The Collective (2 page)

The Hummer driver exclaimed. “What the...” His last words
as the front of both Hummers exploded simultaneously, flipping the vehicles as
they crashed upside down onto the pavement. The rear Hummers screeched to a
halt forming a ‘V’ barricade in front of Crispus’s car. Men filed out of the
jeep with M-16 rifles in hands.  The first man’s head exploded as he exited the
wagon. His body dropped limply to the ground. The guard behind him dove for
cover, but never came up. The bullet cracked his sunglasses as it passed
through his head. Precise, lethal rounds were coming from the two-gun wielding
assailant through the fire and debris; they couldn’t get a lock on his
position. Three more of Crispus’s guards hit the ground, one still staring at
the hole in his stomach in disbelieve. A guard yelled. “Take cover behind the
Hummer!”

The onslaught continued. One brave defender advanced,
discharging rounds past the cover and into the stretch of conrete. The bullets
bounced off his armor. His goggles had switched from blue to infrared in order
to detect his opponents’ movements behind the vehicles. His accuracy was
unparalleled as he downed his enemies one at a time. Zooming in on the next
target, positioned behind the front of the vehicle, he cocked the pistol.
Shooting through the flames, the armored bullet was unaffected by the heat. It
cut through the light-plated escort vehicle, under the guard’s elbow, through
his heart, lodging into Crispus’s car bumper beyond. Crispus pleaded for the
driver to back up, but they were boxed in by the cargo truck inches from their
bumper. As the bullets ricocheted off the attacker, the two remaining guards
took cover behind the Hummer to reload. Crispus watched in horror as the glass
shattered on the trucks and the two men fell in unison. Crimson fluid soaked
over the granules in the ground. Two motorcyclists took off to intercept the
threat attempting to slow his advance. The remaining guards dismounted moving
swiftly to pull their leader to safety. Opening the doors, the guards pulled
out a stiffened scared Crispus. His aide broke free making a mad dash up the
highway back to the House of Vancrew. The motorcyclist closed in on the armored
antagonist. Pulling out Uzis they aimed to hit him in an uncovered area. They
wanted to test the durability of his protection. Before they could prove their
theory, the mysterious man squeezed off two shots from his handgun. The bikes
skidded past him leaving the two owners face up on the pavement.  The guard
driving the cargo truck was flabbergasted. He never saw someone move so
quickly. At first he thought there was no way one man could take out twelve
armed guards, even with the jump on the first eight. He was wrong. In a matter
of minutes only two guards were left as they tried to drag Crispus back to the
truck. The driver peered into the holding area of the truck where six armed men
had not moved.

“Someone get out there. We’re losing everybody!” The water
truck driver screamed to the small army sitting behind him holding their
weapons looking visibly shocked at the carnage. His navigator was sitting still
next to him. The main driver thought he was paralyzed by the bloody display. He
was wrong. His partner’s dismay was over the man causing the storm of mayhem.
His voice was low as he spoke.  

“Everyone...stay put if you want to live. I’ve seen this
man before. He’s a member of the Redstone Mercenary Guild. He goes by ‘The
Mountie’ and he’s the most dangerous killer on this planet.”

“The Mountie...heh...heh.” The main driver chuckled
nervously.

The navigator did not look at the driver as The Mountie
approached, but he offered a stern warning. “Trust me. You don’t want to laugh
at this man.” The driver sat back in his seat. The co-driver was not easily
rattled. To hear the quivering of his voice was unsettling.

Crispus stared at the truck waiting for the men to come
out. His survival instincts overrode his fear. “Someone do something! Why am I
paying you?” Crispus sat on the ground with his back to the truck. As the words
left his mouth, the guard facing away from Crispus head lurched back as the
bullet pierced his skull. His most loyal protector shielded him and fired
wildly, before succumbing to the bullet hole through the stitched ‘C’ on his
chest. She dropped face first to the pavement. Crispus was uncontrollable.
“Help me! Somebody, please!”

The Mountie walked near Crispus, but his gaze was focused
on the two men in the front of the truck. The main driver had his hands on the
wheel, while the co-driver had his hands in the air. The Mountie knew there
were more guards in the truck. Though Xonox would prefer his resources
returned, he contemplated blowing up the transport. 

“A gift from me to you, Xonox.” The Mountie said inaudibly.

Crispus used the distraction to grovel at the killer’s feet
for his life. “Please…wait…please.”

