Wasteland

by Terry Tyler

  Ginevra arrives just as Samantha is telling me how people used to visit places of interest for the experience, rather than for iSync streams to improve personal branding on Heart, and about the cameras they used that took a limited number of pictures.

  "You sent them off to be developed and waited a week before they came back, or paid extra at these places that could develop them in one hour." She laughs. "I can't imagine your generation being prepared to wait five minutes!"

  The more I talk to her, the more I understand that the immediacy of our lives―anything we want to learn, read, listen to, watch, anyone we want to talk to, available at the touch of a screen―is something peculiar to this century. Would having to exercise patience make me a better person, though, or just more frustrated?

  When Samantha is taken off to use the bathroom, Ginevra tells me she's applied to the Wellness Council for permission for me to visit the wasteland.

  "Based around the fact that many of your clients have romantic wasteland fantasies, and you need to experience life out there so that you can impress the grim reality onto people like Blake and Alden. I said it would enable you to grow as a counsellor, and become a more effective member of the Balance team."

  "Will they allow it?"

  "I think so." She gives me a sidelong look. "I've suggested it several times before, for that genuine reason. Now, listen. You will be allocated a guide; there are three for Sector 19, so we'll have to hope for the best―one is Link-sympathetic, one plays by the rules but is fairly reasonable, and one has eyes like a hawk and 'MC12' tattooed on her heart, so let's keep our fingers crossed. It won't happen for a couple of weeks, which gives me long enough to contact Xav, and work out the details."

  "Do you know him?"

  "I've never met him. I work on this side of the fence only." She looks over her shoulder. "We should stop talking about this now, but I'll be in touch about what to do next; from now on we communicate about this at my instigation only. Can you do that?"

  I take a deep breath, and blow out. "Yeah. I've got to, haven't I?"

  "You have."

  Chapter 9

  One Month Earlier

  An Undisclosed Location, North West England

  Site supervisor Lloyd Akerman points to an area of land, currently nothing more than flattened earth with rectangles marked out.

  "And this will be the assessment hut." He honours Ezra with a glowing smile; irresistible when combined with that sexy hard hat. "I do realise I'm showing you nothing more interesting than a patch of earth, but I don't hang around once I get started."

  Is Akerman flirting with him? Ezra sighs inwardly; no, probably not. Men who look like that don't usually glance at him more than fleetingly, aside from the fact that he screams heterosexual. Ezra prides himself on his ability to accept reality. A couple of painful situations in his younger days―both emotionally and physically painful, that is―forced him to accept that 'turning' a straight man is best kept to fantasy.

  The damp air of earlier escalates into a drizzle, and Ezra thanks Akerman, pulls the hood of his waterproof jacket over his thinning crown, and hurries back to the shelter of the pod that will transport him over the track of wooden planks back to the trailer. He casts a look back as they drive off, regretting his decision; a butch specimen like Akerman would walk back rather than take the option of a ride, rain be damned.

  The roll of blubber around his middle seems to have just doubled in size.

  Back in the trailer, Uncle Caleb has a map of the area on the desk screen; he beckons Ezra over, and touches here and there to highlight the areas where groups of wastelanders are known to live, indicated by red splodges for their body heat.

  "This one here, we think they've made a bunker. You've got to admire their forethought; makes one wonder if they've got inside knowledge!"

  "I doubt it," says Ezra. "Considering the mentality of the average wastelander, it's probably been built with a zombie apocalypse in mind. Or some Hollywood style disaster caused by climate change." He assumes mock terror at the words 'climate change', and raises his hands as if to fend off a foe; that this amuses his uncle pleases him. "I'm still waiting for a definite start date from Freya, though."

  "I believe it will be Sunday, October 23rd; she's about to announce. One can never rely on an exact building completion date when one employs a partially human workforce, and it's essential that all compounds are fully functional before clearance begins―I suspect that the Link network is more effective than my beloved wife would like to believe, and we need to get in there and get out. Ten days should get it all done and dusted. Two weeks, tops." Caleb waves his arm, left to right. "A quick sweep, from the top of the country to the bottom. Like a knife through butter, before they know what's hit 'em."

