‘No, dear boy. They want to control us all, and you start by stifling free speech. They want a census that will mark us with barcodes, so they can control us wherever we go. That’s what we must fight against. A hundred years ago, we went through a world war to ensure freedom for people. It will come to that again. Now turn the radio on, please, so I can do my bit.’
Jonathan’s shoulders slumped. ‘What if they find out what you are doing?’
‘All the more reason for me to document and archive these conversations and catalogue what is happening. It’s on a secure server, and someday will be available to all, including the NAG.’
‘But that means they can track us.’
‘We’ve been through this already. They have no interest in us at this time because there are senior figures within the NAG who’ve tasked me to archive this history. They did so on the proviso that I don’t share any details with the public until it’s all complete. Obviously, I am sharing it as I complete each area. They turn a blind eye because they know me leaking it will make people provide more information.’
‘That can change at any point in the future.’
‘You’re correct, but we’ve been over this a hundred times. They’re too busy trying to stop the fighting between the Scavengers and the Floodlanders. A solution to that problem is going to keep them busy for many years.’
‘It’s so silly that we can’t all just get along.’
‘Ever the romantic, aren’t you, my sweet boy?’ Paul said, smiling at his partner. ‘It’s a tale as old as men and women themselves. People who have nothing will always look with envy at those who have more. In reality, you cannot blame the Scavengers, because their resentment has been building up for a while now. They only want a better life for themselves and their families. They only want what you and I are lucky to have.’
‘Please don’t call us Floodlanders. I hate that.’
‘I know you do, but it’s the truth. It’s why you will always be in danger when you go out there. Danger from those who want what you have and are spiteful enough to kill you for it. It wasn’t always like this, and someday we may get to the point of a peaceful existence again.’
An electronic shrill broke their conversation. The satphone was ringing on a small table by the window. Paul walked over to get it.
‘Hello?’ There was a pause as he listened.
‘Hello again, Paul.’ The voice of a man he hadn’t spoken to in a while. ‘We’re desperate for news of a large gang terrorising the Tennessee area. We’ve lost a young girl to them and have not been able to track them.’
‘Hi, there. Glad to hear that you are still alive. Just give me a minute,’ Paul said, glancing up towards Jonathan. Paul turned and walked towards the window.
‘You’re not alone?’
‘Correct, and that is terrible news, so thanks for letting me know.’
‘Sorry to put you on the spot here but you’ve been of great help in the past with your sources into the gangs.
‘Of course. I’ll help in any way I can.’ The professor turned to see Jonathan standing closer to him, his arms folded.
‘Anything that can get us on the track of these bastards again will help. When can you contact your sources?’
‘I’ll get the word out to my main source, and she can spread the word to see if anything comes back. We don’t have many contacts in your part of the world.’
Paul looked at Jonathan; one hand had gone up to his mouth, and he was tapping a finger on his lips.
‘I appreciate it. We all do.’
‘I’ll call or text if I hear anything. Take care of yourself.’
The professor hung up and walked back over to his desk.
‘Who was that?’ Jonathan asked, following him.
‘A girlfriend of Sarah, who needs her help. It seems they’re on the run from the NAG and need an enclave to seek refuge. She’ll be going on air again this week and can ask for any help out there for them.’
Jonathan raised his hands to his face, blowing heavily into them. A long sigh echoed against his palms. ‘I love you, Paul, but you are going to get us killed or captured.’
Paul walked over to him and hugged the young man, kissing the top of his head. ‘While we’re in the fortunate position to have the ear of the NAG, we must do whatever we can to help those in need out there.’
‘Even if we die.’
‘We all die in the end. What’s more important is how we lived, so it’s important to me that we continue to help others.’
Paul stared at the open doorway Jonathan had just walked through. He was desperate for a drink. Tough decisions made the cravings rage inside him worse. He loved the boy but would have to hand him back to the gangs if he betrayed the cause.
