The old woman was separated from the rest of the group, and they put Carrick with the rest of the men as they were led into a shed. The prisoners' clothes were cut off with shears and they were sprayed with scalding water and a pesticidal foam. They were given a bright yellow jumpsuit to put on immediately and two more of the same garment, as well as six pairs of thick and uncomfortable underclothes. Their hair was shaved close to the skull and their faces were slathered with a burning depilatory cream which, after rough scrubbing by attendant guards, caused their facial hair to fall off without the need for a razor.

Carrick’s face burned horribly as the rough and calloused hands of the guards scrubbed at the bruises and cuts on his face. He could not help himself now from screaming as the caustic chemicals, powerful enough to rip the hair from his face, seeped into the cracks of his wounds.

The guards did not seem to enjoy the work, did not seem to take sadistic pleasure in what they did. Not that they were exactly sympathetic to the prisoners, either, but Carrick was used to constables and officers of the state taking perverse pleasure in tormenting and beating criminals. He supposed the apathy was a welcome change from that kind of treatment.

Carrick tried to take a few steps after the guards finished scrubbing him, but the pain became so intense that his vision blurred and he fell down to one knee. After a few seconds he felt a sharp pain in his left arm, and then all the pain receded.

“Don't get used to it,” one guard said. “And don't think we just carry morphine on us as a matter of happenstance. You're not the first person to collapse from your welcoming. We got a lot of walking to do, so you best to get yourself moving.”

The pain returned quickly, but not to the extent that it had initially crippled Carrick. He followed numbly and half-blindly behind the other prisoners, who likewise followed three guards before them. Carrick did not turn to look behind him, but he assumed more guards likewise followed him.

They moved through a series of inner buildings with electrified doors separating corridors from each other before emerging again into the watery sunlight of the afternoon. The air was bitterly cold. Though it wasn't winter back in town, they were in the North, and that the North was unnaturally cold. The failed scientists of the last generation had razed the Wasteland in what was simply referred to as the Accident. The Wasteland was a graveyard of corpses and ruins, a graveyard in whom it was now Carrick’s job to dig.

As they moved inward, away from the main buildings of the camp, Carrick saw buildings which he assumed were barracks forming what looks like a hobo camp. Yellow painted lines ran from the main road, which had led into the camp, to various divided groups of these barracks. The yellow then split off into red, green, and blue lines, which encircled the various groups of buildings.

“I will assign each of you to a color group,” said the guard at the front of the line. He was taller and seemingly healthier than the others. He did not wear any special uniform, but it was clear to Carrick but he was the one in charge. “At the end of every day,” said the man, “you will return to your quarters for recreation and sleep. You will never mingle with prisoners belonging to a different color group. Failure to follow this rule will result in immediate punishment.”

However the prisoners were assigned, it didn't seem to be evenly. Carrick was put into the Green group, and the woman was put into the Red group, but all the others were put into Blue.

Carrick hadn't exactly formed camaraderie with any of his fellow prisoners, but he still felt strangely isolated. He felt as though he were walking into an arena with a wild beast as he made his way into the group of barracks encircled by the green line. There were six of them in the Green group, none of them larger than the courthouse had been.

Men sat on upturned crates or buckets around small fires which seemed to be fueled by trash. There were no electric heaters among them, even though those were cheap, solar powered things which even the poorest people back in town could afford. These men looked either as young as Carrick, perhaps in their early twenties, or very old, perhaps in their sixties or older. All their hair was cropped very short and none of them had any facial hair, though Carrick, who always took in every detail he could, noticed razor cuts on the cheeks of some of the younger men. It seemed they wouldn't be forced to use that depilatory cream every day.

Carrick had no idea what the best play was. He had an idea, though, that he should not wait for other people to take command of him. He made a split decision and marched over to the closest group of young men sitting on crates around a fire that smelled horribly like burned hair. He had nothing to sit on, so he squatted down just far enough away from the fire that someone couldn't shove him right into it from behind.

“I'm Carrick,” he said. His tongue was still thick in his mouth, and he had a bit of trouble getting the words out. He was terribly thirsty.

One man grunted. “And why do you think you can just come over here like you own the place?” he asked.

“I'm not looking for trouble,” Carrick said.

“You haven't earned outside time,” the leader of the ring said. “If you're off the clock, you clean the barracks. You got to contribute if you want respect.”