  Ezra looks out of the window at the metal arms constructing the walls of what he knows, from his detailed inspection of the site plan, will soon be the holding bay.

  "Impressive, isn't it?" says Caleb, patting his nephew on the back. "We had an eighty per cent human workforce on the first Hope Villages; it was a nightmare. Now, shall we take a look at the Hadrian centre?"

  Caleb taps on the desk screen and zooms in on a large area filled with tiny cubicles. "They may have escaped paying taxes, but there are many ways in which a wastelander can do his bit for the future health of this glorious nation!"

  Ezra laughs. "Brings a whole new meaning to the term 'lab rats', doesn't it?"

  Caleb pats him on the back once more. "The party's over, son; they just don't know it yet."

  Chapter 10

  Going Underground

  Four days later, Ginevra obtains permission for me to visit the area of wasteland nearest to Sector 19.

  "I've arranged for you to stay overnight, which is when the abduction will take place," reads her note, which was placed in my locker at work. "The bad news is the guide―you've got the hawk-eyed megacity princess, I'm afraid, which I suspect was deliberate, given your recent demerit. Her name is Nula Black. She's an NPU, a couple of years older than you; you may know of her. One week from today, go to Artsi Gallery in Hub 6 at six p.m., and ask to speak to Frankie. She will direct you to a place where you and I can talk; by then I'll have sorted out a plan of action. You will give Nash and your friends only the official reason for your trip, obviously."

  Yes, I know Nula Black. She was a total bitch when we were kids, and she's upped her game since adulthood. I see her at Mojo, now and again; she's tall, with a superwoman body, a sharp, pretty face and square cut, white, shoulder-length hair so immaculate I reckon she must have a trim and root touch-up every day in her lunch hour. When I say 'white', I don't mean platinum blonde. I mean white.

  In the gym, she strides around like she owns the place. She must know who I am because we were in the same NPU house, but she never acknowledges me.

  This is the person who will be taking me for a visit to the wasteland, and from whom I have to escape.

  Also, I have to work up to asking Ginevra if Colt can come, because I really, really want him to. I don't want to do this alone.

  I'm an oversized holdall of nerves.

  Rather than tell Nash about my visit while we're alone, I suggest going round to Lori and Colt's for the evening, where I drop into conversation that I'm going on a wasteland trip; this way, Colt will know too.

  Nash is not happy. "And you were going to tell me about this when, exactly?"

  "I just have. What's your problem?"

  He sticks out his bottom lip, sulky little boy style. "I thought you might have discussed it with me first, that's all."

  "It's no biggie." I shrug. "It was Ginevra's idea; she says it'll help with some of my clients who have built up this fantasy about roaming free in the wasteland, if I can tell them what a shit-pit it really is."

  "Ew!" says Lori. "Rather you than me! And you're staying overnight? Do they even have running water?" She shudders. "Can you imagine, getting up and not being able to have a shower? Double ew!"

  "It'l
l be interesting," says Colt, his eyes boring into mine. "I'd love to go out there."

  Nash folds his arms. "Well, don't come back with any skanky wastelander diseases. And take your Healit II, for goodness sake, in case any of them bite you!"

  The Healit II is brilliant; it administers an antibiotic and kick-ass painkillers as well as mending wounds.

  Colt laughs. "They're not fucking zombies, mate."

  "Don't worry," I say, "I'll be fully prepared―I have to meet with Nula the day before, so she can tell me what to take, and what to expect."

  "Rather you than me twice over, then," says Lori. "She is, like, a total rancid. When she comes into the showroom we all call dibs on who's not going to serve her."

  She and Nash start bringing up wasteland pictures on the wallscreen, expressing horror that anyone could actually live in these dumps. To my left, I can feel Colt's eyes on me.

  When I look up at him, he jerks his head towards the kitchen.

  "I'll help Colt get the drinks," I say, bouncing up; Nash doesn't take any notice. He's too busy looking at Lori looking at the wallscreen.