Chapter 2
West of Johnson City, Tennessee - 2043
The bastard ahead of them had a thirty or forty-metre head start. He’d melted away into the red dust cloud the fusion truck had thrown up as its heavy bulk was brought to a halt. The side door of the truck opened, and a streak of black and white flew through the opening and out into the cloud.
‘Get him, dog,’ the man shouted as he stepped out after the animal. Placing his arm through the strap of the shotgun, he flung it over his back and walked after the barking animal. Red dust engulfed him as he walked. Dust that made you lose direction in seconds. A man screamed somewhere ahead of him. Below the black and white scarf that covered the Hooded Man’s face, he smiled. He adjusted his round pilot’s goggles and pulled the brown hood of his jacket forward over his head. Another scream. Walking slowly towards the sound, he unclipped the strap over the Glock in the hip holster. The dust was thinning on the hot breeze, drifting away to the left.
Leafless bushes were dotted around small boulders that lay strewn around to the side of the gravel road they’d stopped on. Beyond that, sheets of black rock lay like cold oases in the sands. Red expanses extended up to the horizon of the cloudless sky.
Ahead of him was the man, lying on his back in amongst the dead scrub, kicking out with his legs as he rolled around to counter the dog’s attack. The animal twisted and snarled as it dodged the flailing limbs, biting hard on the juicy bits when they presented themselves. The man rolled to his left and raised both his arms to protect his face and throat. The three-legged dog was tearing at unprotected bits, grabbing a piece and then jerking backwards a couple of times. The fabric came away from the screaming man’s clothes. The dog shook a piece of cloth from side to side then dropped it. Convinced it was dead, it targeted another unprotected area and took a bite. More screaming followed as the man pushed at the dog, clawing at its fur.
Silly mistake, thought the Hooded Man. The dog latched on to the hand that was pawing at it and started to tug, and the barren landscape filled with another scream.
A long crack of a pistol shot drowned out the screams. The dog yanked the man’s hand once more then looked up, bloody fingers protruding out of the side of his jaw.
‘Enough of that, Toby,’ the Hooded Man said as he walked up to the cowering man.
‘Lie still, you bloody idiot. He’ll only stop if he thinks you’re dead. I could shoot you to prove that point, but it would be a waste of a bullet.’ The man went limp.
‘Let him go, dog.’
Toby looked up at the man with the covered face. He blinked as his ribbed frame expanded and contracted, straining to breathe with the bloody hand in his mouth. He looked past the Hooded Man to the truck and the second man approaching.
‘Let him go, you feral bastard. I’m not going to argue with you this time,’ the man said, grabbing Toby’s long tail. He pulled hard. The dog dropped the hand, yelping as he turned to bite the hand gripping his tail, but it was already clear of the gnashing teeth.
‘Get back to the truck,’ the man shouted, stamping his foot. Toby bounced away, his tail curled below him. Stopping ten metres away, he licked his lips and quickly sat down to gnaw at a flea on his back leg.
The Hooded Man holste
red the Glock and placed his foot on the man’s shoulder. ‘I would advise against running off again.’
‘Please keep reminding me never to piss that dog off,’ came a voice from behind him.
The Hooded Man looked back at the soldier who was approaching. Shoulder-length light-brown hair, green eyes and a black scarf pulled up over his mouth. He had brown body armour beneath black combat webbing, with brown pants, tucked into black boots.
‘He does love you, Smithy.’
‘He hates my guts but tolerates you. There’s no justice in this bloody world.’
‘I feed him every day, so he sees me as the alpha male.’
‘Keep telling yourself that. He’d kill any one of us given half a chance,’ Smithy said, standing near the feet of the trembling man. ‘Now, who do we have here?’
They focused on the skinny waif of a man, who slowly rolled onto his back and then pushed himself upright, glancing over at the dog all the time. He looked down at his wounded hand and wiped it on his trouser leg. ‘It is you. I know who you are. Please don’t let the dog near me again,’ he said, pulling at his jacket as red dust fell from him.
‘That depends on the next words to come out of your mouth. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I expect answers,’ the Hooded Man said.
‘I don’t know anything. I promise.’
