the identity of a state employee anyway and really plus it would not make any difference.  Just doing what he was ordered.

Scott’s hands were shaking quicker than he expected.  His pulse was racing quicker than he expected.  His mind was processing quicker than he expected.  He was going to die quicker than he ever expected.  Also, his feet had moved him quicker than he had expected and he was already looking into the dark doorway of the truck.  His feet were now fixed and a series of increasingly desperate ideas fluttered through his mind before flying away scarred by rejection.  Each path led to a Cuatrabolt round or being marched over the kill line of the wall to be blasted to pieces.  It was too late, he had been chosen and the only road back was in that truck.

Reviews

[Maddie]

All I have to say is yes, this rough draft is a long way from the original, and, in my opinion, far more attention grabbing. I just have one thing—and it's really just a recommendation— about this chapter.
It'd be way more suspenseful(and interesting) if you introduced Scott's name to the reader right at that moment when they call his name to volunteer, instead of the second paragraph into the story. It'd be a great first impression. That was my favorite part by the way:) And that part where his thoughts sarcastically talked back to the doctor was my favorite too. Anyway, this chapter was really awesome! Good job on the improvement:)

[Ryan Yates]

thanks a lot appreciate it. i hope you like the story

[wordman]

this is a great chapter,but i think it`s an after thought
actually either one would work nicely