The Violent Society

by M C Rooney

  THE VIOLENT SOCIETY

  By M.C.ROONEY

  Copyright © 2015 by M C Rooney

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  The Van Diemen Chronicles

  The Last Politician

  The Lightning Lords

  The Violent Society

  The Arrogant Horseman

  The King of Control

  Tales from the Collapse

  The Distracted

  The Cykam War

  The Lunatics of Sydney

  The Two Realms

  The Water Planet

  The End of the Cusp

  Year 2044, the day before the Collapse; Tasmanian Midlands

  McNamara got out of the car and ran to the nearby house, or shed it should be called, as it was so rundown. The house must have dated back to the old colonial days, but somehow, it was sturdy enough to protect them from the rainy weather that seemed to cover the island nowadays. McLaren ran with him with his usual angry expression. Well, his name wasn’t really McLaren; that was just his code name for security purposes. McNamara didn’t even know what his real name was, such was the secrecy involved in what they were doing.

  On the other hand, McLaren did know who McNamara was, or to be exact, who his family was, because they were all involved in the highest level of the plutocratic government that was running the land nowadays. With family photos of his successful brothers and sisters often plastered over all of the news outlets, it wasn’t hard to recognise the runt of the litter, the nerdy little scientist kid who was codenamed McNamara.

  “When we designed that thing, I had no idea the lightning would be so loud,” McLaren grated out as he walked inside. “It’s so bloody nice to have some peace and quiet for a change.”

  “Well, you know tonight won’t be quiet,” replied McNamara. “Tonight we have a meeting with the others.”

  There were twelve scientists and billionaires all up who had arranged for this terrible event.

  “A day that was needed,” McVicar had convinced him.

  “It is necessary,” McLeod had added. “We are standing on the brink of destruction.”

  “It’s got to be done,” McShane added with a laugh, “The world needs a good culling.”

  And how did McNamara get involved with this? Well, it started way back when he was only nineteen and desperately wanted to test out his theories on wireless energy.

  After being a keyboard warrior on the Internet and complaining about the government’s policies, or lack of, about the environment, he was approached by a man who had the same interests in his fields of expertise.

  Over the next few months, this man helped him develop a small prototype of what he eventually wanted to build. This prototype was a three-metre-high marvel that provided energy for anything electrical within one hundred metres. The equipment needed no conversion, the electricity was in the air or ground, and all the equipment needed to do was lap it up. McNamara had hopes for this energy to replace all of the outdated resources that were fouling up the planet. He had been very naïve, in retrospect, especially considering his family was so immersed in politics. He should have known better.

  In preparation for the real thing after the prototype success, he bought an old and unused farmland in the middle of an island most people had forgotten about. His Internet friend—who eventually gave his name as McLaren—helped with all the material that was sent from a so-called friend of his called McShane. The tower took five years to build. As it was not connected to anything and was in the middle of nowhere on his own private property, they were able to build it with no resistance from the government and only a few complaints from the local council, which was fixed ‘financially’ by his own family wealth.

  It was over those five years that McLaren had convinced him that the human race was headed for the abyss. That the governments, who were so entwined with big business, could not or would not do anything about the rising population, the ever-erratic weather patterns, and the dwindling resources. The collapse of the United States economy through their never-ending spiral of debt to the bankers and the increasing number of resource wars that were breaking out all over the world helped convince him that McLaren was right. When he asked the obvious question of how it could be fixed, McLaren had told him of a plan by McShane that would lead to a manageable epidemic that would reduce the population. And it involved the use of the towers.

  McNamara had been had. He was used from the beginning. McLaren had jumped on his idea of wireless energy and had come up with a plan, alongside his crazy overseas associate, McShane, to help stop the overpopulation of the world.

  “It would be an even epidemic,” McCredie had said when he was introduced to the council.

  “No prejudice or discrimination with this,” McIntyre said, who McLaren believed owned most the of the world’s pharmaceutical industries and ruthlessly suppressed any advance in modern medicine, including a developing cure for cancer.

  “All over the world,” McGill, who was involved in building cities underneath the ocean, had added.

  And what was McNamara to do? If he bailed on this plan, he had no doubt that he would be killed on the spot. In hindsight, he wished he had been.

  “I have finished the suits,” he said to McLaren now. “It would be a good defence mechanism against—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. According to McShane, the plague would be carried by dead bodies.

  Dead bodies that walked; a thing of nightmares, McNamara thought in horror.

  “That’s good,” McLaren replied, and McNamara could tell that he was a touch jealous of his new inventions. “A never-ending supply of power that should protect us for years until the rebuilding commences.”

  “About the rebuilding …?” McNamara asked, and then received a message that the council was about to meet.

  Whilst the old house looked run-down, it did have all of the basic mod cons on the inside of the building. However, in the secret cellar, which was well hidden beneath the house, was all of the latest technology that money could buy, and these people had a lot of money.