Mountie extended his hands to quiet Crispus. It always
amused him how these people of prestige and riches could be reduced to
whimpering idiots begging for their lives in a few seconds. They perceived
themselves as being untouchable until they were touched. He looked in the
distance and he could see Crispus’s aide running in a straight line down the
road. Falling to one knee, he pulled out a foot long shaft, screwed it to
another shaft, attached a pre-assembled handle and trigger, flipped up the arm
and placed the final piece, a scope. In the crouched position, he lifted the
rifle up to his shoulder and fired one shot. The aide slowed to a walk as if he
was out of breath, clutched his chest and dropped into the street. Who could
pass up that kind of target practice? The Mountie thought. Two-hundred yards
out with one shot. He rose to his feet to better admire his work; surveying the
bodies, burning flames and twisted metal around him. Breaking down the rifle he
placed it back into the compartments and moved closer to Crispus. He hated this
part of the job. Crispus was an old, dumpy man without a shred of muscle or an
appetite for any physical scuffles. Most targets would be offered a fair fight
with the weapon of their choice. That is what he loved; the combat, the
strategy, one man versus an army, one man versus a worthy opponent. There were
few to be found. Every now and again he would run up against a rogue mercenary
or gang leader who could make him break a sweat. The outcome was never in
doubt. They would be given the chance to go down fighting. But eventually they
would go down. Sure, he had a thirst for blood, war and all that came with it.
Yet it was the search for the ultimate challenge that propelled him. Now it was
time to dispatch of this little prince. Unfulfilled, he stood motionless for a
long time. His surroundings were frozen and quiet.  The wind swirled and lifted
the dark-crusted dust. Fires crackled behind him. No one moved in the truck.
Crispus cowered before him. He breathed deep, sucking in all the chaos he
caused and the quietness that came with it. A serenity that was about to be
broken. With the Luger in hand he moved closer to Crispus. The barrel of the
gun stopped two inches from the bridge of Crispus’s nose. He could smell the
man’s despair. Sweat dripped down Crispus’s face. His hands were up in a
pleading manner, but he knew there would be no escape.

“Xonox says hi.” The Mountie said through a harsh voice
that sounded as if he had swallowed nails.

“He would have done the same thing in my position.” Crispus
whined.

“Maybe...” There was no shred of sympathy in his demeanor. 

Crispus knew it was the end. He could not reason with this
man, this killer. All he understood was violence. He mustered his courage to
say his last words.

“That pompous prick, I’m glad I attempted to stop him.
Someone should have. See you in...”

The Mountie squeezed the trigger to send him to the place
they would all have their final rest.  Unfortunately, Crispus was next in line.
Maybe he could hold a spot for him and Xonox.  The mercenary turned towards the
cargo drivers who had not moved or breathed. Good thing, any excuse would
usually do. Luckily they caught him on a good day. He was feeling generous. 
Besides, Xonox would be pleased to get the truck back. Perhaps he could borrow
the prototype laser sword his technicians were working on for the next mission.
Locking eyes with the driver, The Mountie placed his hand in the air, extended
his index finger and motioned in a circle. The universal sign for turn it
around. The men exhaled and quickly began backing up the transport.  They would
return to the Water Facility. Leaving with their lives outweighed the
punishment awaiting them. The Mountie watched as the truck pulled away. Heading
in the opposite direction, he tapped his wrist band. The computer linked to a
familiar number.

“Xonox. It’s done.”

“I never had a doubt.”

“Thank you sir.” The Mountie said in a soft growl.

“And the other matter?”

“Heading there now.” He rasped.

CHAPTER 3

ABEL

“Is everything alright?” Abel asked quietly, with a bit of
concern.                     

His father shouted back. “Yes, but quickly son, the water.”       
Abel could discern from his father's tone that everything was not okay. His
father’s voice trembled and they never accessed the well early in the morning.
Abel stepped out into the cool morning air with the water bucket in his hand.
He approached the side of the house, where the well was hidden under an old
boat hull with some bushes hanging over it. Removing the hull, Abel took a
quick look around before lowering the bucket into the darkness.

Few in the Gravope community knew about the well, but many
suspected. Loun, Abel’s father, shared and traded out of this limited resource
sparingly. In these times, it was similar to having oil in your backyard. If
the House of Vancrew found out; they would confiscate as much water as
possible, close the illegal well and discipline the perpetrators who concealed
it. That was the right that power brought. Many were against the Water Protocol
laws, but few dared to rise against the Collective eight Houses.

As Abel turned to head back to the house, he was startled
by a face peering over the gate.  It was Forsum, his playmate since childhood.
Abel froze in stride and a few drops of water hit the ground. Forsum looked
with a knowing glance. “I always suspected.” He whispered and vanished before
Abel could respond.

