Utopia: A Dark Thriller: Complete Edition

by Adam Steel

  Bridget was pulling at her neck scarf. Suddenly, she looked hot and uncomfortable. Ellie chanced to look at the neck scarf she was wearing. The little blue seagulls floated across the mesh of the scarf, as surely as they had circled over her head on that day on Brighton Beach.

  It never went away: the fear and the reminders.

  She longed for a loving man, and her own family to distract her from the ugly images that surfaced at inconvenient times.

  ‘Well…With the great news…obviously I had to treat myself!’ Irene proclaimed triumphantly, gesturing at the pile of shopping, and interrupting Ellie’s despairing thoughts. ‘Sorry I was a few minutes late today, but I needed essentials!’ Irene grinned sheepishly.

  Ellie doubted very much there were any baby clothes in the bag. She did spot a sparkling pair of new high heels though. She promised herself that she would try and talk some sense into Irene tomorrow, or the day after. When she was out of her ‘Off’ days, and back on planet Earth, Irene would realise again that babies were not invulnerable: no matter whom the dad was. Ellie doubted that even the contents of Mr Right’s fabled testicles, could boast that feat.

  The women talked and laughed about times gone by, and the future, as the day wore on. Ellie skilfully manoeuvred Irene away from the wine, until her and Bridget’s headaches kicked in: spelling an early demise to a night of drunken debauchery before it could begin.

  Bridget said her “goodbyes” and left for the monorail station back to Eden City and the ‘Brilliant Brian’.

  Ellie didn’t tell Irene about the request she had received from Mason Henson. She preferred to focus her efforts on stopping her friend’s bad habits before they destroyed her unborn baby’s life and she managed at least an hour of steadily lecturing Irene on pregnancy. She hoped that some of her good advice had sunk in (before she had been forced to square off the two bottles of wine that Irene had smuggled in) with the café manager. The two friends finally left and went home.

  Chapter 6: Restless

  Dog’s Diner Bar: Sector Six

  Friday 1st June

  Max walked into the Dog’s Diner a little after five. The bar was quiet – patron-wise. Friday night hadn’t quite got going yet. The place had been designed to have an antique look, but just underneath it still featured the unmistakeable smack of the high-tech advancements of Utopia. Many of Max’s favourite haunts were starting to go the same way. Recently the owner had installed a new entertainment Info-Com, at great expense, and had removed the old retro jukebox that had resided in the corner. Now it blared out the latest music videos across the bar.

  He hated that.

  The bar still featured oak tables and an old fashioned bar, but he had little doubt the proprietor had his eyes on coating the tables with the new white material that had been developed to resist drink stains. Dog’s Diner was still a world apart from the trendy wine bars of Sectors One and Two (with their tiny, robotic arm drink mixers, holographic images and their sleek, white surfaces) and that was good enough for Max. The further he could get from this new world order full of gadgets which kept getting him into trouble, the better.

  The barman caught sight of Max and looked pleased. Max could almost see him rubbing his hands. Ex-Soldier, ‘drunks’ were one of the best types of customers – Until they got drunk, and started punching things, that was.

  Above the bar the new entertainment Info-Com was on. Max made a mental note that it had been positioned out of reach of any potential flailing fists. It was displaying a rock video by the hit new band ‘Twisted Wire’. A young man, with a frazzled hair style, leapt around on the stage punishing his guitar. It looked like he had stuck both fingers in a Genie terminal to achieve his unique haircut. Richard ‘Ace’ Red’s, Rock ‘till I’m dead, was playing. It was his latest smash hit.

  Max had been in fire fights that had more rhythm. He didn’t care much for new music. He didn’t care much for new anything for that matter.

  Underneath the screen (where the youngster was murdering his instrument) sat Aya. She was propping up the bar. Aya was facing away from Max, nursing a half-empty wine glass. The bottle stood to attention next to it. Her well-toned bottom perched on the barstool perfectly.