  “Quickly,” said McLaren as he opened the trap door and raced down to the cellar. “I think tonight may be the night.”

  “What!” McNamara cried out as he followed him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I know how much you fret,” McLaren replied. “Some of the council have doubts as to what we are about to do, and you are one of them.”

  “You don’t trust me,” McNamara said as he turned on the computer screens that surrounded their chairs and table.

  McLaren laughed with that angry face of his. “Don’t be upset,” he replied. “We don’t trust anybody.”

  Soon the images of ten men and women were displayed on the wide computer screens. Actually, the images that appeared were clown faces, as nobody wanted to give their true identity away. McNamara had tried to guess who they were, as they had to be extremely rich and leading members of their fields of expertise, but he really didn’t know any of them. He knew that the twelve worked in pairs, just like himself and McLaren, and they were stationed all around the world. They all spoke in English, but he could pick up the American, Chinese, Indian, European, and Arabic accents.

  He was told the originator of the group was a minor politician of the world named McKay, who was concerned about the ever-growing world population but had passed on a very long time ago. He had been replaced by others as the decades went by, and the code names that all started with Mc were just an in-house joke. McLaren did mention that the idea of this g
roup went back to just after World War II, and he said being a part of this group was an honour. McNamara wasn’t sure about that yet.

  “We must be quick,” said McAdams, who was an American. “My partner here has picked up some government tracking,” he continued.

  “Yep,” added McAllister, “not sure if it’s our boys or the Chinese, but we need to be fast.”

  McLaren glanced over at McNamara, but he was already on the computer, checking to see if they were being watched as well.

  “It starts in a few hours,” McShane said in a Southern European accent. “Everything is ready. You don’t have to do anything, just batten down the hatches and wait.”

  Everybody wore similar clown masks, but there was something about the image of McShane that made McNamara extremely uncomfortable.

  “A few hours!” said McVicar, who was from China. He talked about the Mars mission a lot. “Is this connected to the spacecraft explosion?”

  “A diversion, yes,” replied McShane.

  “Did you blow it up?” shouted McVicar. “Was it you, McShane? Their return was going perfectly,” he continued, “and then the ship suddenly exploded.”

  “Of course it wasn’t me,” replied McShane, but McLaren detected a hint of a smile in her voice.

  “It was you.” McVicar cursed. “I will find you, I swear. No matter how long it takes.”

  McShane laughed. She really did sound unhinged. Not surprisingly, McLaren laughed as well. He really thought the findings on Mars were a load of bunkum.

  “The people were not ready for what you found, McVicar,” McVeigh interrupted with his Indian accent. “The people in my lands would become unsettled if they knew.”

  “And mine,” added McAdams. “They need to be treated with kid gloves; what your expedition found changes everything as we know it.”

  “The religious fundamentalists would hate it, I know that,” McAlister said in his deep American southern drawl. “They like the small world they live in.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the fundies would love our news today,” McShane said and laughed. “It is judgment day, after all.”

  Everybody paused for a moment as the full realisation of what they were about to do to civilisations sank in.

  “Are you sure about your estimates?” asked McCredie. She sounded liked she was from Sweden or Norway. “This could be the end of us all.”

  “Yes, I am sure,” replied McShane. “If the government acts quickly then the virus will be contained with twenty to forty percent losses.”

  “Most people in the cities will be affected, though,” McGill said. “Your estimates could be wrong.”

  “But not your cities,” replied McShane, and McNamara had the impression that McShane would love to know where McGill had built her cities under the ocean.

  Strangely, McNamara noticed that his companion, McLaren, always became extremely uncomfortable whenever the underwater cities were mentioned. Something was not quite right between McLaren and McGill. It was almost as if they were two people having an office affair and didn’t want anybody else to know about it.

  “My people have guns,” said McAdams. “We can stop the plague easily.”

  “But what about if the government doesn’t act quickly?” McNamara finally asked. “Or the places that don’t have many guns?” Such as his own adopted island.

  “Well, then, young man, as you designed the tower,” McShane replied, “you and your conscience will have a lot to deal with. Don’t worry, though, humanity will then awaken from its … coma.” Then she proceeded to laugh as if she had just told the greatest joke in the history of the world.

  What did she mean by ‘coma’? And perhaps it was the greatest joke the world had ever known. But McNamara had gone against orders and given some of his friends on this island some very cheap and very dangerous weapons so they could look after themselves and their loved ones, except, of course, a young man to the west, who would not buy any such weapons of defence. He stood naked against the oncoming violence. Perhaps he would call him tonight and give a little warning. Maybe that would help with his conscience.

