Pump

by Gary Denne

  As always had been the case in Manhattan, space was a precious commodity, and Maddox, as a smart and successful corporation, made sure that every single city street, alleyway and building was utilized and pushed to its full potential. Nothing was left to rot away, and since the city was free of homeless squatters, every inch of the island was used. If it were a hotel, occupancy would high—close to switching on the ‘no vacancy’ sign, which in a roundabout way, was another reason the PUMP game had been approved by Maddox. Simply put, many of the Maddox Executive Board were starting to identify a future concern that one day the city’s entrant population may seek to have a greater influence over the city than those paying residents. Their expert strategists had already mapped out several worst-case scenarios, and appropriate plans were in place if one of those scenarios ever came to pass. Maddox always knew life in the city would be a balancing act in many ways. On one hand, they needed entrants to keep the city ticking, but at the same time, Maddox knew any plan that introduced outsiders to the city was bound to come with some element of risk. Despite the rigorous screening, there might be bad apples that get through the production line every so often. And this was what Maddox always feared; troublemakers, leaders, free thinkers, and idealists. The creation of a movement of likeminded people, entrants who, for one reason or another, would one day want to overthrow Maddox, ruin the rich, and give Manhattan back to all citizens. Of course, fears can often be overstated and paranoia can become the enemy. But never being too careful, Maddox ensured it had dozens of these types of command centers scattered around the city, with enough firepower to meet any entrant uprising. In deploying the PUMP game, Maddox also ensured it could take out a single entrant who presented a problem at any time they saw fit; all in the guise of a ‘game’ for the rich.

  The 116th Street church was small, quaint, and of late Gothic design that had no doubt had served the people of Harlem well many years ago, however, it had now been converted into a MADDSEC command center, which doubled as one of several PUMP Staging Points across the city. Religion was of no use in this new world order and despite the best efforts by some, had long since faded into irrelevance. Maddox, however, believed there was no reason to knock down buildings of cultural or historic significance, or buildings pleasing to the eye, only to replace them with bland walls of smoked glass. In fact, most buildings in the city stood exactly as they had done decades earlier. Streets had stayed the same. Not even the names had changed. After all, if it wasn’t broke, it didn’t need fixing. Anyone knew that was an expensive proposition. And Maddox, like all savvy corporations, would not spend money unless absolutely necessary, thus, most areas of the city looked just as they had when Manhattan was the Big Apple. Even signs, posters, fire hydrants, mailboxes and trashcans would often reveal its recent history, and walking around the streets, there was very little evidence of Maddox’s footprints.

  Inside the church, traditional Gothic arches made for a visually pleasing workplace for the PUMP lab technicians as they processed clients and prepared them for a game. The church had been totally refitted. Apart from the outer shell and stained-glass windows, everything was there for function, not aesthetics. Equipment filled the space. Display panels, comms gear, an enclosed scientific lab, hospital beds with EMS facilities, glass offices, storage rooms, and finally a large underground weapons cache with ex-military hardware and ammunition, well secured and accounted for. Mounted around the church’s stonewalls were a large collection of knives, crossbows, swords and other specialist weaponry on display, ready to be selected by PUMP participants. Serious shit.

  Scientists and technicians were busy at their posts each monitoring individual screens, checking data, and inputting information into computers, prepping the event. They seemed to be ever so cautious, taking their sweet time to figure out the night’s logistics. The lead scientist was a tall German man named Krischen. He was a lanky man with a very serious look on his face and a steel determination to ensure his team was focused on the prep. For Krischen, it was always about the details. Through wireframe spectacles, he looked curiously to Roberts and asked in his thick accent, “Mr. Roberts, while we’re waiting for the system to process your data, would you find it rude of me if I enquired about your eye?”

  Roberts turned to face him. It seemed like he did so in slow motion.

  Krischen was unsure if he had offended the old man, touched upon a nerve, or if age was simply catching up to Roberts.