  Deep in his aching brain a warning flag shot up to remind him it was her twenty first birthday today. She had told him a few weeks before, but he’d dismissed it at the time: tucking away the snippet of information in his ‘pointless crap’ file, until it could be useful. The sight of her neat arse had sent his mind into automatic to maximise the chances of getting laid. The birthday snippet leapt forward to warn him of the impending danger of forgetting and missing the valuable opportunity.

  She was dressed casual today. The little black dress she was wearing was off the shoulder. Its soft material hugged her curves. The skirt was short and showed off her smoothly muscled legs. Her jet black hair went all the way down to her waist. Max liked her in her secretary outfit better. It was tight-fitting and showed off her assets very nicely, but this little number wasn’t bad either. He dimly recalled she’d prattled on about having her birthday off and might be free that weekend. He knew he couldn’t expect too much if she’d come here from home. He was thinking that the controlling bitch of a mother, that she lived with, wouldn’t let her wear anything revealing. Not that it mattered a great deal. Max had one or two cheeky private outfits reserved for her. He kept them back at his pad for when she felt adventurous. She’d tried them once or twice after she’d had a particularly nasty run in with Mada. The sex had been particularly vigorous on those occasions.

  Max gave himself a quick smell-check in his armpit. A strong whiff of a day’s boredom – in a badly conditioned corridor – hit him in the face. He pulled a grimace. Too late now, but then again, he never was that fresh when they met. She seemed to like it. He hoped that was still the case.

  Her body language gave away the fact she was moping, and the contents of the glass in front of her suggested she might be drowning her childish sorrows. Max flexed his biceps. He put on his very best “I’m not hung over and I’m pleased to see you face” and strode across to where she was perched at the bar.

  Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

  ‘Hey babe. Happy Birthday!’ he exclaimed, and smiled widely.

  Her smile was incredibly sweet and she embraced him hard.

  ‘Max! Oh it’s so good to see you!’

  Her breasts squeezed against his bulging biceps. He looked down at the top of her head. She fitted neatly under his chin.

  ‘Yeah,’ he managed. The birthday nugget had gone down well.

  Aya put her arms around his neck, stood on tip-toes and kissed him passionately on his stubble-laden chin and lips.

  ‘Max. You just wouldn’t believe what happened to me today!’ she blubbered, slightly incoherently. Her expression was one of sadness, anger and helplessness all mixed together.

  Max began to ease her off him: trying to play down the stirring in his trousers, as he took the bar stool next to her. What now? She’s lost her shoes? Max couldn’t help but be slightly annoyed at her. The girl had no idea what real life, or suffering was. Not like him. Not like Sandy. Sandy. Max pushed the thought from his mind. He didn’t need that right now. The thought was already cooling his stiffening cock. He squeezed an arm free of her embrace and gestured at the barman. He pointed at the pump on the counter.

  ‘One Revive-U coming right up,’ the barman confirmed.

  Max grunted.

  Alcohol in Utopia had been refined and was brewed with components manufactured at the CUB. ‘Original’ drinks would have had to have been imported and the cost would have put it far beyond Max’s modest spending limit. So like almost everything else, they had simply engineered their own version. The result was a pint of beer that not only tasted great, but apparently improved muscle strength and vitality or so the adverts, displaying a Hercules holding a pint aloft, with a cheesy grin, insisted. Max supposed that if that were really true, he’d be a superman now, as he’
d drunk enough of it. However, the brew did get him drunk, and that’s all he really cared about.

  Max spent a few precious seconds trying to make himself sound interested.

  ‘Uh…what happened today then?’ he said, with a sense of impending dread.

  Aya began to rapidly explain to Max about Mada and Aarif. She ranted on about her impending marriage: about how unfair it all was.

  The pint of Revive-U appeared in the middle of her rant. Max nursed his pint, trying to look like he was listening, but his tired mind refused to take anything in. He couldn’t take his eyes off her vibrating breasts. Every time she got truly upset, they shook slightly in time to her wild hand gestures. It was incredibly distracting. He supped at his beer and struggled for a decent reply through the drunken barrage about inequalities and how unfair everything was.

