Inner City

by Scott Norton Taylor

  Chapter 3

  Callen ran and ran. Past the prefabricated buildings that stretched as far as the eye could see. Past the communal park designated to the area. He was desperate for a transport station. If he could make it to an underground carriageway, he could ride away from anyone looking for him. The streets were clean, the buildings similar. He found it hard to keep his bearings. As he rounded another corner, he came to an abrupt halt. Had he travelled this road before? A solitary splash of colour gave the street a new identity. He ran on.

  His brow beaded sweat. By his reckoning, the whole world was after him. He had to keep moving. He knew what happened to reassigned children who ran away – if they caught him he’d be under constant surveillance for years to come.

  Callen viewed everyone as a threat. The truth was he was in little danger. The Helfners may have alerted authorities, but only those with the specific task to track him down would ever pose a threat. Youth was a symbol of prosperity in this gated world; young people represented the new elite, an aristocratic class, revered and powerful. Having a child took money, and only a small percentage of the city’s millions would ever be successful enough to gain the privilege of parenthood, so every child was part of a family that had power through wealth. No one wanted to upset those of standing in a city with so many rules and regulations, so the crowds parted in front of Callen as he ran. People stared at him as he passed, but no one dared get in his way.

  Callen raced by buildings and shops. To him nothing in this world was remarkable. The only people amazed by new technologies were those old enough to remember the world with less automation and fewer rules. The older generations saw everything as a marvel: every new building, moulded from indestructible plastics that clicked into place, piece by piece; the climate control system creating perfect weather every day; the magnetic navigation and the instant production of food, extruded in a multitude of flavours and textures. Everything seemed miraculous to someone who could remember the world before such advancements were common.

  The pollution problems threatening health was finally dealt with when it hindered the city’s economic expansion. Tunnels expelled exhaust into the wilderness. Payments and receipts had become automated and reconciled by a microscopic silicon crystal worn as a bracelet or necklace. To flash this across a scanner recorded transactions and instantly adjusted a person’s net worth and fed purchases and activities to marketers and producers. Everyone and everything were part of an automated service, whirring away in the background of life and inclusive of all. The system generated a constant supply of data to create growth and feed authorities the information required to keep citizens safe.

  Callen ran by the late night diners. They thought little of him. He was searching for darkness, a place to catch his breath and go unnoticed. He spotted a park; a long thin stretch of artificial grass, framed by flowers and trees. The park sat neatly between two high apartment buildings, an assigned recreational space, its size calculated by the number of people living in the area; this was a crowded suburb.

  The single light amongst the artificial trees was bright. Perfect polymer leaves created a canopy casting shadows and giving Callen cover. Callen stopped running for the first time in almost an hour. He slumped, lying on his back, sweating onto the cool fibrous grass. He took large breaths and soon was able to sit up, recovered, to look around. There was a lake to the side of the park surrounded by bushes – a perfect place to hide. Callen moved towards a bush, threading his way to its centre. He stopped short on hearing a quiet groan. Was it someone in pain? Callen took tiny steps through the bush towards the edge of the water. His curiosity grew as the noise became louder. Callen raised his hand and moved a branch. He froze, staring in shock. Two teenagers were together on a shiny flat resin rock. They were nestled deep amongst the bushes on the other side of the lake, a boy - maybe seventeen and a girl about the same age were entwined as one. Some of their clothes were on the ground. Their skin beaded sweat, small glimmering fluid crystals set against the dappled light. Callen stared in fascinated.

  He knew what he was watching. He’d whispered this taboo subject many times with his friends. Callen stayed silent, transfixed. The state would lock the couple up for what they were doing. Callen would face arrest if he didn’t report them. The young lovers explored each other. Their breath heavy and their heads buried in each other’s shoulders as they spoke quietly. From time to time they giggled, enjoying the danger of their forbidden touches.

