This Machine Kills (16 page)

   Taylor took a step towards his old sparring partner, “Are you saying the Shepherd is planning another Uprising?”

   Ben shook his head, “Forget the Uprising, the shit that’s about to go down will make what happened then look like child’s play.”

   Taylor laughed, “You’re full of shit.”

   “I don’t think so. And this time we’re organised, we won’t be making the same mistakes as before. When your boys killed Billy Nothing in their bombing raids the Uprising died with him, but this thing is already bigger than the Shepherd. Even if you find him, it won’t matter, the people are ready for action, no matter what.”

   With Taylor too taken aback to speak, Ben started again, “If I were you I’d run on home and tell your masters to be ready for us, ‘cos we’re coming for you.”

    He turned and began the walk back to his men only to have Taylor pull him back by the wrist. Ben looked down at the offending limb like he was ready to rip it off.

   “Who is the Shepherd?” Taylor asked, quickly removing his hand.

   Ben smiled, “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.”

     Screams coming from the food lines brought an abrupt end to their conversation.

   “Sarge you better get back here,” Doyle’s voice penetrated Taylor’s ear-piece, “we got trouble.”

   The two men turned and sprinted back in the direction they had come from, both fearing for their own men and the scores of people still waiting in the lines. As they got closer they were met with a wall of panic, limping and scuffling towards them. Taylor saw fear etched in each of their faces. As he and Ben collided with the group, he turned to his side, trying his best to squeeze and push his way through the crowd. He made care not to lose his footing; being trampled to death by the old and sick was not how he planned to go out.

   When they finally emerged from the other side of the throng of people, he was met by a sight that made his heart sink. Although there were no obvious signs of an explosion, bodies lay scattered everywhere. These were the unfortunate ones who had been trampled by the crowds fleeing from the line. As his own men pointed their assault rifles at an unseen enemy, Ben’s posse helped the injured, tending as best they could to their injuries. The air was thick with smoke that was now lazily escaping from a metal bin that Doyle was pointing towards,

   “Looks like it was just a smoke grenade, guess someone just wanted to stir things up.”

   Taylor turned to Ben, hoping to read from his face whether he knew anything about it, but he was already assisting his men lift a bloodied old woman to her feet. He turned and addressed his own team,

   “Skinner, you stay there and keep guard, the rest of you, I want you to help these people.”

   Rudy and Lennox looked at him in bemusement.

   “You heard me,” he yelled, “fucking help them!”

   They shrugged at each other then slowly made their way towards Doyle, who was trying to right a wheelchair that had toppled over with its young occupant still strapped into it.

   As they worked, Taylor suddenly became aware that he was holding something in his hand that had not been there a minute before. He could only guess that it had been put there by one of the crowd who forced their way past him in the commotion.

   He stared at the torn and yellowing piece of card before it dawned on him what it was. He was looking at a postcard with a picture of a tropical beach on it, and ‘Welcome to Paradise’ written across the top in multi-coloured lettering. A young well-endowed girl in a yellow bikini was walking hand-in-hand with a sun-tanned man along the white sand as waves lapped against their feet.

   Taylor turned the card over to see a simple message written in the empty space:

  “If you want to know who the Shepherd is, be at Ringo’s at 2am.”

Chapter 13

   The trooper at the checkpoint took the identity card and ran it through his scanner. Taylor could see the green light on the machine spring to life, telling his interrogator the card was authentic. The man’s face continued to look concerned as he glanced back to Taylor, no doubt comparing him to the mini-image embossed on the card. He thought that having this type of stern, soulless expression must have been a prerequisite for the job. None of the check-point guards ever bothered to smile at him even though most knew who he was.

   Before handing the card back, the trooper gave it one last stare for what he thought was an unusually long time.

   “So Sergeant, you say you’re going to the Strip to pick up a package for Captain Mason?”

   “I’m not saying anything,” Taylor snapped, “that’s what I’m doing.”

    He leaned his head out of the car window to get a better look at his inquisitor.

   “What’s your name trooper? I think I may have to report you to Captain Mason for trying to impede me in my duties.”

   The man took a step backwards, shocked by Taylor’s counterattack. He shot his superior an apologetic smile,

   “Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that Captain Mason usually sends a grunt to collect his packages. We don’t normally get people of your rank doing this type of work.”

   “That’s fine,” Taylor answered, now wearing a friendly smile, “it’s good to see you being so vigilant.”

   He looked around as if to make sure no one else could listen to what he was about to say, then beckoned the trooper closer with a nod of his head.

   “To tell you the truth,” he was now nearly whispering, “this package is of a highly sensitive nature. That’s why I’ve been given the job of collecting it.”

   The guard, whose head was now almost sharing the car with Taylor, gave him an understanding nod.

   “I think its best all round if we keep this quiet, we wouldn’t want Captain Mason getting upset now would we?”

   The trooper shook his head.

“Good, now if you don’t mind getting the gate open, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

   Driving in the Old-Town, especially at night, was an art unto itself. If you went too slow you ran the risk of being hijacked by ferals, too fast and you could get a flat from hitting one of the numerous potholes on the road. Changing a tyre out there was not an option any sane person wanted to contemplate. Even worse, no matter how fast you were driving, you were susceptible to hitting one of the improvised landmines that SecForce hadn’t yet defused. In a Rhino, you stood half a chance, but in a car like the one he was in charge of, you were basically meat.

   Taylor’s gamble had paid off. He’d always suspected Mason of being less than the wholesome family man he’d always presented himself as. From what the trooper said, it sounded to him like he had been a regular buyer for some time. Perhaps, he thought, the moustache was secretly meant to be camp after all.