‘You will tell me everything in the end. You all do,’ the Hooded Man said, reaching up and pulling the scarf down from his mouth and nose. He slipped the hoodie back off his head and wrestled the goggles down his face, allowing them to hang around his neck. ‘I see from your colours that you’re a 38 Street Roadster gang member.’
The gang member turned his face away and lifted his hand to shield his view. He was still trembling. ‘I know what happens to those who see your face. I’ve seen nothing at all. I won’t tell a soul I’ve met you.’
‘Where do you 38 Street scum currently call home?’
The man looked to the ground, his shoulders trembling as if he was freezing.
Gibbs shifted in his stance. ‘You kidnapped a young blonde girl who’s a good friend of ours. You will tell me everything I need to know to get her back safely.’
‘I don’t know the girl you’re talking about.’
Smithy stamped on the legs of the man on the floor. He cried out as a shotgun was jammed into his groin area. Smithy ground his heavy black boot into the man’s ankle, twisting it with his entire body weight. The man screamed and scratched at the legs of his torturer. He went quiet, his eyes widening as the tall man pressed the barrel of the shotgun against his chest. He fell backwards onto his elbows, and his lip started to quiver as the shotgun moved back towards his crotch.
‘Tell him something, please, or I’ll be forced to blow your junk off,’ Smithy said.
‘It won’t matter if you did. I was castrated ten years ago. Rebus made sure I’ll never have sex again.’
‘Who is Rebus?’
‘You must have heard of him. He is our feared leader.’
‘Never heard of him, but I like this Rebus already,’ the Hooded Man said. ‘Why did he make you a eunuch?’
‘He has plenty of young boys and girls there. Anyone goes near them gets mutilated or killed. I’m guessing your young friend is with him,’ the man said, pulling his knees up to his chest. He started to shake violently, saliva dribbling from his lower lip.
‘The man has the withdrawals,’ Smithy said. ‘Hey, fuckknuckle, when was your last hit?’
He looked upwards, his eyes glazed over. ‘Rebus will either have used your girl or killed her for failing to satisfy him.’
The Hooded Man swung a left fist as hard as he could, smashing it squarely onto the man’s face. A gruesome crunch rang out into the desert. Toby raised his head, ears pointing forward.
‘Tell us more about this Rebus character, or I bring the dog back to the party.’
The man moaned and touched his face, looking at the blood on his fingers as he pulled them away. He stared up at the Hooded Man, fear mixed with anger. ‘He’s our leader. Our father. Took us all in and looks after us if we do whatever he wants. And he’s going to kill you both plus that mangy fleabag over there.’
The shotgun roared as a blast of lead smashed into the gang member’s foot. He rolled onto his back and screamed into the desert floor.
‘Mate, you’re not telling us anything that will bring our friend back,’ the Hooded Man said.
The man whimpered and rocked back and forth. ‘Go and speak to Rebus.’
The Hooded Man felt the heat rising on the back of his neck. This was going nowhere. ‘I’ve been asking you all along where Rebus is, and you denied knowing. Now you tell me to go and speak to him. I would love nothing better, you idiot.’
The gang member blinked a few times trying to push himself up again. ‘Fuck you.’
The Hooded Man roared up to the heavens, his eyes squeezed shut. It was a roar of frustration and fear. Fear for the life of a helpless girl. The force of the left hook threw the gang member onto his back, the sound of more cartilage crushing making Toby get up and take a few steps closer. A choking sound came from the 38 Street member as his body went rigid and started to shake violently.
‘Drug seizure. Damn it,’ Smithy said. ‘He’s not going to be any use to us now.’
A loud growl came from behind them, followed by a blur of fur grabbing the man’s bloody foot. Crunching and ripping. Toby shook the man’s foot.
The Hooded Man stepped away and turned to Smithy. ‘I’ve failed her like so many others. We’re no closer to rescuing her. Another dead-end lead,’ he said, turning back to look at Toby.
