This Machine Kills (17 page)

   A thought went though his mind that perhaps this was the time. Maybe he should drive straight past the production centres and on to who knows where? Perhaps he could find himself an old deserted cottage and have a simple life living off the land, far away from the worries of the City. He doubted it very much, if the Old-Town was a bad place to live, then from what he had heard, outside of its borders was much, much worse.

   What had once been known as the countryside no longer existed to any meaningful degree. The landscape had been divided sharply since Triage. Vast tracts of land were now used for growing agricultural crops, the likes of which had not been seen in Britain, a country used to relying on exported goods, for over fifty years. Unlike before, these crops were now genetically modified and grown together in vast, almost endless fields. They were aided in their growth by pesticides so powerful that all natural flora and fauna was destroyed in their wake. Only the crops artificially designed to resist this bombardment of chemicals could survive, bringing an end to many of the fragile ecosystems that had survived for millennia. The environmentalists had referred to the phenomenon as ‘green
concrete
’
.

   The areas not used for agriculture; what most people referred to as the forbidden territories, were fall-out zones from the nuclear plant accidents and still radioactive. Only the most desperate could be found here. Gangs of thieves, murderers and rapists known as Outlanders stalked the scorched earth, robbing and killing anyone foolish enough to venture into their territory. These were the ferals, who after outgrowing their gangs, had been expelled into the wilderness. Rejected by even the lowest of the Old-Town’s residents, they were fuelled by little more than a desire to inflict their own suffering on anyone they could get their hands on. The outlanders were the grotesque butterflies the ferals metamorphosed into.

   Even more frightening were the stories of deadly hybrid animals that stalked the land; wild pigs the size of horses and as vicious as a wolf that could kill a man in seconds. They had originally been engineered as a source of food but had somehow escaped from their laboratories and now stalked the land with murderous intent. Even though Taylor had never seen one of these creatures, he didn’t doubt the likelihood of their existence. He remembered the stories in Canada of the American Special Forces’ team whose DNA was said to have been genetically spliced with that of felines. They had the reputation of being the fastest, strongest and meanest soldiers to have ever existed, and as an added bonus (though this was never verified), possessed the ability to lick their own balls.

    After the Dragon’s Lair was closed down, it was Canada, and more specifically the war being fought there, that saved Taylor and his fellow athletes from the Old-Town. It had been on the cards for a long time but no one could find a meaningful reason to attack. After all, the Canadians were America’s nearest neighbour and as a nation, one of the most peaceful in modern history. The industrialists however, refused to let things remain as they were. To them, Canada was an itch that had to be scratched.

    It made perfect business sense. The world was running out of oil (this was before Triage drastically reduced the number of its dependants) and Canada had one of the largest untouched reserves lying beneath its rugged soil. It was perfect for America to expand into too; all that land and virtually no one in it. Perhaps most importantly of all, Canada was home to nearly a third of the world’s fresh water supplies. With the developing world being in the grip of its worst drought in known memory, there was the potential for billions of dollars to be made if it were to be made American property. Water was becoming an even more powerful commodity than oil. Whoever said the two didn’t mix, clearly didn’t understand big business.

    Eventually, when they could find no political excuses to launch the war they desperately required, the consortium of businesses who demanded it
,
decided to take their own approach. Calling themselves The Representatives of Democratic Countries, they declared that the western world would be in an economic emergency if action wasn’t taken against Canada’s illegal stockpiling of its natural resources. According to them, it was their economic right to invade the country and if they didn’t, the respective governments would be showing such ineptitude, they’d be facing mutiny from the powerful companies the consortium represented.

   The collective heads-of-state balked at the plan. Even if they wanted to, they were far too stretched in the Middle East to even consider another war. The consortium simply told them not to worry; they had already made the necessary provisions. The intelligence work had been done, provisions had been secured and they’d recruited and trained their own armies. This would be a corporate war, all the governments had to do was give the ok and if they didn’t, to hell with them, they would do it anyway.

   It was too much for most of the European countries. They opted out of further action, creating bitter feuds between the various governments and the multinationals that resided there. A couple of smaller countries were bankrupted by the court cases brought against them by the consortium. America and Britain were not so easily frightened off. In a display of will and determination, they took up the call to arms with all the vigour they could possibly muster.

   With no skills except for how to fight, the biggest fear for the young fighters at the Dragon’s Lair was that they would be sent back to the Old-Town. Taylor remembered lying in bed after receiving the bad news, thinking of how glad he was his father would not be around to see him going through the checkpoints and back to a life of poverty. Luckily for him and the other boys, help was at hand. Although the cage fights had been ruthlessly thrown from their perch, the fighters were still well known and respected by most people. SecForce had decided that they would make perfect leaders for their army, as well as being great PR for the company.

   Although they had easily overrun the Canadian Army, a civilian militia, unwilling to roll over to the foreign invaders, was fighting tooth and nail to defend their homes. They had caught SecForce, who had not been expecting such an insurgency, by surprise. By blowing up oil pipelines and contaminating their own water sources rather than see them be bottled and sold to other countries, they were proving a real headache to the corporation. The whole episode was making them look bad; what they needed was a positive spin on the situation.

   SecForce made an offer to Taylor and the other fighters. They were willing to sign them up as non-commissioned officers in charge of up to thirty men. They would be trained in all aspects of warfare, specifically counter-insurgency, and more importantly paid well for doing so.

For most of them it was a no-brainer. This was realistically the only chance they would get of staying in the City. For Taylor, the thought of being sent back to the Old-Town was far more terrifying than fighting against unknown enemies abroad. He had been one of the first to sign the contract.

