by C. R. Turner
Canine Maximus Max
C. R. Turner
Copyright © 2018 C. R. Turner
The right of C. R. Turner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic or mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holders.
ISBN ePub 978-0-6483813-0-3
ISBN Mobi 978-0-6483813-2-7
ISBN Pbk 978-0-6483813-1-0
Cover Illustration by Mike Nash
www.mike-nash.com
Editing and development by AJC Publishing and Connie Spanos
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 1
Mantua. Just another abandoned city now. Buildings shot to pieces, burnt, reduced to piles of rubble. As Hati starts to set, heat radiates out of the ancient bricks that have been baking all day under the blaze of the red giant.
An explosion thunders over the city, followed by a burst of rapid gun fire in the distance. I stop dead in my tracks and place my hand on the handle of my knife, sheathed in its thigh holster. My father’s knife. I look back to where I’ve just come. There’s not a soul to be seen. Wary, I continue on, turning off the main road and down one of the narrower side streets littered with derelict buildings. Each step is an effort, driven purely by my dream of one day reaching Arcadia. Exhausted, I look up and down the street a couple of times before climbing the steps to a townhouse. I reach the landing, lean forward and peer in to see if anyone’s inside. Whilst the townhouse has only remnants of windows and doors, it’s furnished as though someone still lives here.
I deepen my sixteen-year-old voice. “Is anyone there?”
No response. I enter. There’s a table in the middle of the room with cutlery and utensils set for four. I reach out with my index finger and leave a solid line in the thick layer of dust on the table top. I pick up a photo frame and wipe the glass, revealing a sun-bleached photo of a family. I stare at them for a short while, wondering where they are now, before putting the frame back in the same position I found it. In the kitchen, I find shelves with a few cans and boxes of food on them.
“I haven’t seen these in years!”
I stuff most of the food into my backpack, -then place a can of food on the bench and stab it with my stainless steel blade several times. I reef open a draw to find a spoon and start digging in. Warm beans … I don’t care though. I’d eat anything right now.
Searching the top floor of the townhouse for anything of use, I’m stuffing cakes of soap and toothpaste in my backpack when a loud noise downstairs makes me stop, spin around and stand in silence. I creep over to the stairs and look down, catching a glimpse of a Union police officer. They always travel in fours. I rest my hand on the handle of my knife and glance around the room for a way out. With every inch of his body armour and helmet scratched up, I know these guys have seen a lot of action. With my heart pounding, I slowly tiptoe over to the window and look down to see if I can jump, but it’s far too high. There’s footsteps on the stairs. In sheer desperation, I climb out the shattered window and onto the porch roof, then shimmy over the hot dusty roof tiles as far as I can to one side. With nothing to hold onto, I can only wait in silence and hope I’m not seen.
Inside, the timber floorboards creak. These guys must be massive. One of my shoes slips in the dust, and I only just manage to regain my grip before sliding off the roof and onto the footpath below. My heart feels as if it’s about to explode. I hear the policemen rush over to the window. “Stop right there!” His voice is deep, authoritative.
He climbs through the window and reaches out. I try to move further away, but with an already precarious grip on the tiles, I slip. As I slide off the edge of the roof, I grab the guttering and dangle by one hand. My backpack slides off my shoulder, and I watch it plummet to the footpath with a thud, creating a ring of dust in the air. The officer reaches out for my wrist, but I let go and fall, wailing as I slam into the footpath below.
Lying curled on the ground, grasping my leg and grimacing in pain, I hear the police thundering down the stairs. I struggle to my feet, grab my backpack and scuttle off down the street, limping.
I glance back to see the four officers tearing out of the townhouse and giving chase. The officer leading the group sets his Ashra to stun and fires. The shot flies over my head, mere inches away. I spot a narrow gap between two townhouses, slip my backpack off my shoulder and manage to slide in sideways. When I’m halfway through, I look back. The police have reached the gap but are unable to follow as they’re too bulky. One of them takes aim with his Ashra. He’s about to fire when another officer shoves him and yells, “How are we supposed to get him out of there if he’s unconscious? You two stay here. We’ll head him off on the other side.”
I continue to creep along the narrow gap until I reach the end. When I look back again, one of the policemen is taking his Ashra off stun. He takes aim then fires. The blast is deafening and showers me with chunks of brick and mortar, creating a thick cloud of dust. I fall backwards onto the street, stunned by the loud percussion, and roll over on my side. Squinting through the dust, I grab my backpack, struggle to my feet and limp off.
I’m in excruciating pain. Making sure the coast is clear, I slow my pace to a fast hobble. Hati has set behind the buildings and the surrounding area has dimmed to a reddish glow — with no electricity in these parts, the only other source of light comes from Skoll, the massive red moon that orbits Terra Primus, as it rises above the buildings, and fills the sky in a spectacular display.
