by Terry Tyler
Luxury.
Rocky has learned quickly. The other men are not friends, they are people with whom you stay alive. You find your crew, and with them you lie, cheat, thieve and bully, to get more to eat, the bunks nearest the stove. Otherwise, you fall ill and die.
Some have been there a long time. These are hard men. The ones who have worked out how to survive. They kill, if necessary.
They won't kill Rocky.
Rocky will become one of them.
He will live. He doesn't know what for, but anything is better than being dead.
One day he will escape. He just doesn't know how, yet.
This is Hell.
Colt Douglas sits on a narrow bed in a narrow cubicle. He sits on the bed because it is the only piece of furniture, aside from a small basin and WC. Next to the basin, a shelf unit contains two sets of dark blue scrubs identical to the ones he is wearing, a sponge, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, and a tablet for reading and games. On the wall at the end of the bed is a screen, on which he watches TV and looks out for alerts and instructions from the faceless people who run this place.
That's all.
Three times a day, a meal is passed through a hatch in the door.
This is Colt's cage. His door remains locked until they need him again.
He knows there are hundreds of cubicles like this one; he sees the endless corridors of them when he is taken out to the labs. Twice a week the occupants are allowed 'community time' in a large room with a coffee machine. When his turn comes round, he receives an alert. Just one hour at a time, and groups are rotated; so far he has not seen the same people twice.
He lives for these two hours a week; at first, he would feel pleased when his screen displayed alerts from the doctors, too, because it broke up the days, but now he has learned to dread them.
PXB438: An operative will collect you in fifteen minutes. Please use the toilet, wash and dress in clean clothes.
Some of the tests are worse than others. He fears the medical ones the most; the last one brought him out in a rash that tormented him for three days. When they approach him with a needle he screams and struggles, even though he knows this will do him no good, but he puts up a fight to prove to himself that he is still alive. That he has not given up.
When he was first there, he asked one of the men in the white scrubs if he could talk to his old boss, at Locate.
"I'm not a wastelander―I shouldn't be here," he said, hearing the panic in his voice but knowing he must keep calm, appear sane, so that he would be believed. "I went out on a research trip and got abducted, but I used to run a team of twenty at Locate―I'm a megacity guy!" He even forced a laugh. "Hey, and my girlfriend must be wondering where I am!"
The man ignored him, and told him to lie back. When he struggled, he was restrained by what he realised too late were not human beings at all; no man possessed that much strength, or reacted so calmly to being punched in the face.
He saw Dior last week. They were both part of a group of twenty involved in a ten day-long experiment, set in a room with a U-shaped sofa arrangement and a vast TV screen.
They were not told what this experiment would involve, but soon found out, when lunch failed to arrive. Or dinner. All they had for sustenance was water.
On the second morning, three of them were called out to a secure compartment just outside the door, and presented with large baguettes filled with cheese and ham. Three others in the evening. The same happened each day. At first, the recipients would share them out. By day four, the twenty had formed into small groups who would only share with each other, sneaking off into the toilets. Colt noticed how some manipulated others into sharing. Trouble was, they weren't sure who to cosy up to; those chosen appeared to be random.
As stomachs became emptier, rows broke out about TV choices, too. The rota established on the first day broke down.
He knew what was happening. This was about how hungry they had to become before no one shared at all, before the groups made plans to take food from others with force. A fight started because Elliott and Mia had shared with Nolan, but Nolan ran into the toilet, locked the door and kept his whole baguette to himself. Several punches were thrown on the sixth morning, when one man got lucky two days running.
Colt was among the fortunate three that evening. He shoved the baguette down his underpants to keep it safe, returned to the main room and kicked away two attackers, then stood, fists ready, shouting at them to come for him if they dared.
Dior offered him a blow job for half, but his sex drive has dwindled following an early medical experiment; he declined, but gave her a piece anyway.
She told him that Mick was dead; shot, trying to escape.
