Utopia: A Dark Thriller: Complete Edition

by Adam Steel

  She dropped the torch on the cold tiles. It cracked and went out.

  Ellie screamed a high pitched, painful scream of sheer terror. The image that her horrified eyes saw caused her knees to weaken and give way. She collapsed on the cold, wet, floor: hands clenched over her mouth.

  A mass of red curls hung over the edge of the white porcelain bath. Blood was dripping from the locks and pooling on the floor. The bath was full of water and blood. One arm and hand hung out of the bath, pale and white. The back of the bath tiles were spattered with blood, gore and bits of Irene’s red hair. She had been shot through the head. It all looked a bluish colour in the moonlight, but it was blood.

  Over by the sink unit, Ellie could see Aunty Audrey. She was sitting on the floor, soaked in blood. Her mouth was hanging down, and her eyes were wide open. They reflected the moon. There was a streak of blood, and brains, running down the wall, and ending above Aunty Audrey’s head. Audrey had a gaping bullet wound in the middle of her fore-head.

  Ellie started to vomit.

  Somewhere in the distance, sirens were sounding off. CURE officers were on their way. Ellie sat on the wet floor, shaking. The smell of vomit and blood surrounded her. She was unable to move her limbs. Through the streaming tears, she looked up at the bathroom window ledge, and noticed that Aunty Audrey had a plant in a pot.

  It was an orchid in full bloom and it had blood red flowers.

  Chapter 18: Red-Man

  Backstreets: Sector Seven

  Friday 13th July

  The sky darkened across Sector Seven and Pinks slouched against the edge of the crumbling building. He was watching the jittery customer ruffle in his coat for the cash.

  Evening was drawing in fast and the moon was full and bright.

  ‘That’ll be 50 Creds. Upfront,’ Pinks informed the man.

  The man snorted, wiping away a ring of dried blood from his nostrils as he handed over the wad of notes.

  I like Friday the thirteenth, Pinks thought.

  Pink’s long skinny fingers flicked through the pile of cash expertly, before tossing a small crumpled packet at the man.

  ‘Nice doing business with you. See-ya later man,’ he finished.

  The shady figure swiftly moved away, as if he would catch a disease if he lingered a moment longer. Pink’s pocketed the cash and leaned back against the wall. He patted down his left trouser pocket. It was almost full. Business was good. The trade in Apexir showed no signs of abating, and working for Red-Man had many merits. There was virtually no competition and no one would dare to mess with one of Red-Man’s dealers – no matter how small time they were. Just as well. Pink’s thought.

  Pink’s wasn’t exactly the heavy hitter type. He was tall, thin and had pasty white skin. He looked like he had just been kicked out of a computer gaming convention that had lasted the last ten years. The acne that covered his face didn’t help dispel the image either. Red-Man gave him a reasonable cut for his part in the business. Things could be worse.

  Pinks felt down the right side of his trouser pocket, and mentally counted up the packets of Apexir remaining. He was down to his last few. He would need to restock soon.

  Pinks had lived in the docks area his entire life and little had changed since the Day of Reckoning. Pinks didn’t know that from personal experience. He was barely out of his teens and wasn’t born before the disaster struck. His knowledge of the area before he was born, was based on what his mother had told him. It hadn’t really been much of an explanation, but then she never had said that much. He recalled that she was usually too busy blowing some guy (or entertaining whatever random punter was paying for the pleasure of her company) to enlighten him on local history. She was dead now. Pinks didn’t really care.

  He hadn’t known his father. His mother had narrowed it down to a list of just under thirty different men. The fact that Pinks was white, had ruled out twenty more. Pinks had no interest in trying to narrow it down any further.

  The docks were one of the only original areas of the city that was still, mostly intact. There were signs from the disaster: blown out windows: blackened buildings, and a pissed off, bewildered population. Apart from that, nothing much had changed. The only major change, was that it had been renamed as Sector Seven.

  It’s still a shit-hole, thought Pinks. Shit-hole number 7. It would always be the docks to him, no matter what the suits wanted to call it. The name had stuck.