Finally, the searing heat eases. Still limping, I look for a place to hide for the night. Down a small back street, a pile of rubbish is heaped in the middle of the road. I approach, broken glass crunching under my boots and an acrid stench filling the air. The pile of rubbish is actually several decomposing bodies. I stare with trepidation as I pass. The adjacent buildings are completely gutted by fire. It’s a familiar sight. I continue on with little energy to hold my head up.
A short while later, I find an area that looks safe and enter one of the buildings. I slip my backpack off my shoulder and slide down the wall, collapsing on the ground and close my eyes. I sit there a while to catch my breath, then open my backpack and pull out an old first aid kit. Grimacing, I pull off my boot, revealing my swollen ankle, then strap my ankle with an old bandage.
I put my boot back on. There’s a faint noise. I look up. It’s coming from outside. I grab my backpack and hobble over to the door to peek out. Down the street, the four policemen are still looking for me. I jerk back, lean my forehead against the wall, close my eyes and exhale. Will this ever end? I’ve never been so exhausted in my life.
I hurry over to open a window that faces an adjacent street. A pile of timber boxes and rubbish sit directly underneath. I climb out, using one of the boxes to stand on, but knock a tin off another box. It clinks onto the ground then rolls around. I freeze, close my eyes in frustration and mutter under my breath. I hop off the box and peer around the corner. The police have picked up their pace and are heading my way.
In agony, I sprint down a side street. Once I’m several hundred feet away, I slow. A motley group of armed people are advancing from the other direction. Hell! They look like members of the Terr
a Primus Republic Army. I spin around. The four officers are heading my way. The TPRA and the Union have been in a state of civil war for generations, and here I am, caught in the middle. I duck between two big steel bins and wait for the situation to explode.
The TPRA members — over a dozen of them — are poorly armed with ancient projectile weapons, as well as crude homemade rocket-propelled explosive devices. The Union police have extremely powerful Ashra energy weapons and grenades and can order immediate air strikes if required.
As the two groups head towards each other, they open fire and the area erupts in a hail of weapons fire and explosions. Like the rest of the city, the surrounding buildings are shredded and some of them are completely demolished, their rubble scattered on the street. I sit scrunched up as large chunks of rubble fly by, making deafening repercussive bangs against the steel bins on either side of me. Burnt gunpowder, dust, and ionised air from the police Ashras fill the air. I cover my ears to muffle the excruciating sounds, flinching every time weapons fire or an explosion hits nearby. When will it be over? Is this the day I become just another body in the streets?
After several minutes of their intense fighting, I squint through the dust cloud, now red with the glow of Skoll, the light from Hati all but gone. An old man is standing in a doorway of a townhouse on the other side of the road, signalling for me to run over to him. I get up in a crouch, wait until there’s a gap in the weapons fire, then sprint across the street, grimacing and almost in tears from the pain in my ankle. As I reach the man, he yells, “We have shelter.”
I nod as a stray shot from an Ashra slams into the doorway, showering both of us in dust and rubble. I follow him into a back room, noticing the old furniture and neatly positioned family photos. It’s so strange to see a home filled with so many belongings, not ransacked. The old man gets down on one knee and struggles to lift a hefty concealed hatch in the timber floor, exposing a steep set of timber stairs that run deep underground.
The old man yells, “You first.”
I climb down and he follows, slamming the hatch behind him. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I’m greeted by a woman around the same age as the man.
“Hello, I’m Marci,” she says.
I look at her, at the man, then back at her. The couple’s heavily wrinkled faces reflect more than old age — a life of hardship. Their clothes hang from their frail bodies like wet garments on clothes hangers.
“I’m Joel.”
“I’m Dominic,” croaks the man. He looks like he’s about to keel over from all the excitement.
“How old are you?” Marci asks, hobbling over to sit on an old rickety chair.
“Sixteen. I think.”
She sizes me up. “I’m surprised they haven’t drafted you into the Union by now. You look older than sixteen.”
“I’m just tall for my age. The police have been chasing me all day. I sprained my ankle trying to get away from them.”
“Can I take a look at it?” asks Marci, gesturing to the chair next to her.
I hesitantly take off my backpack and sit. Marci takes off my boot and bandage, then gets some ice out of a freezer to put on my swollen ankle. It’s been a long time since I’ve even seen ice, and I can barely feel it through the burn of the swelling that’s turning purple.
As Marci tends to my foot, I manage a small smile and continue to look around at these strange surroundings. Although we’re deep underground, I can still hear the muffled sounds of fighting on the street. The bomb shelter we’re in, whilst homemade, looks heavy duty and is filled with stores of food, water and various electronic devices. The air is cooler down here, a welcome relief from the heat. I close my eyes and relax a little.
“Do you have a family?” asks Dominic.
I look up at him, then quickly look away. “No.”
Dominic and Marci look at one another, then Marci says, “You can stay here until your ankle’s better if you like.”
“Thank you.”
Nearly an hour has passed. Marci has expertly re-strapped my ankle and the fighting in the street has gone silent. Dominic hands me a bowl of soup, and I thank him. We’re sitting there for a while, eating in peace, when Dominic jumps up and scurries over to some shelves, which have several monitors on them. Curious, I hobble over. One monitor displays an image of the interior of the townhouse above us. I look at Dominic then back at the monitor. As we watch, a policeman walks through the shot, searching the townhouse. Dominic signals for me to be quiet, and after a short while, the policeman leaves.