"Sloane, too," he said. "Didn't get far."
He feels only mild sadness about Sloane. He blames her, because it was she who'd insisted on having sex in the woods. If not for her, they'd have got away in that van. Now that his erections are no more, he doesn't miss her at all.
By the eighth day, Dior was yet to receive the food. She slammed the head of a luckier woman against the wall and knocked her unconscious, managing a few bites of the baguette before they came for her. Colt heard her screams echoing down the corridor outside.
He thinks about those ten days, a lot. Wonders what happened to Dior.
Now, the hatch in the door flicks open, and a Nutri-Smartmeal is placed on the flap. Ooh, and a little tub of ice cream, too. Must be fucking Christmas. Colt hollers through the hatch at the retreating back of the person who delivered it, just to have some human interaction, but he can tell by the way that the man does not react, even for a moment, that he is pleading with a machine.
He falls back onto his bed, flicks the TV back on, eats his Nutri-SmartMeal (green Thai 'chicken' curry, with rice), and savours every last mouthful of the ice cream while watching a cartoon.
Then, he weeps.
Nash Greene is a happy man. He has a new girlfriend―Daizee―who is nearly as pretty as Rae but not so intelligent, which makes her so much easier to get on with. She's a teacher at an NPU school, and talks about making a difference and giving something back, because, as the only child of two loving parents, she is one of the fortunate. Most of the time, though, she doesn't talk a great deal, because she's busy enhancing the iSync streams of her schoolroom successes with special effects and music before uploading them to Heart. In the evenings they sit happily on the couch in her flat, Nash playing RPGs, pausing every so often when Daizee thrusts her com in front of his eyes to show him how many thumbs up, smile and heart ani-mates her latest posting has received.
At the weekend they sleep late, prepare brunch as per recommendation from NuSens, then visit the clothes and cosmetic retail showrooms where he enjoys parading Daizee in front of Lori, who is screwing a senior Tech Village marketing content creator; he is said to be besotted with her.
Daizee thinks Nash is marvellous, and always wants to have sex with him. She wants whatever Nash wants, and that's the best sort of woman to have, isn't it? Whereas Lori doesn't care about anyone but herself.
Since her Heart profile reached the national trending lists―'Brave and Beautiful: an inspiration to women everywhere'―she cares only about keeping those arrows stable, and is auditioning with media stylists more prestigious than Zhavia to enhance her elevated status.
Atlanta says she's a rancid publicity whore. Nash is inclined to agree.
Some say that her marketing content creator is only besotted with her because she is trending; what will happen when she is not?
Atlanta promises she will keep Nash updated.
Friends still mention Rae now and again; does he think she really was abducted, after all, or does he now believe she just did a bunk with Colt? Such questions make him uncomfortable. They make him think about her, and wonder, and Nash doesn't like to do either of those things too often. In the world of MC12 twenty-somethings, though, there is always something to distract one's attention from the unpleasant. Some new Heart fa
d, the latest films and shows, a new must-have piece of tech.
In the megacity, nothing matters for very long.
Ginevra Carlton waits, every day, for the tap on her shoulder. Something has happened out there in the wasteland, but she no longer has any way of finding out what it might be. Her old contacts have become unreachable, and the avenues by which she used to stay in touch with Link have ceased to function. Messages go unanswered. Her three go-betweens―two charity workers and Milo from Nerve―have disappeared. Darcie the barmaid, too.
When will her own turn come?
The charities that used to support the wasteland have gone quiet; she contacted one the other day, on the pretext of organising a tinned food drive for the drop-ins, but received only a bland statement saying that the Roof group of charities 'has changed focus, and now asks for donations of clothes, books, games, toys and 'luxury items' only, to benefit those living in Hope Villages'.
Every day, she expects to see message on her com asking her to report to the Security office, but her life rolls on, day in, day out, the same as ever.