Loun bellowed from the house. “Abel! What are you doing?”

Still in
a panic, Abel entered the house. Loun took the water out of his hand staring at
Abel. “What took you so long?” Abel was silent, and then he began to stammer
out his words. “I need to tell you something...”

His father placed a finger to his lip to silence him. He
had no time for one of Abel’s explanations. “Later, your mother has fallen
ill.”

Loun headed back to the room leaving Abel to speculate what
trouble may come from the exposed well. There were only a few bargaining chips
used to procure water; scrap metals or coins, fresh meat, people sold into
servitude or the sale of information. The last one was where Abel’s worry laid.
Though Forsum was a childhood friend, he never shared knowledge of the well
with him. But questions often arose as Abel’s family always seemed to have
water. Abel sat down on the floor trying to calm down. Surely Forsum would not
sell out his family and bring wrath to the village for a few drops of water.
Maybe he should find Forsum before a problem occurred, he thought. 

Before he could act, his father called him from the
bedroom. “Abel, come in here.”

All
thoughts faded as he walked into the room. His mother’s sweaty body was on the
bed. An old faded sponge was held to her forehead to cool the fever. Hovering over
her at the head of the bed, his father spoke slowly. “I won’t be able to hunt
with you today. Grise will take you out. Shoot something nice for your
mother...” Loun turned from Abel to his wife, the emotion welling in his face.
Abel felt the tears coming from his eyes as he answered. “I will.”

With a look of determination, Abel bent over to kiss his
mother’s cheek. She had been sick for weeks, but it was getting worse. The only
hope was to bag a wild deer and trade for medical supplies at the Water Management
Facility. Guns and ammo were easy to come by. A gallon of water would buy you
enough weapons for a small army. But few wanted to part with the limited
medical supplies that they possessed. In this world if you didn’t die by
dehydration, sickness would slowly rot your body. Medicine was second to water
in scarcity.

Grise was a hardened man with scales for skin. Like Abel’s
father, he was a former Army Ranger. The two served together before the
government collapsed and the military became defunct. His training mixed with
his Cherokee blood made him a formidable survivalist. As the pair walked
towards home, Abel’s eyes were filled with hope. The hunt was a success. Abel
had bagged a small buck. He and Grise carried the animal to his home. About an
eighth of a mile out Grise signed off. “Give my regards to your mother and
father.”

Abel grasped Grise’s hand. “I will. Thanks.”

A firm exchange and Abel was left to carry the buck on his
own. How happy his father would be, he thought. It was no easy feat to bring
down the animal. Last time out Abel had shot a huge hole through a boar
destroying most of the meat. This time he had snuck up on the deer without a
sound and shot it cold before it could react. Obviously all those years of
hunting had finally paid off. His father had taught him well. He beamed at the
thought of his mother getting the help she needed. Suddenly, he was startled by
loud sounds in the distance. He could make out a large engine and men shouting
in the direction of his home. Instantly the smile on his face was replaced by a
look of terror. He dropped the buck and started to run.

Loun was outside the home with his hand raised in protest
as the Captain of the Xonox Water Management Facility read him the articles of
the Collective Water Distribution Protocol. The remaining guards watched with
guns lowered but ready for action. The community was aghast, some were angered
at the intrusion, but none came to Loun’s defense.

“Per article 6, section 2 of the Collective Water
Distribution Protocol, any consumable water must be reported to the Collective
for appropriate division and metering for                           public
consumption.” The Captain held the small electronic palm device in his hands,
reading the words as they scrolled on the screen. “The penalty of non-report is
death as authorized by the Collective and the corresponding house.”

The head of the Water Management Facility, for the House of
Vancrew, was a man named Distor. His lack of patience or empathy for the rank
and file was an attribute that the community was painfully aware throughout his
tenure. A potent mix of cruelty and intelligence guided him in his rise to his
position of status. Stepping out of the helicopter, he surveyed the dismal
town.  His pets lived better than these people, yet they refused to die. Rarely
were any of them of use, lest for entertainment. Now he had learned there was
access to an illegal water source, which would undoubtedly cut into the House
of Vancrew water supply. This could upset the power generation for the Xonox
family. Every drop of water was precious in his bid to become a member of the
House. His goal was the unlimited access gained by inclusion into the
Collective. Once a member, mere thoughts frequently became reality. He would
make an example of these peasants and halt any future insolence. As he strode
towards his Captain, with two guards in step, he could hear the reading of the
Distribution Protocol. To his left were two Hummer trucks with nine guards
standing in a half circle. The sunglasses on their faces shielded their eyes,
but Distor was sure they were unblinking. These men were the lucky few, pulled
from the depths of poverty and given a station in life. They were not among the
elite, but lived a life of comfort none would forfeit. The small army was more
for show. The townspeople would not defy him or water would be the least of
their concerns. Distor interrupted his Captain as he continued to read Loun’s
crimes. “Thank you Captain. I think this man fully understands his crime. What
is your defense?”