  In the kitchen, Colt says, "So this is really about finding your family, right?"

  You will give Nash and your friends only the official reason for your trip, obviously.

  I'm going to risk it. I've known Colt for years, I trust him, and I want him to come with me. Hell, I'd take anyone, rather than be alone with Nula.

  "Yes, it is."

  "Hmm." He's still for a moment, then reaches into the freezer for the vodka. "And does Ginevra know the real reason?"

  Yes, I trust him, but something makes me hold back―he works for Locate, for goodness sake. A government department. What if he's keeping an eye on me?

  "Why do you ask?" I study his eyes; he's not iSyncing―I can always tell with Colt.

  Next, I use my psych training. Signs that someone is lying: looking to the left while they express the untruth, then meeting your eyes for too long, to establish sincerity and suss out if they're believed. Keeping the body overly still. Pausing a lot. Over-emphasis on detail in an effort to convince.

  He shrugs. "I just wondered. If she's a hundred per cent MC12, I mean. A few months back she gave us a presentation about emotional balance in the workplace, and I thought she seemed really genuine. No bullshit." On the last line, he looks up to the right: recalling, rather than lying.

  Yes, he's real. He gets the ice out and starts piling it into a jug.

  "You're being cautious. I get that."

  I don't answer.

  "Wise. You trusted me enough to help, though, didn't you?"

  I did. "Yes, but now it's not just my life I'm playing with."

  "Fair enough. But you do trust me?"

  "As much as I trust anyone, at the moment."

  He smiles. "Okay. Now―vodka, mango, passionfruit and apricot, with a splash of Cointreau; so cool it's not even trending yet. It's called a Mallory, after the stylist who 'discovered' it, and Lori wants to upload a stream of us drinking it." He winks at me, and takes fruit out of the fridge. "You have to liquidise and strain. Only fresh fruit of course, and believe me, Lori will know the diff; you will note that I have scooped out the insides of the passionfruit in readiness." He switches on his hand blender, and, above the noise, shouts, "Pass me that strainer, would you?"

  I do so.

  I watch; after ten seconds or so he turns it off and says, like he's just asking me to pass the sugar, "Is Ginevra underground, then?"

  I stop in my tracks. "Shit, Colt."

  "Well, we might as well be honest about it. Has she given you a contact?"

  "Don't, please."

  "I'll take that as a yes. Do you have a plan?"

  I just stare at him and he shakes his head, amused, and busies himself straining the fruit juice into the jug.

  Then he says, "So, do you still want me to come with you? For moral support?"

  I exhale loudly; feels like if I put one step wrong I could blow this whole thing up. "I do. Yes. I'll ask Ginevra if you can, but I'll make out like it's my idea."

  "Do that. Sexist though it undoubtedly is, women can request to be accompanied by a male friend, particularly if the guide is female―though heaven knows Nula Black is more intimidating and probably stronger than most guys I know. I tick all the responsible citizen boxes because I work in a government department, and I've never had anything worse than a one point demerit. Too many beers last summer."

  "I'll ask. As long as you don't ask any more questions I don't want to answer. At least till we're there."

  He grins. "I promise."

  "Thank you―you know, for offering to come with me. Means a lot."

  "De nada; you're my mate. I know what it's like to feel all alone in the world. And Nash isn't much good at the support thing, is he?" He smiles. "I do notice."

  Whatever my feelings about Nash right now, I don't want to slag him off. "He just doesn't understand."

  "That, and his mental age of fourteen. Look, I won't ask anything else, I promise, but is there a plan yet? Like, how you're going to get away from La Black?"

  Just for a split second, I get scared. Have I done something really stupid by telling him? "No, not yet."

  "Well, I'm in, anyway. Now, the Cointreau." He pours a dessertspoonful into each, stirs, arranges coils of fruit peel over the edges of the glasses and hands me two of them. "Better go and sort those two idiots out, then, hadn't we?"