  Petty thievery, drugs and prostitution were rife in the sector. The Sector Seven CURE station hadn’t made much of a dent in the general crime rate of the area. Pink’s suspected that it was because the old Commander had been bought by Red-Man, and he therefore, wasn’t that interested in bringing the crime rate down. It had always been the territory of gangs even before the disaster except now, the crackdowns (and some selective policing from the Sector Seven station) had left only one major gang remaining – Red-Man’s. The Docky’s knew it was him, and not the masons, that really controlled the area, or most of it. Pinks had a theory to his continued survival. He reckoned that all the ‘stiffs’ and ‘richies’ in Sector One, simply liked their Apexir a little too much to get rid of him. Also, they just didn’t give a shit about the Docky’s, or him. Probably both, he mused.

  Marko’s arrest had come as a big shock to the area. The Sector Seven station had been shut down some months ago, after some whistle-blowing fuckup. The bent officers that worked there were quietly retired. Now things were being overseen by one of the other CURE stations in a ‘nice’ sector, by a commander with a baton up his ass. The word was that they didn’t take favours. Privately, Pinks thought Red-Man’s days might be numbered. CURE officials weren’t easily bribed anymore. The reformation was spreading out ever further. It was transforming more and more areas, like a creeping disease that infected things with a ‘new-ness.’ Info-Coms had started springing up around the sector. They looked out of place. The technicians that installed them, would quickly hurry off back to the monorail and more desirable sectors, away from the curious Sector Seven residents. Every day the Info-Com’s brought messages about how Sectors Six and Seven would be remade in line with the Utopian ethos and how they would be enviable places to live and come together to complete 'our great city'.

  The Daily Utopic had screamed headlines about how Phoenix Palace had been completed: how the Masquerade Ball, had been such a roaring success and how the Marseilles gang had been thwarted. And the one that worried him the most was about how Sectors Six and Seven would be reconstructed next, as part of the final phase of Coney City’s construction. Before you build a nice neat place, you have to exterminate the vermin first, thought Pinks. He grumbled and shifted from foot to foot.

  Jomo and Marko Marseilles had seemed untouchable (or protected) or both before now. Marko’s arrest had complicated things. No amount of tree lined avenues, or shiny buildings, would transform Sector Seven. Unless. The Marseilles gang was removed. It seemed to Pinks, that the masons were turning their attentions in his direction, and that they were finally ordering the dreaded clean up. That made Pinks very nervous. He had little doubt that if they wanted Apexir, they could quietly manufacture it in one of their own fancy laboratories, instead of allowing the drug runners to make Coney City look untidy.

  Off to his left, in the ally, a garbage can lid rattled. A rat scurried out from under it, and ran across the path in front of him. It looked wet and bedraggled. Someone had disturbed its place in the shadows. It looked at him and sniffed the evening air: once: then twice. Its tiny whiskers twitched before it scurried off again into the darkness. Pinks liked rats. As a very young boy, he used to catch them for Louis (Red-Man’s crackpot scientist) to experiment with. He had been paid two creds’ per rat. It was better and more economical than eating them. His mother never bothered putting dinner on the table. She was usually on it herself, with someone else on top of her. Pinks just had to make do, but as he became older, he had starting dealing for Red-Man instead. Louis had moved on from the rats to people. P
inks was glad. He felt sorry for the rats. He didn’t feel sorry for people at all. He thought the rats had the right idea. The Rat was like him. It knew when to scurry off. It knew when it was going to be caught and cut up for science experiments. The Rat wasn’t dumb. The Rat knew how to survive.

  Maybe time to cut loose, he pondered. Pink’s thoughts were interrupted by the sparking of a lighter next to him. A figure had emerged from the shadows next to him. Pinks hadn’t even noticed him approach. Pinks spat a glob of phlegm on the floor, and tried to look casual – tough, almost.

  ‘Hey man, looking for a hook-up?’ he asked cautiously, his voice trailed off as soon as he recognised the figure.

  Jack said nothing. He puffed on his cigar, not bothering to acknowledge Pinks with his eyes.

  ‘Jack? What the hell do you want?’ spluttered Pinks. His eyes darted about nervously.