She enquired after Milo and Darcie, but their former colleagues at Nerve said they had been transferred to another megacity.
She waits for a message from Rae, in vain.
Last week she made contact with the Missing Persons bureau, enquiring about the investigation into the disappearance of Rae Farrer and Colt Douglas. Moments later, a woman called Quinn Matheson requested permission to interface.
Ginevra accepted, and was just about to greet her when the woman's facial features assumed a warm smile, and said, "This is the query service for Quinn Matheson. Your question: the investigation into the disappearance of Rae Farrer and Colt Douglas. My answer: An extensive search was completed to my satisfaction. Their whereabouts have not been established. Other evidence points to them having absconded from their research trip: reference Rae Farrer's demerit of 9th September 2061, after she expressed a desire to (quote) 'b-star-star-star off and live in the wasteland'. The case is now closed. I hope this answers your question. Thank you for your query, Ginevra, and have a great day!"
So the search, if there ever was one, was called off.
The day after that call, she received an alert from the Senior Village to say that her mother now qualified for Gold Standard Accommodation. A larger TV, her own fridge and a deluxe sheepskin rug by her bed. When Ginevra arrived at the Senior Village to see these improvements, she was told that all steps were being taken to prolong her mother's active life, because Ginevra herself was such a valued member of the Megacity 12 (South) community.
She understood. We know what you've been up to, but if you stop asking questions, and stop trying to contact people you have no business talking to, we'll let it go, and make sure Mum's final years are everything they can be.
Walking home that evening, she was surprised at how depressed she felt. Before, she'd kept the door ajar, in case she ever needed to escape. She knew she would never leave MC12 because of her mother, but she liked to know she could if she wanted. Now, though, that door appears to be bolted shut. Bricked up, even.
The wasteland might be only thirty miles away, physically, but in the strange, semi-reality of the megacity, it is farther away than the Australian outback, a Polynesian island or the forests of Norway. She can see them. Walk within them, if she chooses the VR setting on her com.
As for Rae, Ginevra doubts she will ever see her again, but she does not regret helping her get out; it really is what her father would have wanted. Ginevra's affair with Leo Farrer was brief but incredibly intense; they loved each other with a passion neither had known before. One night he told her he planned to leave his family so they could be together, but, shortly afterwards, she saw Martine walking around Larks Pond with baby Rae in her carrier. Martine stopped to chat, and little Rae smiled at her, reaching out to play with the ends of her scarf. A dear, dear little girl; Ginevra knew at that moment that she could not take her father away. However, their mutual passion was too powerful to ignore, and the affair continued until his death.
When Rae came to work at Balance, Ginevra made a promise to Leo's memory that she would always do the best she could for her. She can only hope that promise has been fulfilled, though something has changed out there, Ginevra is sure of it. As sure as she is that she will never find out.
Ginevra Carlton looks out of her window on the fifth floor of Stack 206, wishing she could see past the perimeters into that hidden part of the country.
So hidden it is like another dimension.
For all she knows, it may no longer exist.
In a refugee centre on the western coast of the Netherlands, King rushes over to his friends, his face alive with excitement as he holds out a tablet belonging to one of the centre's helpers.
"Everyone―look what Dirk's found! We have news from Xav!" He sits down on the floor and they gather round: Rae, Ace, Q, Lilyn, Dan and Lock.
The fuzzy piece of film was uploaded to an underground network just over four weeks before; the picture distorts, but it is clear enough for them to see the legendary Link operative sitting in a darkened room, under one weak, artificial light.
Xav looks drained, his eyes hollow, his voice wracked with fatigue, as he describes what has been taking place in England and, he assumes, in Scotland and Wales, too.
