Vending Machine Lunch

by Roadbloc

  Reaching the ground floor, Jonathan stormed towards the glass doors towards the sight of a horribly furious and scared crowd. He approached the doors with great speed and didn't stop. With a crash, he snowballed his way the thin glass before falling over with the pain.

  The local crowd stopped their riot and panicky escape and stared at him. Somewhere, another gunshot was fired, sending the crowd ducking down again before they resumed their destructive pilgrimage. Jonathan dragged himself up, the crowd beginning to push back in to the area he had cleared by crashing through the door. He knew the gunshot wasn't the suspect, it was someone else. It had a totally different vibe to it. Looking upon the large block of flats ahead of him, he pressed on.

  He forced his way through the anxious crowd, finding it hard for the tide not to knock him off course. Hands flailed as he barged past, upsetting protest signs, causing aggressive reaction of many people as he forced his way through the rolling sea of people. Just a bit further, just a bit further. His muscles were screaming at him to stop but Jonathan forced himself to go just a bit further. He couldn't care less about the leader or any of the morons in the crowd. This was in honour of his family, his children.

  Jonathan stumbled out of the crowd and through the front entrance of the flat block. As soon as he stumbled in, he saw the assassin, hurrying down the stairs and heading for the back entrance across the lobby. He caught his eye. There was a slight standstill, both there, eye-balling each other.

  In a matter of a few clicks, Jonathan ripped his weapon out of his pocket and fired instantly. The bullet missed, and as they both took off running, a spark on where it had hit was visible on a metal pole sparked it's orangey sparkiness.

  The suspect ran out the back door, and slammed it shut behind him in hope to delay Jonathan. It worked, to a small extent, Jonathan was repelled by the closing glass door before kicking it open and continuing the chase up a footpath climbing a hill.

  They were running through the gardens of the flats, nicey nicey park-like area, with white lamps, benches, bins and a cobbled path crawling up it, the rest of the area covered in synthetic grass. Jonathan was beginning to seriously struggle as he chased, but continued pumping oxygen into his lungs, like a machine injecting fuel, he forced himself to continue.

  The suspect, reached the top of the hill and the end of the gardens, and hopped over the wire-mesh fence which pitifully marked a land boarder. Jonathan went after him, hopping over the fence, and finding himself on another city road.

  These streets were also filled with protesters, all on the verge of riot, probably due to the usual ignorant reply given by their leader. As he chased, people, vehicles, windows flying past him, Jonathan replayed what he has said in his head. We have nothing to apologise for? He really was out of touch.

  Barging past people, Jonathan thought he had lost the suspect for a minute. He continued smashing his way through the crowds, the final bit of the orange sun attacking his retinas. Scanning the people for a bald guy with a leather jacket, Jonathan panicked that he may have given him the slip.

  There was a boom behind him. An explosion of a rather large proportion, the sound partially deafening him, opera singers screaming in his ears. The crowd screamed, people began running. Jonathan span around to see a small newsagent shop had blown up, bricks, mortar and dust everywhere. Flames were pouring out of the large gaping hole which used to be the front of the shop. Amongst the flames, people also pouring out, some of them ablaze. A handful of bodies, immediately knocked unconscious by the blast were just about visible. An improvised explosive device. Things were getting way out of control.

  Stumbling over something, Jonathan resumed his chase, his head spinning. The suspect had now reappeared, a little further ahead than before, making his way nimbly through the rapidly degrading crowds. Another gunshot was heard, and a few people screamed. Jonathan didn't care, he simply had to get the suspect.

  Cursing under his breath, Jonathan forced his legs into faster motion. His lungs were screaming.

  Breaking out of the crowd, Jonathan saw the suspect head towards Crescent Hill. He cursed again. Another bleeding hill. Sucking in air, he continued the torture. He wasn't as fit as he used to be.