  “Happened a long time ago. Hand-to-hand combat. One of those ‘lil Chinese bastards got one up on me. Stabbed me right in the eye. But he didn’t last long after that,” Roberts replied, no nonsense.

  The lab team, all in white coats like a flock of Long Island seagulls, overheard Roberts. Coworkers briefly glanced at each other, imagining the event in their minds.

  Krischen looked down at his clipboard at pages of medical records and test scores. He seemed a little concerned, not only of Robert’s aged appearance and physical condition, but of his mental health, too.

  “With all due respect,” he began, “some of us were wondering if a demonstration wouldn’t be out of order? How shall I say … we take safety and accuracy for any PUMP event very seriously. Clients are given rigorous weapons training and must, at the minimum, pass an accuracy exam before they are approved to go live. I realize you have clearance and understand your military record is of the highest standards achievable, however, my prime concern when I first joined this project was the safety of the island’s residents. There would be hell to pay if a resident were to somehow get injured in a game, Mr. Roberts. The consequences would be devastating for Maddox and that is a risk I do not wish to take. I do hope you understand?”

  Roberts was still for a moment and then nodded, perhaps a little annoyed. “Of course,” he mumbled. He began to walk towards the church’s arched doors as Krischen and the lab techs followed behind him. The old man waited for a moment at the top of the church’s steps, as they all slowly stepped down into a front courtyard, shaded by tall trees surrounding the church’s magnificent exterior stonework on both sides. It was so peaceful outside, a dusk sky above. A calm before the storm. Apart from the distant rumble of thunder, the only sounds around them were of nature and horse-drawn carriages on the streets outside.

  Roberts towered over the group. He looked like that modern-day sheriff from the Old Western town about to address his deputies. The handlebar moustache, rugged, tough skin, and silver hair underneath his felt cowboy hat. Not to forget the eye patch, too. This was one intimidating old man.

  Without delay, he unstrapped the 12-gauge shotgun from his coat and quickly loaded two cartridges, snapping the barrel back in position when he was done. He had the floor now. The lab team watched and waited for the demonstration to begin. Some appeared quite nervous. They were scientists, not soldiers.

  Looking out over the courtyard for a moment, Roberts admired the view around him and began to scour the trees above, observing the tiniest of details. He stood there, frozen, as though he was picking up the scent of a target, tapping into his natural-born instincts as a hunter. His good eye squinted down slowly. Bending down to the courtyard floor, he grabbed a pebble and stood back up with it in his hands. The lab team of geeky-looking scientists and technicians anxiously looked on. Roberts took his time. He was in no hurry for these people. Raising his arm, he suddenly flung the pebble into the trees above. The lab team quickly swung their heads around, tracking its sound as it bounced back and forth from tree branches on its way down to the ground.

  Suddenly, above the group, a startled flock of birds took off in all directions, squawking as they cleared the branches for their escape. One of them, a magnificent red-tailed hawk, gracefully sailed away. Nature had flocked to the city in its current incarnation, since it was a safe, reliable and constant food source, thus it was no longer surprising to see what would once have been rare and magnificent creatures amongst the parks and trees, especially since noise, pollution and motor vehicles had been almost e
liminated.

  As the hawk drifted away, slowly beginning to search for another place to rest, Roberts lifted his shotgun up and took aim. He tracked his target for a few seconds...

  Krischen tried to interject. “Mr. Roberts, that’s not necess—”

  BOOM!

  The blast shattered the quiet, peaceful surroundings like a clap of thunder, scaring the living daylights out of the lab team. They watched the hawk fall to the ground like a bag of potatoes. There was a thud, and then silence again, apart from a few fading squawks from other birds. The group was stunned, unsure of what to do or what to say as their eyes were glued on Roberts, who held the smoking barrel of the shotgun high in the air. A shocked Asian scientist, as a reflex, began to applaud apprehensively, as a few others joined in, although quite half-heartedly. Krischen stepped forward to Roberts and spoke ever so calmly, while the other members regained their hearing and perhaps thought of checking their vivid-white lab coats for any unusual brown stains that were not there pre-demonstration. Krischen was not impressed by the man. Sure, his weapons handling was flawless, and his accuracy, dead on. But Krischen was a scientist, and as such, was quietly displeased at the waste of one of the magnificent creatures of this city. But he remained polite and professional. “Thank you, Mr. Roberts. I believe you’ve cleared that issue up for us.”