  Callen had seen enough and inched away, but his foot snagged a branch. The bush shivered as loud as a scream through the silence. The couple sprung upright, staring at the movement. They looked straight at Callen who froze behind his cover of long slender leaves and branches. The teenage boy took his shirt and stood as he did up his pants. From his jacket, he found a shimmering blade that reflected the moonlight. He stood, wary, on high alert, one side of his naked torso lit by the moon. He moved forward, hunting. Callen couldn’t move for terror. The young girl threaded herself into her top and adjusted a micro skirt that doubled in size as it stretched down her legs. The teenage boy kept moving, his eyes searching the bush, his shaking hand the only indication of fear. His bare feet moved relentlessly, taking slow, steady steps on the smooth resin floor. His damp skin a backdrop to the glinting blade held aloft. He stopped dead, staring straight into Callen’s eyes through a gap in the bush. Callen ran, but the boy was quick and threw himself at his fast moving prey. Callen screamed and thumped hard to the ground, dragged down and held roughly by the body on top of him.

  “Do it”, the girl urged as she pulled the last of her clothing into place.

  “He’s a kid”, the boy replied, holding Callen to the ground with the blade gripped menacingly near his throat.

  “Do you know what happens if he tells?”

  “He’s not going to tell,” the teenage boy said, dragging the knife across the front of Callen’s shirt, looking at the small boy shudder uncontrollably in fear.

  “He won’t be too scared to tell someone tomorrow,” the girl spat.

  The young boy gripped his knife tighter. He stared into Callen’s eyes.

  “Sorry, kid,” he said as though he’d just flipped a coin sealing Callen’s fate. The knife flashed. It came down hard at Callen’s chest. Callen jerked in fear. The knife dug into his flesh, hitting a rib as he turned, slicing a vicious gash down his side. Callen screamed and bucked in pain. The teenage boy recoiled in shock as his blood painted knife hit the grass. Callen’s shirt bloomed red as he scrambled to his feet and ran for his life. Holding his side, he made for the light of the street. Being caught for escaping the Helfners was no longer a concern. The teenage boy was after him and making up ground. Callen could hear his attacker’s bare feet, pounding across the ground - thump, thump, thump, like a heartbeat racing, getting closer, coming for him. Callen yelled – not to anyone, just for help, for life, for sanctuary. The teenage boy stopped dead in his tracks and turned to run in the opposite direction. His girlfriend followed. The darkness swallowed them up like they never existed.

  Callen screamed all the way to the road. He turned back bewildered when he reached the street. His attacker hadn’t caught him. A sea of faces turned his way; some were out walking, some spilling onto sidewalks from nearby cafes, others peering over balconies from the apartments above. To aid a youngster had obvious advantages and everyone was suddenly keen to get involved.

  Callen looked around and stared into the empty darkness of the park. His hand held his side, applying pressure and trying to stop the blood. A woman noticed the seeping red.

  “You’re hurt.”

  Callen removed the pressure of his hand and blood flowed freely. His shirt wet.

  “Oh, my God,” said another woman with well-rounded vowels and expensive clothes.

  “Child, quickly, let me help.”

  Callen grabbed his side and winced. The two women took hold of him, each vying for the prize. Callen kicked the well-spoken one in the shin. />
  “Owwww! You little shit!” she screamed, her vowels collapsing. Callen broke free and ran. The crowd split like a fault in the ground, and Callen sped away. His only thought was reaching the underground carriage system. If he could find an entrance, he could get off the street and tend his wound. Then he could decide if he should continue or give himself up.

  Callen ran. His side ached with every step. Occasionally the pain proved too much, and he cried out, but he kept running. He saw the familiar floating red letter ‘M’ of the magnetic carriageways and veered towards it. At the gate, he swiped his crystal. The reader flashed red to green. He knew it gave up his location, but he didn’t care. Inside the underground station, he travelled down the magnetic walkway to the platforms far below.

  He tapped the door to the public toilet on the platform. The door panel flew open to let him in. It closed quickly giving him privacy. He took off his shirt and began to ring it out under the tap. He took the micro towel from the dispenser and fashioned a bandage to place over his wound. It bled freely. Callen wasn’t sure about pushing on. He wrapped a layer of the micro towel around his rib cage, around and around he wrapped the material, rotating his whole body as he pulled the towel from its dispenser. He wrapped it tight, hoping to stem the flow of blood. Callen looked for the red tide to appear through the tightly wound towelling, but it never showed. He waited a few more minutes - still no seeping blood. It was enough to make him feel the wound wasn’t as bad as he’d thought and he decided to keep going. He rinsed his shirt and dried it as best he could; holding it out to the blast from the dryer. When he redressed, he looked almost normal.