  Crescent Hill was as steep as ever, named, after it's moon-like shape with a curled top and a sudden drop to the bottom at the top. As they chased, the setting sun reflected off the orange stone path which lead up to the top, the rioting crowd clearly visible on the streets below. Crescent Hill was the crown of the local land, you could see the entire city from the top. This night, the streets were filled with orange sunlight and angry people.

  Still chasing, slowly griping up the hill, Jonathan was mentally wishing he hadn't smoked as much when he was young. He was wishing that maybe he ought to have gone on weekly runs to keep up his fitness. He was getting too old for this job, and he knew it.

  The suspect reached the top of the hill. Clearly he had no idea where to run now. It was either the hill or battle through the edgy crowd and he obviously preferred the idea of the dead end hill.

  Jonathan reached the curled top of the hill, and pulled out his weapon, the orange sun shining off the chrome digits on the side of the weapon.

  The suspect, A's shooter, span around. “Do you know why all guns have the exact same numbers on the side?” he said, close to tears, the sun reflecting off his pupils.

  Jonathan shook his head, catching his breath, still pointing the gun at the suspect.

  “It's because of him,” he said, walking closer to Jonathan's face, “It's because of that loon! He's insane. You have heard the rumours have you not? Do you really want to stick up for a mentalist who insists that the press are exaggerating things? Do you really want to put all your faiths in a man who is so drunk on power, he refuses to let even death take it from him? Do you really want to live in this world?” his face was now pretty much touching Jonathan's. Jonathan didn't move, staring cold into his orange mad eyes.

  “I live here because I have no choice,” said Jonathan, “I'm here because I'm just doing my job. Call me ignorant, but I don't care. Do you really think if you had killed him that would have done any good? He has no heir, there would be no leader again. It would be Mahusay Na Mundo all over again.”

  “That happened years ago. Things would be different.”

  “How? What was so different back then? The world didn't have places such as Deimos?”

  The suspect grabbed Jonathan's face, breathing his awful breath on his face. “Look at your weapon,” he hissed, showing yellowing teeth, “What are the numbers?”

  Jonathan pushed the suspect off of him, causing him to fall to the ground. He wailed.

  “I already know,” said Jonathan calmly, “Zero, one, one, zero. So what? All guns have it. It's a category number or something.”

  The suspected laughed in his pain, “Can't you see? Are you blind? It's everywhere. It makes him in charge. Subliminally, his word is law, no matter what we think. How many times has the public lost faith in him, and yet a rebellion, an overthrow has yet to occur? How many generations have been waiting for his weak promises to become a reality? How long have we been on edge, waiting for the public to kick off?”

  “It doesn't matter-” began Jonathan.

  “FOREVER!” screamed the suspect, “We are meant to be in this situation. We all think he has lost control. He so hasn't. He really really hasn't. It's everywhere. And no-one can see it.”

  “You can come with me alive, or I can shoot you,” said Jonathan calmly, “Your choice. I'm just doing my job so my family are safe and are comfortable.”

  “So you don't care about the bigger picture? You don't care that everything is spiralling out of control, that your kids will be part of a future slave race?”

  “I can't afford to be a prophet. I've got to do the best I can with what I can do. If I can ensure that my kids have another day of food, another day with a roof over their head, then in my mind, that's mission accomplished,” said Jonathan, “Now
please, what is your choice?”

  “Shoot me for all I care,” hissed the weeping madman on the ground.

  Jonathan's finger tightened on the trigger. The sun was seconds away from being totally gone, the wind blowing slightly on top of the curly hill. Below, Jonathan saw that the crowds hadn't calmed, they probably never will. Several fires had now started below, many people trying to escape the carnage, some still attempting to protest peacefully, but the majority just generally causing havoc. He moved his second hand to his gun, and forced himself to look at the suspect.

  “Lost your nerve,” the suspect laughed and wept, it wasn't a question, it was a statement.