Carrick knew he was being made an underling. His pride flared up. He was the protégé of the Boss of the Kingfisher Family. Whatever any of these people had done, he doubted that they were people even worthy to lick the Boss’ shoes.

But the Boss was not here. This wasn't the Family. This was a new place, and Carrick was little more than a worm here. He needed to not make enemies on the first day. While He needed to not make himself look like cringing crony, it was also important to pick his fights carefully.

Carrick rose to his full height and stared the man down. Though he knew that the other prisoners around the ring would have their leader’s back if it came to a fight, at the moment Carrick had more muscle mass and was better fed and this person. He knew that soon malnutrition and the terrible chill of the Wasteland that was already biting through his jumpsuit would render him as frail as this man, but right now, even injured as he was, Carrick could beat this arrogant man into the ground if he wanted to.

He maintained eye contact for a few seconds to let that sink in.

The man did not flinch. The look in his eyes told Carrick what he already knew, that Carrick would be here a very long time, that what he did right now would dictate how enjoyable his life sentence would be.

Carrick smiled. “Well, I want to earn that time as soon as I can,” he said in a friendly, even tone. “Which one of the barracks needs cleaning first?”

The man pointed to the building furthest most toward the west. “Scrub the floors,” he said.

“And after that’s spic and span, I earn the right to sit around a fire and burn trash with you icicles?”

The man's expression turned into something that was half smirk, half grimace. “Hell no,” he said. “You earn the right to sit with us icicles when you pull enough treasure to cover some other poor icicle’s failure for the day. You don't get to spend time outside until you show you can take care of someone other than yourself. That's the only way to live here. You just look out for yourself, and you die. That's the way they do things in the other groups, but not here. That's why we live longer than them. We don't have anyone who has as good of a life as some of the best people in the other groups, but we all get along as best as we can manage it together.”

Well, Carrick hadn’t expected that. “Who’s the boss here?” he asked.

The man pointed to a much older fellow two fires away, who sat in a folding chair while everyone else sat on their makeshift stools. “You have some respect,” the leader of the little ring said. “Someday you might get the right to call him Old Oak, but only his friends got to do that. You will call him Mr. Oak, do you understand?”

Carrick nodded. “What do I call you?” he asked.

“I'm Teeth,” said the man.

“Is that just your friends? Do I have to call you ‘Mr. Teeth?’”

The man laughed. He flashed a pair of what looked to be red and green resin dentures. “Nah,” he said, “you just called me teeth. Unless you got yourself in some stupid trouble, in which case you'll be calling me Daddy.”

Carrick nodded to Teeth and the rest of the men around the fire, turned, and made his way to the fire where sat the man named Old Oak.

The fellow was ignoring Carrick as he approached, staring directly into the fire. This fire smelled better. It seemed to burn actual pieces of wood, perhaps broken bits of furniture, rather than simply trash.

“Mr. Oak,” said Carrick, “Teeth suggested I speak with you.”

Old Oak turned and looked Carrick from head to toe. He nodded twice before speaking. “You'd best not cause us trouble,” he mumbled. “Boy, you know why you're here, don't you? Here in the Green group?”

Carrick swallowed. “I think I do, sir.” He had been put in this group deliberately, apart from the other prisoners in the van. A group where, it seemed, people held each other up, rather than each man looking out for himself. It could only be that the boss had called in a favor or sent out a tremendous bribe to get Carrick into Green. He would not betray that gift.

Old Oak turned back to the fire. “Your job for a while, boy, is to take only the treasure that you need on a given day. We have a few hidey-holes in our territory where you'll put any extra treasure you find. If you turned in excess yourself, you would earn yourself privileges and comforts from the guards at HQ. There's a legend that if you bring them one of the lost artifacts at the heart of the Accident, you'd even earn your freedom.

“But that's a bunch of myth and legend, and don't think about it for more than a few seconds unless it's what you need to give you the hope to keep going through the day. No, though you will find more treasure from time to time then you need to fill your quota, if you give it yourself in exchange for favor, you will betray every other man in this group, and your life will be forfeit. You understand?”

“I'm supposed to leave it so that if someone can't fill their quota for the day, the extra treasure goes to them?” Carrick asked.

The man nodded briefly. “You got it. Don't forget it. You work to help your brothers. Your brothers work to help you. It's how we survive.”

Carrick decided he could live with that.