‘He’s an addict, Gibbs. One hit away from death. You’ve saved hundreds in this hellhole, so you haven’t failed her yet. This idiot was a 38 Street Roadster, and we’ve now confirmed previous rumours of the Rebus character being their leader. Let’s take that as a small win.’
‘An eleven-year-old has no place being out there in the world with any gang.’
‘We’re getting closer and will find her soon. It’s what we do. Look at the thousands of lives you’ve helped save from these scumbags in the last ten years.’
Kyle Gibbs looked at his best friend and then down at the corpse of the gang member, his throat ripped open. ‘What’s the point of it all if I cannot protect one of our own?’
Chapter 3
Eagleton Village, Maryville, Tennessee, USA - 2043
The crack pipe shuddered as the man drew to the limits of his breath. Lungs filled with black joy. He held on as long as he could, staring up at the moulded skylight of the motorhome. His body ached for oxygen. He held on a little longer. Daylight stared back at him before his eyes rolled upwards, and exhaled with pleasure. The old record player in the corner scratched its way through a Zeppelin song, filling the room with wailing screams and snarling guitars.
Rebus Maze rocked from side to side in the scavenged leather recliner in his converted study - I’m waiting for the angels of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow. He raised his fist and pumped the air a few times, then lowered it and stared at the silver rings on his fingers, bringing his hand close to his face until his vision swirled.
‘Listen to those lyrics, Cindy. You are one of my Angels of Avalon,’ he said and sat forward again.
The room rolled and swayed as he stared at the teenager who was lying on a white-trimmed leather couch his men had fitted into the fusion-powered motorhome. A mobile headquarters he’d earned in a fight with a Mexican gang leader. Rebus stroked one of the plaits that hung down the side of his face. Woven into it was the long hair of the dead Mexican. It was one of his favourite trophies.
‘Hey, bitch. I’m talking to you.’
She rolled onto her back, the blanket falling off her naked body and onto the red-carpeted floor. Rebus stared at her charcoal-decorated body, the drawings following the sweeping lines of her figure. He had to get himself another teenager. This one was always tired, never wanted to play and went on a
bout babies and marriage. Reaching for a joint, he flicked the Zippo open and took a drag, scowling as the song on the player started to stick and jump. The vinyl album was unplayable from then on, and he slammed his fist on the table, looking at the girl. She stared up at the ceiling, motionless. As he slammed his fist again, she rolled over with her back to him. He clenched his teeth and rocked forward. His booted feet thudded onto the floor, and he stood up, swaying for a few seconds before stumbling over to a set of cupboards on the side of the vehicle. Staring down at his black denims he looked at the bulge in the front of his pants and then across to her. The Zeppelin record bounced and stuttered.
Clasping for a thick book from the shelf, he rolled to his left and let it fly at the teenager. It struck her on the back and flew towards the driver’s seat up front. ‘Change the bloody record, will you. Make yourself useful, or I’ll end your life like that whiny little brother of yours.’
The girl screamed at him and rolled off onto the floor, landing on all fours like a cat. She scraped up the blanket and jumped up to change the record.
Rebus looked down the length of the motorhome towards the rumpled bed at the back. One of the boys was still sleeping there. He couldn’t remember which one.
‘Cindy. These are momentous times, and you need to be present in the moment. You hear me?’ He smiled at his wisdom. It should be noted down. ‘Cindy, remind me to get a scribe to write this all down.’
‘Yes, Rebus,’ she said and went over to pick up the book.
‘I’m going to be the biggest gang lord in New America. Me, Rebus Maze,’ he said and walked past her, running his hand over her tattoed shoulder as he walked into the small kitchen area. Yanking open the toilet door, he stood looking at the pristine full-length mirror. Staring at his lean, muscular body, he pulled at the white feathers in his red-dyed long hair. Thick grass was braided into a few dreadlocked sections that hung down his shoulder, and he twirled one around his finger. His boyfriend had got him a brown waistcoat at some market, and they had painted symbols from the previous century on the sides and back. It hung open, and he stroked his bare chest and chiselled six-pack.
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