  Launceston, Northern Tasmania

  Sev Walker felt the tightness in his chest again. No, it wasn’t exactly a tightness in his chest; it was an overall feeling of claustrophobia that threatened to give him a massive panic attack. What was he doing? What had he been thinking to agree to go on this mad journey? Was it just because of Mary? He was usually pretty smart with the girls, but Mary had almost put a spell on him.

  It was his father’s fault, he decided for the hundredth time. Every time he threatened to bail on this mad expedition, his father had insisted that this was the only way for him to survive. A new world, he said, a bright new start for humanity. What sort of people had his father gotten himself involved with? Half the people in this locked-up warehouse were bloody crazy. Some of the things they said were like a summary of a cheap science fiction novel. Cykam? What crap it was.

  Was his father crazy too? Was this all some sort of elaborate joke? His father had told him that the virus was to be released tonight, the virus that involved the dead coming back to life. Sev initially thought this was all completely mental, that all of his father’s scientific study had sent him over the top. But his father had shown him some files on a simple orange disk, secret files that only four people in the world knew about. The end was coming, his father said, and to survive you must sleep.

  His father had also insisted that he be trained by the best mercenary in the world. A man by the name of Adam Dean had put him, and a number of other soldiers, through the most rigorous of training that Sev had ever known. Sev was so fit now that he thought he could take on the entire world and win. But he just couldn’t take on this bloody box he had to lie in. The mercenary soldiers who were in this secluded and well-protected warehouse knew where all the weapons were too. On the day of release, Sev was to simply walk across the road with the access key his father had given him to where a lot of highly powerful and highly illegal weapons were secretly stored.

  Trying to control his breathing again, he closed the box on the last of the two hundred people who had willingly volunteered for this madness. It was his turn now; he was the cell leader. He was the man given the duty of restoring order to a city which may number less than one percent of its original population once the plague was over. He was the man to help his father lead Launceston, and later on, all of Tasmania, into a brave new world.

  Such responsibility, he thought as he nervously climbed into the last box. Such danger, he thought as he entered the month and day for when they were all to be reawakened. Such idiocy, he would have thought had he noticed that he hit the year 2145 instead of 2045. The box closed and Sev slept.

  The Tasmanian Midlands, The Inner Council

  Lord McLaren sat in his chair, deep in thought as to what had been discussed at the meeting. He had sent McNamara off to the local pizza shop to get tonight’s meal and felt a bit jealous that he would be the one talking to the lovely young girl named Molly who worked there on weeknights. Still, he had to stay where he was, as he was expecting another secret meeting to take place.

  “So what do you think, my lords?” said Lord McGill as her clown face re-emerged on the screen. Whilst the other eight members were in agreement that the world’s population needed to be reduced, the Lords of the Inner Council, as he liked to call it, had deeper plans than that, and it had all started with a man called McKay nearly one hundred years ago.

  McLaren had told McNamara that the founder of their group was a leading politician of his day nearly a hundred years ago. But that was a lie only the inner circle knew about. The group was indeed based on a man named McKay, but it was named after him as a joke, hence the clown masks, because McKay had been a drug-addicted charlatan who had started a religious cult back in the mid-twentieth century.

  Sex, power, and control were his game, and he lived his so-called dream for forty years before he died an old man from a massive heart at
tack. But one of his followers was in fact a leading politician in Europe, and from the early twenty-first century he, and after he died, his granddaughter, had led the small cult until the present day.

  The granddaughter of that politician was Lord McCredie, and unlike her grandfather, she knew the cult was built on laughable lies. But five years ago, upon hearing the plan of McLaren and McShane, she had decided to tell the priests to convince the faithful that the Day of Judgment was at hand. And the Day of Judgment was at hand, not by any divine reckoning, but by a calculated plan to cure the world’s overpopulation. It was a small cult, of course, by today’s numbers, only one hundred thousand members across the globe, with their numbers being bolstered by a large number of mercenary soldiers and sympathetic scientists and engineers, but come one year from today, it would be the biggest religion on the planet, and soon thereafter, the only religion.

  “Her estimates are rubbish,” Lord McGrath replied, as the man from the Middle East appeared on the screen. “What do you think, McLaren? You are the numbers man.”

  “I’m thinking ninety-five to ninety-eight percent casualties at first, then, over the next year, with disease, warlords, and starvation, it should reduce the population by over ninety-nine percent,” McLaren replied. “The survivors will be scattered all over the globe. It’s perfect for our plan.”

  “I agree,” said Lord McCredie, “and I am going to hunt down and kill that bitch after all is said and done.”

  “It will be very hard to find McShane. She is almost impossible to track down,” Lord McGill replied. “I know she has been trying to find me and my cities.”

  “She wants to know why you have hidden so many people,” Lord McGrath said in a very grave tone. “She is a danger to us, and all of humanity.”

  “I agree. She wants to wipe mankind out,” added McLaren. Crazy as it sounded, he did believe that McShane wanted to be the destroyer of humanity.