The Water Facility leader spoke calmly as he glared
intently at the criminal sizing him up. Loun’s age and clothes seemed to shield
an inner power. Taut arms and legs told Distor that this man had served the old
country, killed for it and was not to be taken lightly. His aggressive stance
was tempered by a void in his eyes that he could not place. It was haunting.

“Sir, my wife is dying. She has been ill for a while.” Loun
fumbled over his words looking from the armed men back to his home. “I only
hoped to get her stronger again before I reported the well. We need medical
supplies...”

Distor raised his hand to silence Loun’s pleas. “You test
my intelligence with your lies.  You have stolen from the Xonox Family and
therefore the House of Vancrew. Do you have anything that I can consider in a
trade for your life?”

Reaching to his waist, Distor unholstered the small pistol
at his side. The gun shone as he removed it, catching the glint of the sun. It
looked fresh off the manufacturing line for good reason; Distor rarely used the
weapon. When he did, people died. Normally he would let his guard beat and
dispose of the culprit, but the charge was too grievous. This situation called
for a public execution, fired by a single bullet, the way only he could
administer. The atmosphere was deathly silent. The whirring of the helicopter
propellers cut thru Loun’s plea for leniency. Suddenly running out of the
woods, half out of breath, Abel appeared. The scene was disturbing to behold;
thirteen soldiers, two armed vehicles and a dark helicopter swirling the dust
in front of his home, his father surrounded and begging for mercy. Abel could
see the two straddled ‘XX’s’ which was the crest of the Xonox Family. All the
guards, equipment and vehicles bore the mark. He heard stories about Xonox and
his so-called kindness. Some teenagers from the village had broken into a Water
Mediation area for a bath and a few sips, but were discovered. They were
supposed to be killed, but Xonox showed kindness. He employed them as slaves in
his House until the debt was paid. But all the townspeople knew the payment
would be too steep for the unlucky pair to gain freedom. Concern was etched
across his face as he imagined the penalty for his family. Repayment did not
seem to be an option. Half the guards spun around to face Abel, locking their
weapons on him. They were rarely approached by civilians and itched to show
their resolve. “State your name!” The closest guard shouted with his weapon
aimed at Abels’ chest.

Abel froze and started unsteadily. “I am Abel, Loun’s son.”
He pointed toward his

Father.
The guard was still menacing, but did not respond. Abel lowered his hands and
began walking towards his father. The Guards barked in unison adjusting their
guns. “Stay there!”

Frozen, Abel looked at his father and knew this encounter
would not end well. Loun could see the fear in his son’s eyes. His father spoke
slowly and with a calm that belied the situation. “Abel, did you bag something
on the hunt? If so, maybe we can appease the Xonox Family with a trade for our
insignificant use of water.”

Quickly scanning from Loun to Distor, Abel seemed assured
of the situation. He had forgotten the hunt and the buck he left behind. Maybe
there was a way out of this, he thought. They were going to use it for medical
supplies, but now they could trade for the consumption of water. His demeanor
began to brighten. “Yes...about a few yards back. I’ll go grab it now.”

Before Abel could dash off, Distor motioned for him to stay
still. The situation was getting out of hand and he was not going to let the
monkeys run the zoo. It was time to restore order.  “Boy, there is no need!
Your father has knowingly taken from the Power Generation of the Xonox Family
and this act will not go unpunished!” Distor stalked towards his victim. “The
crime has been committed and by the power of the House of Vancrew I will meter
out the sentence.”

Distor could have accepted the animal as penitence, but the
situation was far removed from negotiations. Besides, once his pistol was drawn
it had to be used. Showing mercy would be deemed as weak and nothing would stop
his ascension. Abel felt the words fall from his mouth in a frenzy.  “No!  My
mother...please...show compassion!”

Abel tried to determine what went wrong. In his mind a deal
was imminent, but now his father was facing death. Stepping forward to assist
his father, he felt the butt of the guard’s rifle strike him in the head. The
world went black. As he collapsed to the ground he could hear the shot and
Distor's words trail off in the distance. “There’s....your....compassion.”