  ‘You can’t bust me and you know it! You ain’t nothin' no more. Red’s looking for you man - gonna rub you out - There’s a price on your head, so why don’t you just get the fuck outta here…yeah?’ Pinks blurted out. He was trying to sound tough, but the ratty gleam in his eyes gave away the fact that he was on the verge of soiling himself and praying that Jack would do just that: go away.

  Jack blew out a line of smoke and adjusted the cigar in his mouth.

  ‘Pinks. Still here then you rat-faced shit?’

  Pinks went to reply, but he didn’t get the chance.

  ‘I need to see Red,’ Jack said simply.

  Pinks blinked at him: stupidly processing the unbelievable request.

  ‘You what? Red will smoke you on sight man! He ain’t much in a talking mood these days-no thanks to you. Marko’s in the slam and it’s your fucking fault!’

  Jack’s patience was running down: along with his cigar and he placed a firm hand on Pinks’s scrawny shoulder.

  ‘He won’t waste me. Because you’re going to take me to him and explain I have something for him. Something he will be very grateful for. See?’

  Jack gestured briefly to a stack of papers under his arm.

  Pinks shook his head. His face went whiter than the moonlight. He was thinking that Jack was out of his mind. Jack’s grip on his shoulder tightened and he let out a small yelp. Jack leaned in closer and his voice changed to something a lot more menacing.

  ‘Or…Red’s going to find out this information on his brother didn’t get to him, because a spotty, rat-faced little shit, wouldn’t bring it to him.’

  Jack grinned.

  ‘Then we’ll see who gets smoked, won’t we?’

  Pinks looked at the document that Jack was waving. He thought about doing a runner, then, he thought about Jacks threat. The idea that he might end up as one of Louis,’ horrible human experiments, if he failed Jomo was more terrifying than anything Jack could have done to him.

  ‘You’re gonna get us both killed man! For what? That!’ he said and pointed a trembling finger at the pile of papers.

  Jack snapped. He flung Pink’s back against the wall, knocking the wind out of him. Jack’s hand flew inside his coat. He was on him in a flash brandishing an oily handgun. The barrel stuck into Pinks’s belly. Jack snarled: eyes glaring.

  ‘Times-up son. I’m not letting you, or anyone else screw this up. When Red sees this, he’s going to owe me big time. It’s going to make everything sweet. Take me to him. Now.’

  Pinks eyed the gun, then Jack, then the gun again.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go. Just don’t do anything stupid.’ Stupider, he thought.

  The gun disappeared under the coat and Jack marched along behind Pinks.

  They made their way down the backstreets and into the heart of Sector Seven. Jack’s heart hammered in his chest as they moved past Mick’s Motors. It was a large auto-garage that dealt in converting old, combustion engine vehicles. To the casual observer, there was nothing untoward about the area, just a number of small businesses trying to carve out a living.

  Jack knew better. The entire area was owned by Red-Man and his cronies. Mick’s Motors dealt with stolen vehicles, and hidden inside, were enough weapons to arm a small third world country.

  A huge truck was parked up in the garage. Sparks were flying out from underneath, as it was worked on. Jack knew that they were getting close to Red-Man’s lair. Red-Man had built up a small empire of semi-legitimate businesses. He used them for cover. He lurked underneath them in an underground lair that had been created by stringing together a number of basements. It provided him with the means to move about unseen: and there he dwelt, like a huge black spider, waiting for his prey to touch the strings of his web.

  It was very late by the time they came to the part of Sector Seven that served as the nightclub strip. The street was lined with bars that thumped with different music. Under the dim streetlights, whores paraded: jostling for positions to get the attentions of the Johns that were cruising the area.

  Competition was heavy. Red-Man had effectively re-invented the old London district of Soho, down on his patch. He must have missed it, mused Jack, thoughtfully, as he took in the scene.

  Jack recognised some of the cars cruising. They weren’t the battered, old petrol driven motors. Most of them were newer, electric cars, driven by respectable people from the other sectors. Some of the cars were very expensive: expensive enough to have been driven from Fin-Sen, or the TAU. The people in those cars, weren’t stupid enough to stop and get out, but they certainly had no hang-ups about letting people get in.

  The whole process was like a well-oiled production line. The girls got in the cars – disappeared for ten minutes or so – and then were ejected back out. It was almost like clockwork and the cars didn’t stop coming.