  It made his head hurt.

  ‘Uh…Well. Just tell him to get lost,’ was the best Max’s muddled thoughts could come up with.

  Aya sloppily poured another large glass of wine (spilling half of it on the counter) before she replied in garbled outburst. The barmen shot her and Max an irritated look.

  ‘But Max! I can’t! Don’t you see that? I can’t! We should move away together. Tonight! Let’s run away! You and me. You know that’d work!’ she burbled through the wine.

  Max turned away slightly and rolled his eyes. He’d heard this conversation many times before. Every time Aya had a fight with her mother this came up. He’d grown practised at deflecting the proposals, although his vein of excuses was running thin.

  ‘Aya…Hey babe…Um…yeah. Maybe soon,’ he managed unconvincingly.

  His heart wouldn’t let him continue. The image of Sandy in his mind reined him in and he fell silent.

  Aya called the barmen over.

  He reluctantly took the bundle of notes for another set of drinks.

  Aya’s frustrated monologue continued to rattle through his ears and down the bar along with the next beverage, and several after. Max had blocked most of it out. He wanted to feel for her. He really did. She was a nice girl, but naive. She didn’t really understand him. His guilt was overwhelming. He knew in the back of his mind he was using her. He felt like he owed her love, but every time he felt his heart spark, the memories of Sandy and his baby girl Sophie, roared back to the fore to quench the flames. He nodded at Aya’s noisy protests and quietly drank the beer in front of him. Her frustration was etched into every feature of her face and her voice was starting to hurt his ears.

  He had just agreed with Aya’s latest outburst when the doors of the establishment opened to admit a bunch of youths. They were dressed in tight, clinging leather. Chains dangled from their pockets and a few of them were even attached to their noses. They jangled as the group moved into the bar. Their hair was spiked upwards: each of them having a different colour; which ranged from bright green, right through to pink. The ring-leader had to bend down to get his foot long hair spike through the entrance. Neo-Punk. That was the fashion amongst Utopia’s more rebellious youth. It was a strange amalgamation of gothic dress and bright neon colours. They dressed rough, but in truth they were the sons and daughters of the rich elite in Sectors One and Two: rebelling against their parent’s perfect suits and attire. They didn’t seem to rebel against the amounts of wealth they were given to squander though.

  ‘Oh yeah! Richie Red!’ the ringleader called out as he saw the Info-Com that was cycling through Twisted Wire’s latest and greatest.

  ‘This place is Happenin'!’

  Two girls filed in behind him to look at the screen with alluring glances.

  Richie’s lyrics cut through to Max over Aya’s monologue ‘Yeah baby, can’t getcha’ outta’ my head, gonna rock you now ‘till I’m dead!’ came the onslaught.

  The two girls clapped along to the lyrics. Their chains rattled around their wrists, which were adorned with neon-glowing bracelets.

  Max figured the group was on some kind of pub crawl across Coney City. It’d be the only reason youths like them would come to a place like Dog’s Diner. He gathered they were out to find as much talent as possible in the shortest possible time. Max also had a similar theme on his mind, and he felt a spike of self-loathing for it.

  The ring leader pulled out a small device and ushered the others round as they pulled up to the bar and ordered the drinks.

  ‘Check out my new Info Pad 3.4. Full holographic imaging and R5-digital interaction!’ he declared, brandishing the device proudly.

  The others gathered around him eagerly and watched in amazement as the holographic images above the small device took form.

  ‘It’s got Aftermath III on it,’ he announced.

  The others watched awestruck as the images formed into a TALOS soldier picking his way across a computer generated, broken wasteland. Burned corpses rose to attack him.

  ‘See? You get to be TALOS and you fight the brain-eating zombies. Deckler gives you the objectives see?’ he explained, as he demonstrated the game to the others.

  A holographic photo of Deckler appeared.