Dominic looks at Marci. “Lucky the police won that one.”
“What? How can you be pleased the Union won?” I say.
Dominic shakes his head. “You don’t understand. When Union soldiers or police are engaged in battle, they transmit a signal to their nearest base. Every few minutes, they have to retransmit the signal letting them know how the battle is progressing. If the TPRA did win, and the signal stopped being transmitted back to base, the Union would order an air strike on this whole area.”
I feel a little stupid. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.”
Dominic asks, “I take it you’re not a fan of the Union?”
“No! There both just as bad as each other.”
Dominic sighs. “The TPRA’s the main reason the Union no longer provides food or medical. The Union’s all but given up on the south now.”
No one says anything for a while.
“Where do you get your electricity from?”
Dominic answers. “We have several batteries and a generator. I steal fuel from the Union to run it.”
I smile at Dominic and, tired of standing, hobble over to a chair to sit.
Marci asks, “What happened to your family? Are you alone?”
I swallow. “I don’t have any family.” I hate it when people ask me about my family. The pain is just too deep.
“We have a son,” says Marci. “He was drafted into the Union seventeen years ago. We hope he’ll return to us soon and we can be together again.” Marci pauses for a second, then asks, “Where are you headed? Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“I’m heading to Arcadia.”
Marci and Dominic look taken aback. “You’ll never make it,” Dominic says. “And even if you do, how will you survive up there? Arcadia is a wilderness with sub-freezing temperatures. Every living thing is food for something else.”
“It would be no different than staying here then. And besides, I’d rather live with animals than the Union or the TPRA.”
Dominic adds, “You’d have to pass through Paelagus to get there, you’ll be lucky to make it through alive. It’s one of the most dangerous cities on Terra Primus. If you’re not murdered, you’ll be picked up by the Union police. Since the pandemic a few years ago, the Union is getting desperate for soldiers. They’re drafting anyone from the age of seventeen through to forty now, and sending them off to the war.”
“I have to try. There’s no future for me here.” I pause, then ask, “Do you know where they send draftees?”
Dominic shakes his head. “No one knows for sure. This in itself suggests it’s far from Terra Primus. I’ve been searching for records — any history on the war — for years, but haven’t been able to find anything useful. It’s like someone erased our history.”
“If you’re hell-bent on making it to Arcadia, you’ll want to get as much money together as you can,” says Marci. “There’s not much that can’t be bought or traded in this world.”
Marci shows me where there’s a tub of water, soap and towels to wash up. She makes a bed for me, and soon, we all settle for the night. I sit in bed with a cherished, old photo of Arcadia — with its snow-capped mountains and glacier — thinking how lucky I am to have found shelter. People’s compassion, amongst all the cruelty, still surprises me. I don’t know why anyone would stay in this hellhole though. I’ve never seen anyone so stuck in time and so terrified of moving on with their lives, as Dominic and Marci. If there is such a t
hing as a soul, I wonder about theirs. I know now, more than ever, that I have to go. This can’t be my life. I have to make it to Arcadia. No matter the cost. It seems like such an impossible journey. All I can do is what I’ve been doing. Each day a step closer, believing one day I’ll make it there. It could take the rest of my life. A life well spent — if it means I get to taste true freedom before I die.
“Arrrhhhhh …” a woman’s high-pitched scream bellows out.
“Run!” she screams.
Her voice is cut off by an almighty thud from an Ashra …
I jolt awake, gasping. It’s morning. I sit up, grab the edge of my bed and swing my feet to the ground. Dominic, sitting in bed in the far corner of the room, looks at me with concern. As I catch my breath, I rest my elbows on my knees and bury my face in my hands. It was so long ago, yet I’m unable to escape my haunting memory.
Chapter 2
I’ve been walking for days since leaving Dominic’s and Marci’s. It’s midday and I’ve exhausted my supplies. My stomach is rumbling, I have a splitting headache and my mouth is so dry I have trouble swallowing. The terrain is rocky with little or no vegetation to seek shelter, and with the dead-straight road dissolving into the horizon in a shimmering mirage, there’s little hope of getting relief any time soon.
On the brink of collapsing, I pause as something ahead in the distance catches my eye. I know what it is, yet I continue on, unflinching. As I get closer, I’m unable to take my eyes off the human remains heaped up alongside the road. The pile of rotting flesh bakes in the heat, and not having eaten for a day or so, I’m overwhelmed with nausea. Grabbing my stomach and turning away, I quicken my pace to escape the tremendous smell.
A short distance further, I come across a burnt-out vehicle stopped in the middle of the road. Looking back to where I’ve come, then back at the car, I join the dots — the car belonged to the dead people I’ve just passed. Sitting on its rims, wire from its tyres sprawled out over the road, the car is completely blackened, with glass pooled in balls on the road.