  ‘Think Utopians will really miss this place when it’s gone huh?’ quipped Pinks.

  ‘No. They’ll just make it newer and better,’ Jack snorted back in response.

  ‘Like everything else. Put a nice shine on it. But underneath it’ll be the same old shit,’ Pinks grunted.

  The sidewalks were bustling with people. Some were drinking, others walking (or staggering) up the road. Three youths piled out from a large pink building, which was in the middle of the street. The sign read:

  Next to it was a placard which read:

  It was Marko’s establishment: his Gentleman’s Massage Parlour.

  Jack watched the youths stagger drunkenly up the street. They were dressed in the Neo-Punk style. Jack was thinking that they were making a big mistake. If they didn’t know Red-Man’s gang or they weren’t in it, then they shouldn’t be drinking in the area. They were heading for trouble. It was well known by the locals, that the Neo-Punk fashion was popular with the rich kids who would come down occasionally from Sector One.

  Jack eyed the two men who came out of Ladies of Leisure behind them. They followed the youths at a distance. The neo-punks wouldn’t know it, but they’d be mugged as soon as they turned off the street. Jack was thinking that it would be a long time before any CURE officers dealt with that particular offence. With what he had planned, the CURE would soon be very busy indeed. Spotting Red-Man’s goons tailing the punks had put Jack back in the moment. Jack thought that he was probably being watched already. Right. Enough sightseeing. To business, Jack thought.

  A small bar squatted next to Ladies of Leisure. It looked like it was trying to hide itself. The light from a huge neon sign flickered across the street, lighting the pavement with an eerie multi-coloured glow.

  The sign read: “Liquid Sun Bar”

  The sign was illuminated with a neon palm tree, following the flowing script.

  Pinks swallowed nervously. He knew that it was Red-Man’s bar and underneath it (hidden down in the catacombs) was his audience chamber. Jack had been there before (when they were on better terms) but now – without a brokered deal – approaching Red-Man’s hideout would be a lethal mistake.

  Jack patted the document to reassure himself. Lethal without this anyway. I hope, he thought. He eyed Pinks who was chewing hi
s nails.

  Pinks was thinking, that he believed in superstition after all and Friday the 13th was not so lucky for him.

  The entrance was manned by two large coloured men in dark glasses wearing smart waistcoats and jackets with red ties. They reminded Jack of two gorillas that had been strategically stuffed into suits: suits big enough to conceal a damned assault rifle, thought Jack, unhappily. He nudged Pinks towards the entrance.

  ‘You’re on Rat-Boy. Just remember what the stakes are.’

  Pinks nodded briefly and shuffled miserably towards the two men.

  Jack watched the conversation play out. One of the gorillas looked at him, then back at Pinks. Finally one of the men disappeared through the entrance. The other gorilla beckoned Jack over with a single finger. Okay, here we go. Jack swallowed hard and moved towards the entrance.

  ‘Jacky boy! Hey man….long time no see, eh?’ the gorilla started.

  He looked briefly at Pinks who was cowering off to one side. The gorilla shoved him roughly sending him flying down onto the pavement.

  ‘Fuck off now, yeh?’ the gorilla-guard snorted at him.

  Pinks nodded rapidly, before slinking off, breathing gasps of relief and the gorilla turned his attention back to Jack. He expressed a grin that nearly split his face in half.

  ‘Boss-man been looking for you, Jacky, he’ll be so pleased to see ya.’

  Jack gave the briefest of nods. Inside he was shaking.

  The gorilla nodded inside the bar.

  ‘Go on in man, be someone up for you soon, yeh?’

  Jack slid past the guard. So far, so good.

  The bar was dimly lit by multi-coloured lights. They were strung across the roof like the rigging of an old fashioned galleon. Reggae music streamed from the juke box, which was off to one side. Pictures of beaches and sunsets were daubed across the walls. The place had been decked out to mimic the Caribbean. Guess Red misses home, Jack thought. It distracted him briefly from the idea that his lifespan could now be measured in minutes, rather than years. He tried hard not to picture what the gang did when they caught squealers, or people who betrayed them.