  Max caught the dialogue from the computer generated leader, ‘Soldier. You’re our last line of defence. You are TALOS. The brain-eaters have taken out all my men. You’re the last line of defence for Utopia. Fight your way back to Arethusa!’ came the computer simulated voice, through the small, but surprisingly powerful speakers.

  Max felt sick.

  The gang leader took his in-game rifle to the charred zombies to the cheers of the others.

  The trivialisation disgusted Max.

  ‘Max…Did you hear what I said?’ slurred the voice next to him.

  Max looked at Aya.

  She was staring at him – eyes blurred. The hints of tears were in her eyes.

  He reached out and held her hand, ‘I’m sorry honey. Let’s not worry about it,’ he replied, hoping it was the correct response to whatever she’d said.

  Aya snuggled up to him, pressing hard against his firm bicep.

  ‘I just can’t believe she could do this!’ she cried, wiping a tear on his shirt.

  Several of the youths looked up.

  The barmen gave an irritated cough and nodded at Max, while hinting at Aya, who was slowly falling off the barstool.

  Max caught the message. ‘Aya, c’mon, let’s go,’ he said, pulling her off her stool.

  He steadied her as she staggered across the bar towards the exit.

  The sound effects from the youth’s holographic game floated across the room, ‘Brainnnnsssss...,’ then a gunshot, and the laughter of the youths, hastened his exit.

  They didn’t take the monorail. Max didn’t think Aya would make it without spilling her guts over the cushioned seats. Max’s pad hadn’t been far anyway. He’d kept close to the local watering holes. They were as essential to his survival as water and food. Aya staggered up the steps towards his pad in Sector Six. It was one of many of a run-down block of flats in a large tower block. Max was sure they’d demolish it soon: along with the rest of the sector and Sector Seven, but he didn’t really care. He’d been through enough changes to be able to adapt, as much as he didn’t want too.

  He halted Aya as they stepped into his living room. She swayed awkwardly as he made his excuses to withdraw to the bedroom. Max reached across onto his bedside cabinet and plucked the framed portrait of Sandy and Sophie off its resting place. He retired the picture inside his drawer. He couldn’t face the accusing looks. His bed sheets were covered in crumbs. He was able to get a quick shake of them before Aya appeared in the doorway. She grinned at him cheekily. His mind fed him the right response. The words were out before he’d even had a chance to clear it.

  ‘Come here. I’ll make you feel better,’ his voice said.

  Aya staggered over and fell on top of him on the bed. The bedsprings creaked and the noise of the reverberating bedsprings kept the neighbours on Max’s floor awake for hours afterwards.

  “The sun shone down through the sparse tree line of the park
onto Max’s face. A cool breeze stirred the leaves making a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the sun. The weather was perfect and it made the sand, sweat and blood of war seem as a distant memory.

  Max strolled down the path along the banks of the river Thames, hands easy on the pushchair that travelled along just in front of him. His baby daughter, Sophie, wriggled. Her tiny hands waved excitedly from her pushchair. She made small gurgling noises of pleasure. Max paused, to allow Sandy time to fuss over their little girl.

  "Awww, Hello! Yes, hello!" Sandy cooed, bending over to shake her tiny daughter’s hands.

  Max couldn’t have imagined ever feeling this good. His home leave back in London with his family had made the hell of the war all seem so unreal.

  Sandy was examining the infant with the care and pride of a new mother as she rummaged around in the back of the pushchair.

  "Hun, I think she’s hungry, let’s stop here and I’ll give her a bottle," Sandy said.

  She turned towards Max, catching the change of expression on his face. She was puzzled by the troubled look in his eyes.

  Max looked out over the city. Everything seemed to have gone silent. All the birds had huddled to the floor. People had stopped and were looking upwards to the sky. Something didn’t feel right. The hairs on the back of Max’s neck began to rise. A terrible feeling of dread began to seep into his heart, grasping it in a freezing grip. He narrowed his eyes, hand above his forehead to shield the sun. He examined the skyline. London sprawled out before him; out across St. James Park, past Buckingham Palace and sweeping towards Westminster Bridge.