  “No. I'd just like to thank you for what you've done,” said Jonathan calmly, “You've just gone and triggered another big riot. Someone will have to pay for the damage caused. I thank you for essentially putting our taxes up even more.”

  “You do know what they say don’t you?” spat the suspect, his eyes crossed, focused on the barrel of the gun, “When there is no more room in hell, the dead will walk the land. Well, cut me out of all of this.”

  Jonathan didn’t react to the suspect’s rambling speech. He just pulled the trigger. With a bang, the bullet shot through his body. He howled with pain. The last few seconds of sun were now gone, and the streets below were now beginning to light themselves orange with burning flames. Jonathan pulled the trigger again, several times, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. One of his bullets had hit the suspect in the head. He was well and truly dead.

  Jonathan slipped the gun back into his jacket. The wind had suddenly begun blowing stronger now, the fires below still raging. Without a sound, after pausing and looking at the disaster below, Jonathan made his way back down the hill.

  I Never Liked You.

  Jessica was furious. Although, she refused to let her face show it. She pulled out a locket from her cleavage and stared at the engraving on it.

  K.B.O

  As far as she understood, it was an old war phrase, from many of years back. Keep Bouncing On. She didn't quite understand why the word 'bouncing' was used, however, she understood that it simply meant that in times of trial, you cannot give up.

  Wrapping her hands around the locket, she gripped it tightly before taking a deep breath. In front of her, a mass of angry faces were in uproar, all talking amongst themselves furiously, as though what Jessica had just suggested was pretty much unthinkable. Behind her, a few rows of speakers who were on her side. This, was the House of Speakers.

  Beside Jessica, was her aid, who went by the name of Jack. He was a small and shrewd man, with no facial expression, never giving away his inner feelings, if he had any. She leant across to him and said over the noise of the outraged opposition that she felt like giving up.

  "Why," shouted Jack into her ear.

  "Gentleman, ladies, please," said the organiser into his podium's microphone. The organiser was a person who was meant to control the political debate, but take no side, a bit like a referee in sports games. This particular organiser wasn't very good at it.

  The overcrowded side of the room began to simmer down, some still talking in disbelief about Jessica and her suggestion. Jessica caught sight of Jordan, an opposing Speaker from the corner of her eye. He made his way from the overcrowded rows of wooden benches and placed himself at the microphone'd podium at the front. His blonde hair gleamed like it did in adverts. He rubbed his huge nose. This debate was about to get grimy.

  Jessica looked behind her with dismay. Her sides row of benches were near enough empty compared to his. Placing her necklace back down her top, she took a deep breath and forced her heart not to sink.

  "Because we may as well accept that the leader is only going to choose his ideas," she whispered in Jack's ear, as the crowd settled more.

  Jordan cleared his throat into the microphone, causing a small scream of feedback. Everyone was now silent.

  "Miss Jessica, please," he began, rubbing his abnormally large nose again, "Are you seriously suggesting that the public did not like yesterday's speech? That the rioting continued, not because of the assassination attempt, which might I add, was dealt with very efficiently and effectively thanks to our well trained Enforcers, but continued due to the fact that what our leader said was not good enough?

  "Then why, Miss Jessica, did you not voice concerns on the actions to be taken in the aftermath of the Deimos disaster when they were still being planned out?"

  The crowd on his side roared with approval and support.

  However, Jessica had ammo for this round. This argument had been used once too often,

  "My dear Jordan, don't you remember? I did oppose to the actions taken. We argued about it remember? We debated for a very long time over the fact that all our leader and his supporters appear to be doing is moderately protecting the so called 'power-users' of this land rather than dealing with Ninety-Nine percent of the population, which are just average people. I did oppose the plans, and I still do. Building another facility without first repairing the damage caused to the public and the land when the first facility broke is the worst case of cutting corners I have ever heard. Is it surprising that people now take to the streets and refuse to pay their taxes? The very fact that the com-link transcripts are not available from the Deimos disaster speaks for itself on how corrupt this government is."