   Getting hold of a vehicle had proved a bigger headache. Very few people owned their own cars anymore; there was simply no need. The City was only thirty miles in diameter and between the underground system and the monorail, every inch of it was covered. ClearSkies had built one of the most advanced, if not expensive, transport systems ever known to man. Not that it would have mattered if everyone wanted their own private methods of transport; there was more than enough oil to go around.

   A side effect of Triage was that it had rid the world of the energy crisis that had at one time looked to send the human race back to the dark ages. With such a minority of people being able to afford them, the lucky few could consume as many fossil fuels as they wished, with no chance of them ever running out. It was a good thing too, as the possibility of nuclear power had been completely outlawed since the meltdowns at a number of power stations in both Britain and America. The incidents had cost many lives and were considered to be the work of Chinese saboteurs.

   The only vehicle available to him was one of the patrol cars, or pussy wagons as most of the troopers referred to them, that were used by the City’s security teams to watch over its peaceful and law abiding citizens. He had thrown a guy he knew a few hundred bucks for the loan of his car.

   “Off for a bit of fun are we?” his colleague had said giving Taylor a knowing wink, “I didn’t know that was your thing.”

   “I get it where I can,” he’d replied as the keys were handed over.

   Although officially referred to as the Deregulated Zone, the area where Taylor was now heading had only one name, and that was the Strip. Even though there were still areas of vice in the City where a blind eye was turned to prostitution, some people had outgrown its meagre attractions. That was probably the reason Taylor hated the place so much. The factors that had led to the rapid decline of his lucrative sporting career were forever interwoven with the creation of the Strip.

   One of the biggest effects of the uprising was that it left people de-sensitised to the violence they witnessed all around them. Even in the City, with the perimeter fence hiding them away from the bloodshed, people grew accustomed to the scenes of explosions, killings and horrific injuries that flooded their televisions every day.  After the one-sided civil war was laid to rest, they were no longer content with the things that once entertained them. The public wanted a more blood-thirsty spectacle than the cage fights could offer. Just as they had previously overtaken boxing, the cage fights were about to be replaced with an even more brutal contest.

   Sensing the mood, one of the biggest promoters from the sport approached ClearSkies with a bold, new idea. The prisons were still overpopulated with men too dangerous and difficult to be made to work in the production centres. If the prison fights were made legal then these same men could end up being some of the corporation’s biggest earners. They didn’t even need to pay them, just dangle the promise of freedom to the person who could win ten fights.

   Someone at the top had loved the idea and within days, the government had passed a new law allowing the fights to take place. The rest as they say, is history, with the whole of the cage-fighting industry collapsing virtually overnight. It had been devastating for Taylor and the other young fighters at the Dragon’s Lair. Most of them had been on the verge of signing multi-million dollar contracts that would have taken them to America and a lifetime of fame and fortune. Their one-way ticket to stardom was suddenly no longer valid.

   If people had become more bloodthirsty as a result of the Uprising, so too had their vices become more sophisticated. The place where any of these desires could now be fulfilled, no matter how depraved, was the Strip. Money may not have had any worth in the Old-Town anymore but a few smart men (it was never the women who profited), realised that if they could offer a service to the rulers of the City, they could gain something far more important.  In exchange for food, generators, fuel and other essentials such as alcohol, cigarettes and drugs, the noblemen of Hope City could buy anything they wished for. Man, woman, boy, girl, animal; it was all available for the right price.

   It wasn’t just the promise of sex that lured the powerful to the Strip. Drunk on the bloodshed they had seen on their screens, some went there to carry out their own private atrocities. Watching it on TV was no longer enough, these people wanted to know what it felt like to kill for themselves, and if the money was right, the appropriate victim could always be found. For the ones who didn’t want to get their own hands dirty, recordings of the events, whether sexual or something more sinister, could be sent back to the City for them to view in the comfort of their homes.

   Taylor slowed down as the headlights bounced off a pair of yellow eyes that stopped directly in his path. The fox stood its ground, unwilling to move for the oncoming vehicle. The animal clearly didn’t mind being the underdog in this fight. Determined not to stop and risk being car-jacked, Taylor kept the vehicle pointing straight at the brave challenger. With feet to spare, the animal bolted out of his way, scrambling onto higher ground from where it watched the intruder continue on its journey.

   “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked out loud as the car picked up speed again. It was a question he had been repeating since the postcard had been thrust upon him earlier that day. If he suspected it was a meaningful lead, why hadn’t he just reported it and gone through official channels to obtain a vehicle? He knew Mason would have given him any assistance he desired if it meant his name was associated with the capture of the Shepherd.

   Perhaps it was his meeting with Ben that had led to him resorting to such underhand methods. It was rare that they saw each other anymore, but whenever they did, their encounters would leave Taylor feeling dirty, like he wanted nothing more than to rip off his uniform and wash away his own nagging conscience. Seeing Ben had the ability to take any small comforts he had gained from his life and instantly destroy them.

   “Fuck him,” Taylor said aloud again, “self-righteous asshole.”

   His outburst made him feel better temporarily but the question still remained. Why should he give a fuck who the Shepherd was? Hopefully he’d be out of the security forces soon and he certainly wasn’t looking for promotion before then. Whether he found the City’s common enemy or not, the wall would be complete in a matter of weeks. As far as he could see, it was already game over.

   The vehicle went over a pot-hole and the front of the car bounced off the ground, illuminating the mountains that lay beyond the Old-Town. Taylor had always wandered what was out there, beyond the tiny part of the country that he had been exposed to. When he was flown to Canada he’d hoped to get an opportunity to look down at the land below, but they were transported on a military plane that had no windows for its passengers to peer out of. He had seen more of North America than he had his own country.