"I hope that if you've been affected and you're watching this, it means you've reached a place of safety―now I need to tell you what I've seen." He shifts about, adjusting the angle. "A few days ago, a friend and I watched one of the trucks leaving a community, and we followed it, at a distance. It ended up at some sort of compound, with high fences." He pauses, hand on chest, and takes a deep breath. "There was no indication of what the place was, no signs, nothing. We abandoned our bike, hid it and went on foot through woodland, ending up on a hill where we could look down―it was far away, but we counted nine huts." He stops again, reaches off-camera, and raises a beer bottle to his lips. "We sat up there for two whole days and watched, for literally hours, taking it in turns 'cause we only had one pair of binoculars, but nothing much happened for a long time; all we saw was groups or individuals moving from one hut to another. Then, on the second morning, a larger group came out and got into trucks. Civilians, all men, as far as we could see, I'd say over a hundred of them, with guards; the gates opened and they drove off. We were in two minds about whether or not to go back to our bike and follow them, but by the time we got there we'd have lost them―anyway, we stayed. All through one night, nothing else happened, but in the morning another group left. This one was men and women. Then nothing, for a while, but we stayed to watch because the lights were still on, so we knew that there were people still in there. That night more of them were led out, a mixed group; kids, too. Loads of them, more than before. Guards led them, in line, to another hut. We waited, for an hour or so, and then―"
At this point Xav stops; it is clear he is distressed.
"Fuck. Fucking Jesus Christ, I don't believe we saw this, but we did. Half an hour after they went in, these massive pick-up trucks drove up, some guys in full hazmat went in, and―and we saw the hazmat guys loading up the trucks with bodies. From the hut. Carrying them out, one after another, and chucking them in piles. Then the trucks drove off; we couldn't see where they went. The men went back in with what appeared to be jet-washing equipment, and that was that. They closed it down, turned off all lights, and cleared off." He stops, head down, hand to brow; for a moment there is no sound, then he wipes his eyes and looks back at the camera. "All the people who went into that hut. All dead. Murdered. You've probably been wondering, like we were, what happened to everyone once they got picked up―well, here's your answer, at least for some of them. As for those who were driven away, we haven't found out yet.
"My location can't be traced via this film, but I don't know how long it will be before it gets taken down―so please, if you're watching this, send it to anyone who won't be endangered by receiving it. If you're with ot
hers, show them. Tell them what's happening. There are a few of us still here, and we're staying well hidden until we can find a way to get out of the country. If you haven't been picked up, you need to leave, however you can. If you're already out―good luck, and I hope you're somewhere safe. Stay lucky, friends."
The screen goes dark.
At Lake Lodge approved private homestead, Kendall Gregory is delighted to see the face of her oldest friend, Lita Stone, appear on her screen. They greet in the usual way, enquire after each other’s families, and pay respect to absent friends: a journalist called Nick, and Jaffa Taylor, who bequeathed Lake Lodge to Kendall.
"I bet she'd rather have left it to you, really," Kendall says. "She could have; you must've been safe to come back here for years. I mean, sterilisation in the Hope Villages; that seems like nothing now, not when you think of everything else that's gone on."
Lita's once dark brown hair is streaked with grey, and she is still thin, youthful for her sixty-four years. She now wears black-rimmed glasses, like the ones she borrowed for her social media avatars over thirty years before.
"We could," she says, "but this became home a long time ago. My family's here."
Kendall sighs. "I wish I was out there with you, sometimes."
"Come. Any time. I'll send you the fare." Lita laughs. "I'd love a visit from my little sister."
"I might just do that." She falls silent.
"Ken? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Come on. This is me you're talking to."
"Oh, it's just that―well, we had a bad situation here. I had to evict two guys because of some scary shit between them―trouble was, I liked one of them, and none of it was his fault, but I had to do what was right for the community."
"You did. So what else?"
"I've been worried about him ever since. I can't get him out of my mind."
"Why not?"
"I dunno, it's all a bit weird. It's like the wasteland has just―gone. All the charity drop-ins have closed, and a few weeks back a couple of people said they'd seen convoys of army trucks when they were out and about."