  She had a small cheer of support from behind her, which was quickly drowned out by a boom of disapproval from the leader fanatical side.

  "My dearest Jessica," began Jordan again, smirking confidently, "That is all well and good, and I admit, you have proven me right on the point that you did in fact disagree with the actions planned after the Deimos disaster. However, that does not at all mean you are correct in saying that these were the wrong actions. Do you seriously expect to be able to please everyone?"

  "Listen!" yelled Jessica down the microphone. The sound echoed in the hollow wooden room. She had really had enough now. "Just listen to me for once! And listen to yourselves! What do you really hope the achieve by just agreeing with him? One day of free healthcare is simply diabolical in the circumstances! It's pathetic! It's-"

  "Miss Jessica!" the organiser had now spoken into his microphone, rather sternly, "Seriously now, that is simply unprofessional. Do I need to remind you that we are all on edge after an in-house betrayal from the Enforcers. Do not give us any reason to think you are on the same side."

  "Why do you think that betrayal happened?" Jessica responded immediately, "Why do you think that the public are still clearly upset?"

  "Agreed!" yelled someone from the crowded fanatical side, "One rupee a share is not enough!" There as a murmur of agreement from both sides.

  "No, I'm not on about the shares!" pleaded Jessica, looking desperate and tired, "I'm on about the average people of everyday life. Deimosgate has brought on much more than the collapse of a government run company. With the amount of fatalities aside, we now have medical conditions on our hands which people are suffering from, we have a massive loss of people's property, we have the neo-terrorists, PP drug addiction, we have the serious infections, known as the Requiem causing people to-"

  "Yes, yes, thank you Miss Jessica," said the organiser as though he was bored, "Thank you for the room's entertainment. Now may we have a discussion on something based on hard factual evidence rather than what people reckon and the press's accusation of our so called felonies. Miss Jessica, we all admire your enthusiasm, however, this is a government discussion, not a children's playground. When you actually bring with us some evidence that prove that the press's and your claims are true, then we shall talk. Until then, we will resume our previous topic of Union's-"

  "I have the evidence," interrupted Jessica, "If you refuse to believe the photos taken by the press then I have some of my own, along with reports from doctors from the Deimos area and-"

  "Organiser, do we really wish to look at our Jessica's outside holiday snaps as evidence?" droned Jordan. Smugly.

  "Agreed, we d
o not," replied the organiser, shuffling some papers on his podium, "We shall be resuming the previous topic of Union's market collapse-"

  "God damn it you fools why don't you just wake up and listen to me!?" screamed Jessica down her microphone.

  There was a silent moment of outrage, as it was slowly taken in what Jessica had just screamed at them. The scene was a picture, you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Jessica could have cut them all with a knife. She was more furious than she had ever been, wanting to cry, scream and rip someone's heart out at the same time.

  The organiser was just about to scold Jessica and probably pretty much reduce her career down to making refreshments at the filing office where she began, when the man walked in.

  He opened the wooden doors with a deafening echoey bang and strode in, walking across the centre of the silent scene, chuckling to himself. Realisation slowly sank in on who this guy was, the room muttered and shuffled uncomfortably. He continued his bizarre chuckling, slowly walking across the room, his leather jacket simply hanging off his stick like shoulders.

  "What is he doing here?" someone asked from behind Jessica. There was no answer. No-one knew. No-one.

  The man reached the podium. He scraped a terrified organiser off his chair and sat down before the microphone.

  "Ha. I thought daytime casuals were pretty dire," he said into the microphone, licking his lips. He had a weird falsetto American accent.

  Jessica stared across at Jordan. The scowl on his face was almost swallowing up his large nose.

  "Give me one reason why I shouldn't get the Enforcers here to arrest you," he growled through the microphone.

  "Ha." the man chucked again, "So you do know me then? Hell, from the way you were talking back then, I was just a figment of everyone's imaginations."