  D.T. Roberts turned, still holding the shotgun tight in his wrinkled hands. “Call me Dusty, doc,” he replied, and then added in a don’t-fuck-with-me tone, “But don’t you ever question my skill again.”

  Krischen swallowed nervously. “Of course,” he replied.

  “Now let’s get this show on the road. I ain’t standin’ here all day.”

  “We’re ready to go live. All that’s left is your dose,” Krischen told him. “I can have one of my team administer it for you, or if you prefer—”

  “Just get it over with,” Roberts complained.

  Krischen signaled the Asian scientist over. It was though the scientist had been waiting in the wings for the nod.

  “Please, take a seat,” the Asian man softly told Roberts, almost whispering. Sitting down next to him, the scientist had a soft, black pouch in his hands and slowly undid the bow keeping it together, unfolding it to reveal a row of syringes, tucked neatly inside pockets, secure for storage or transport. A label was stuck to the inside of the pouch with various information about the contents of the syringes; client name, production month, dose and storage conditions.

  The Asian scientist pulled one of the syringes from its pocket. The liquid inside was a bright ink blue in color. The scientist began to roll up one of Roberts’ sleeves for injection. Krischen stood and watched.

  “Hell, I don’t need no damn drug to track a guy down. Do you realize the shit I went through back in the day? We didn’t need this kinda crap in our veins to get the adrenalin flowin’,” Roberts mumbled away as the wrinkles on his face creased up like a prune. He frowned at the both of them as the scientist prepped the syringe.

  “You’ve never taken the drug before?” Krischen asked.

  “Hell, no,” Roberts scoffed at the suggestion. “That’s where you PUMP guys are screwing this whole thing up. This game should be about the balls-to-the-wall, primal human instinct to hunt and kill … not some synthetic chicken-shit in your body making you cuckoo enough to pull a damn trigger.”

  Krischen wasn’t happy. Who did this guy think he was, telling him they were screwing up. He politely unloaded on the arrogant old man. “I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts, but I will not have you dictate to my team how we should be running this game after all of the research and effort that has gone into making it as safe and controlled as possible. Further, as a guest here, I simply won’t give you clearance and activate the event unless I am fully satisfied that you are going to be able to abide by the regulations my team and I have outlined to you. Pump is a highly sophisticated drug, and the dosage we administer for the purposes of a game has been extensively studied and analyzed to allow the safest possible circumstances in which we can have such a game run in a live, uncontrolled environment. Despite what you may know about the drug, the mix that is supplied by Maddox for the game is not simply for elevated confidence and mental stimulation. Participants receive a special blend of several other chemicals, intended for the player to easily identify an activated target, and only an activated target. It also has a high aggression component, a stamina component for increased endurance, and finally a focus element, for enhanced vision. Something that in your case, will be beneficial, I assure you.”

  Roberts sat there for a moment, seething inside. The look on his wrinkled face showed that of restraint, as the Asian scientist carefully pricked the syringe into a vein on his leathery and tattooed arm, plunging its contents into the bloodstream.

  “The dose will last approximately two to three hours, Mr. Roberts. After this time, the effects will weaken and if no conclusion has come of the game, our team will reassess the situation and either supply a further dose, or cancel the game if your physical and mental condition is not suitable to continue,” Krischen said.

  Roberts didn’t answer. He could already feel the drug working its way through his body, and it was a feeling he had not felt before. He liked it. He liked it a lot. He took a deep breath and groaned. Looking down to his hands, he clenched both fists, as though he had a renewed sense of vigor and vitality that at some point he had lost throughout the years.

