Impersonator (Forager Impersonator - A Post Apocalyptic Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free

Genetics Laboratory the man told us about. Somewhere we could be free to be ourselves.
    When we got home from the market, I helped Mother put away the food we bought.
    “Mother, when I’m older, I want to leave the town,” I said as I put a bottle of soymilk in the fridge door.
    She frowned. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”
    “I want to explore the city,” I said. I couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d never let me go then.
    “You won’t be allowed to do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s too dangerous out there with all the evil Skel hiding in the ruins,” she said.
    “So no one is ever allowed outside?”
    “Only the foragers.”
    “What are foragers?” I asked. Hope blossomed in my heart. Maybe I had to become a forager.
    “Foragers go into the ruins to collect paper, plastic and metals and bring them back to be recycled and used in our factories.”
    "Then I want to become a forager when I grow up, Mother.” I declared.
    “Girls aren't allowed to be foragers.”
    “Why not?”
    “You know why, Daughter. It’s because men are the only ones allowed to work.”
    “That’s not fair.” I pouted.
    “It’s nothing to do with fair, Daughter. The Founders taught that men and women are different and therefore have different roles to play. When the men work and the women manage the home and raise the children, there is less conflict in the home, and in society as a whole. It was common for both men and women to work before the terrible war that destroyed the world. As a result, the children felt neglected, behaved badly, did poorly in their studies, and became troubled grownups.”
    I didn’t understand Mother’s explanation, but I did remember hearing the Chancellor saying something similar during the Solidarity Festival last month.
    I dropped the issue then, but Brandon and I never forgot what that creepy old man told us. From that day forward, we never used our high voices again. And we were careful not to let on that we could hear what our parents said when we’d gone to bed, what our neighbours said when they argued next door, even the ultrasonic sound waves bats made when they flew outside our window at night.
    I lived in mortal fear of the brutal Custodians, the town’s paramilitary police force. They were renowned for their heavy-handed approach to carrying out the law.
    I was eight when I saw them apprehend a woman trying to hide a baby with a cleft lip. It was a Saturday morning, and my grandmother and mother had taken my brother, sister, and me shopping in the market. Brandon and I were playing eye-spy when a young woman ran past us, crying out for someone, anyone to help her.
    Five heavily armed Custodians were hot on her heels, shoving aside anyone who got in their way. Eager to catch sight of the fleeing woman, I hesitated too long before moving to get out of one burly Custodian’s path. He clipped me on the way past, knocking me onto my back while he lost his balance and landed heavily on one knee beside me.
    “Stupid girl!” he shouted, pulling back a fist to smack me out of his way.
    But my twin brother, a mere grasshopper compared to the large man, jumped between us and stared the man down, daring him to hit him instead. As soon as it was apparent no blow was coming, Brandon dragged me quickly behind mother, who just realised what happened.
    Scowling and muttering under his breath, the Custodian joined his fellows and helped them corner the mother with the baby. When she refused to hand the child over, the Custodian struck her on the side of her head with the butt of his gun, knocking her to the ground. Dozens of bystanders – my family included – watched helplessly as the crying baby and his wailing mother, her face covered in blood, were hauled away. We knew the child would not see out the day.
    Needless to say, when I hit my teenage years, I began looking for an opportunity to escape, lest I end up sharing that baby’s fate. And now, finally, one had