  Ginevra is very, very pissed off with me for telling Colt about the real reason for the trip.

  "Are you crazy? What if he's a bug?"

  "A bug?"

  "Those employed to give information on anyone they suspect of being involved in Link."

  "I didn't tell him, he guessed."

  "You could have denied it!"

  "He knows me too well. I haven't told him about you, and I really don't think he is―"

  "You don't think? You have to know!"

  "But I've known him since I was a kid, and I'm a hundred per cent sure that―"

  "A hundred per cent? In that case you're even less ready for this than I feared. You can't be a hundred per cent sure of anyone, ever."

  "I know that, I didn't mean it; it's just a saying―I want him to come so I'm not doing this all alone, especially as I've got to go with bloody Nula Black, but if you think it's a really bad idea―"

  "It's a bit late now, whether I do or not, isn't it?"

  She makes me go over my whole conversation with Colt, twice, at the end of which she sighs, hand to brow. "Look, I get it. I do. I'm probably being overly cautious, and I wouldn't fancy going out there alone with that little madam, either. But I'll need to meet him, before I even think about applying to Lydia for him to accompany you―you'll set this up." She scribbles something on a piece of paper and seals it into an envelope. "Give him this. Today. Unless I'm satisfied he can be trusted, I'm cancelling the whole trip."

  Horrible, horrible couple of days. I feel such a bloody idiot. I've been careless with Ginevra's goodwill, I'm scared stiff that the trip will be cancelled, and I feel so distant from Nash because he doesn't have a clue about any of it.

  I struggle through my client sessions; mostly, I just let them talk. Harper actually tells me what a help I've been, after I've scarcely said a word for a whole hour, which makes me feel even more of a fraud. Perhaps that's all I need to be; a body with two ears in the chair opposite.

  I get an official notification to say that my trip out to the wasteland has been approved, that my guide will be Nula Black, and my request to be accompanied by Colt Douglas has been granted. I breathe a massive sigh of relief, though my joy is tempered by the stomach churns when I read the short, curt note from Ginevra to say that Colt is to go with me to Artsi Gallery to connect with Frankie.

  Meanwhile, Nash and I get up in the morning, kiss and exchange a few words before logging on to our days, and he messages me late afternoon, complete with ani-mates of little men walking and waving, to confirm that he'l
l be round straight from work. We make dinner, chat briefly about what's happened in the nine hours since we last saw each other, watch stuff, then we go to bed and once we even have sex, but my head is completely separate from all of it.

  When I get back, we need to talk about where we're going. I don't want to waste his time. He still tells me he loves me, but it's more of a 'Love you!' when he signs off from a call or before he goes to sleep; I wonder if it carries any more meaning than a bartender saying, 'Have a nice day'. We both need more than this half-hearted jogging along.

  It's not like I'm scared to be alone. Some evenings, I feel more alone with him than I would if I was physically by myself.

  I meet Colt at the gym and we set off for Artsi Gallery.

  "It's official; I've had the notification. So what happened when you met Ginevra?"

  "Ha―it was some weird shit." He pulls up the hood on his jacket; the sun's going down on a cloudy, dull day, and it's starting to rain. "Obviously she couldn't say, 'Are you a government snitch?' because if I was, that would have given her away. So we were having one conversation while really having another one. If you get what I mean. But yeah; she was okay with me by the end of it."

  "You're sure?"

  "She's no fool. If she had any doubts at all, she wouldn't have allowed me to go."

  It's happening. I can't believe it.

  "And does Lori know you're coming with me?"

  "Yeah." He grimaces. "She's not happy about it. You know; jealous."

  Eh? "Jealous? Of me? But we're all friends."

  He laughs. "Come on, Rae. That doesn't mean anything―and you can't tell me Nash wouldn't get into Lori's knickers if he had the chance."

  I know this. I do. But it's not nice to hear someone else pointing it out. "Thanks a bundle."

  "Sorry. I didn't think you were that bothered, though."

  "No? Why not?"

  "Oh, I don't know. You seem like you're just going through the motions, lately."