  “This is some strong damn stuff you got here, doc,” he said, amazed at the almost-electrified tingles pulsing through his body.

  “Just breathe normally, Mr. Roberts. You’ll adjust to the feeling in a few minutes,” Krischen said. “We’ll let you gather your thoughts before we proceed. Take your time.”

  Roberts sat there and breathed through his mouth, as though he’d just completed a New York marathon, without the visible sweat.

  Krischen and the Asian scientist left him in the chair and walked over to the dozens of screens of data, deep in discussion with each other. Roberts noticed them from the corner of his eye and ever so discreetly, quickly swiped a couple of syringes from the black pouch and slipped them into his pocket, unnoticed by any of them.

  As the scientists returned to assess Roberts’ readiness, they finished their conversation and nodded that they were ready to proceed. Both of them were none the wiser to Robert’s sleight of hand. The Asian scientist grabbed the black pouch and walked over to one of the industrial fridges, opening the door and storing it back inside.

  “Mr. Roberts, how are we feeling?” Krischen asked.

  “Just fine, doc,” Roberts said innocently.

  “Excellent. We’ll be watching you very closely in the field and tracking you at staggered intervals. We’ll record the game through the camera pinned to your coat. It’s discreet, but you’ll see it there. I’d like to suggest you leave it on for the game’s duration, but if you do wish for some privacy at some point, you can always disable it via your Quartz. And finally, keep this in a safe place...”

  Krischen handed him a small single black pouch containing a syringe filled with a bubble-gum pink liquid. “This is Bliss, Mr. Roberts. You may inject it after the conclusion of the game, or wait for MADDSEC to arrive and they will be able to administer it for you. It will negate the aggression and bring you down from Pump’s build-up safely.”

  “Drugs on top of drugs, eh doc?” Roberts commented. He took the pouch and placed it in his coat pocket.

  “With that, we are ready, Mr. Roberts. As of this time, your Quartz is displaying the target’s location and tracking his movement. He is male, early thirties. There’s a full file on your screen if you wish to see his statistics, but all you really need to be concerned about is the tracker. We hope you enjoy the game. And on behalf of the PUMP team, we wish good luck to you.”

  Roberts chuckled to himself as he slowly bent down and picked his shotgun off the church’s hardwood floor. He was amused by Krischen. “Luck ain’t got nuthin’ to do with anything, doc,�
�� he growled. The drug had seemingly already begun to alter Roberts’ mood, as he suddenly seemed much darker in tone than when he had arrived. He picked up the Quartz tablet next to him and viewed the screen, studying the map of the island, honing in on the blue dot as it pulsed on screen. He turned to the doctor and as sure as if his life depended on it told him, “I’m gonna tear this little son of a bitch to pieces...”

  Underworld

  Outside, the night air was humid. So humid you could cut it with a knife. As another burden to man, modern day climates had become an unpredictable beast across the globe, and the United States had been forced to live with increasingly extreme and worrisome weather patterns for the last several years. As far as man had advanced in the technological wonder of decades past, he was still utterly powerless against Mother Nature. Heat waves of over 120 degrees would often stretch for weeks at a time through long, hot summers, presenting complex and difficult problems for the city, not to mention the poor struggling souls in the outside world. Death from heat exhaustion was not unusual, especially amongst the older resident population. Aging A/C units chugged away on most buildings, powering cool air into homes, offices and places of business, albeit with regular brownouts during summer. Once outside, however, both entrants and residents alike had to deal with the stifling heat and humidity any way they could. For some, it meant restricting their outdoor activities to nighttime. In a city that was now considered extremely safe, free from petty crimes, robberies, drugged up criminals and thugs from previous eras, people could wander the streets into the wee hours of the morning and take great comfort that no one would be waiting for them around a street corner with a knife in their hand, ready to take their money. In fact, the old saying that New York was the city that didn’t sleep couldn’t have been truer in a Maddox-run Manhattan during the summer months.