But for the schoolboy this place and the people holed up there have a certain allure that he cannot explain. Easier to point fingers than actually do something about them. The Choice Army blames all the wild zones on the Life Brigade, and vice versa. Police have more important things to deal with, and not even the warring militias will go there anymore. No one who values their property or their lives will venture there. It’s called the wild zone, and every city and town has one. It’s the line that marks the border beyond which law and reason cease to exist.
He turns down a side street that’s infested with pigeons by day and rats by night, crossing an invisible line that everyone knows even without being able to see it. Things are much more serious for him now. They played Lifers and Choicers with plastic guns and toy grenades, never caring which side of the game they were on, as long as they were on the same side as their best friends. He and his friends played in the burned-out cars when they were little. It’s the world he knows, the world in which he grew up. Crosses in the ground marking spots where soldiers and civilians on either side died fighting for their cause. As he races through the streets, signs of the Heartland War are all around him. He is expected to be at home fifteen minutes after school lets out. UnSchooled UnSchooled The schoolboy bursts through the door, the first one out of the building when the bell rings.
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