   The only one of the fighters not to accept the job was Ben. He had already broken his father’s heart by going to the Dragon’s Lair. Fighting SecForce’s dirty wars was a step too far for him. Ben’s decision was gracefully accepted and promises were given to him that he would not be punished for his gallant choices. Two weeks after not being able to find a job, Ben was issued with an ultimatum; quietly go back to the Old-Town or be one of the first people to be sent to the production centres as part of the rolling-out of the final stages of Triage. As Taylor and the others packed their gear for basic training, Ben left the City for the final time.

   As the vehicle came over the brow of a hill, the darkness was suddenly challenged by a gathering of lights coming from a small constellation of buildings. Apart from the glow of the production centres and the occasional small campfire, this was the only place in a sea of black to be lit up. It was how the Strip had got it’s name; an ironic reference to the view that met the gamblers after they had driven to Las Vegas through the night, then emerged from the desert into a cacophony of neon colours.

   A large billboard that still displayed the weather-stained and much faded advert for a brand of soft drinks appeared in the headlight’s beam. On the left of the sign, someone had painted an oversized pair of nipples on the bikini of the buxom women holding a half-full bottle of brown liquid. On the opposite side of the poster someone had crudely painted a huge, erect penis ejaculating three globules of sperm in the smiling woman’s direction. Sandwiched between the artwork in bold, red letters were two words: The Strip.

Chapter 14

   When he opened the car door, the dull hum of generators elbowed its way into Taylor’s ears.  The Strip was filled with its usual share of desperados, drunks and degenerates, all looking for their fix of whatever it was that got them off. Despite its lurid nature, there was a distinct lack of menace in the air; this place was purely about business. Anyone who tried to upset that simple equation would be quick to feel the force of the no-nonsense bouncers who lined the bars.

    A large man with a shotgun approached Taylor, silently nodding at him.

   “Keep an eye on it,” Taylor said, patting the roof of the car, “it’s not mine.”

   The bar owners hired such men to keep the ferals and other troublemakers away. It would hurt their businesses if vehicles were damaged or stolen whilst the owners were being entertained inside.

   A line of torches ran down either side of the Strip, acting like ancient street lights for customers to see the pasty-looking girls who stood outside the bars. They were busy tempting the punters in with tales of the filth (they mean it in a positive way), that was taking place inside. On the opposite side of the street, a group of around twenty men or more were tightly huddled together with their backs to him. Judging from the high-pitch wails that were already dissolving into pathetic yelps, the dogfight they were betting on was about to reach its climax.

   Ignoring the death-cries, Taylor commenced his stroll down the filthy street. As he walked, he was able to distinguish between the yells of delight or sometimes disgust, coming from inside the various bars. He briefly had to stop in his tracks when a middle aged man in an expensive suit burst from one of them, dragging a young girl behind him. She was so drugged up she could barely walk, and every time he yanked at her arm, her ankle turned painfully on her too-high heels. After nearly running into him, the man muffled a grunt of apology before pulling the girl towards his chauffeur-driven car. The driver was already revving his engine in anticipation of the pair’s arrival.

   Before he could continue his journey, a hand on his arm halted Taylor in his tracks.

   “Hey big boy,” the woman holding him was dressed in the flimsiest of underwear, which luckily for her, was sufficient clothing for the balmy night.

   “You looking for some action,” her smile revealed a mouth of stained and missing teeth, “you can do whatever you like to me, I don’t give a fuck.”

  The scars on her face and body were testament that she was telling the truth.

   Taylor shook his head, “No thanks.”

   As he tried to walk off, the girl tugged at his arm again, “You want a boy then? Gimme some food vouchers and I’ll introduce you to my friend. He’ll let you fuck his brains out for a pack of smokes.”

   “It’s tempting,” Taylor said, trying not to smile, “but I’m here on business.”

   He shrugged and offered her a smile, “Maybe next time eh?”

   The woman pushed his arm away like it was he who had grabbed her, “You fucking SecForce faggots are all the same.”

   When he had got halfway down the Strip, he stopped outside a bar that looked no different from the others, except that instead of the hand-painted signs that displayed names such as The Money Shot or Pussycats, this one had a green neon display with Ringo’s written on it. Every few seconds the letter ‘o’ would blink off before forcing itself back to life again. Taylor nodded at the doorman and stepped into the bar.

   As soon as he walked into the room that looked much larger from the inside, he was hit by the smell of sex and alcohol entwined. Directly in front of him was a small stage where a bored young girl was sitting on a chair with her legs wide open. A chubby woman who could have been her grandmother probed between the girl’s legs with her tongue as a skinny younger man held the older women’s hips, penetrating her from behind with long, lazy strokes. It looked like this was not the first time they had performed the act that day.

   To his left was a small bar where the man behind it had given up on serving the absent customers and was thumbing through the pages of a worn book. There were only a dozen or so people scattered around the place and apart from one man who wore a suit and another the overalls of a mechanic, they all looked to be from the Old-Town.

   Most of these men were at the age where they should have been sent to the production centres, and unlike Ben and the other members of the Old Guard they had no reason for not being there. The price for their freedom (and the drinks they were now consuming), was to give their loyalty to the bar owners, the closest thing the Old-Town had to a ruling class.

    For them, it was favours that paid for things on the Strip. They could get drinks, drugs and sex, as well as immunity from the production centres in exchange for giving their allegiances to a particular bar. For the owners, the sort of work they were involved in often demanded immediate action if their business was compromised, and it was the men whose glasses they continued to fill that would carry out such tasks. Sometimes the favours asked of them were bigger than others. Men had been known to give up their wives and children to the bar owners in order to keep their supply of booze coming in. Taylor and his men had raided these places numerous times but never found anyone they could cart off to the centres. The owners made sure they bribed enough SecForce officials so that they would always know when the raids would take place.