by Terry Tyler
Tiny stones prick into my feet with every step, and it takes all my willpower not to cry out.
Couldn't we have had kind abductors who let us get dressed?
Couldn't Xav have brought us some shoes?
And couldn't he have parked the damn vehicle nearer? Apparently not; he's avoiding any possibility of surveillance.
Actually doing this is nothing like sitting opposite Ginevra and hearing about it. I imagined it to be smooth, exciting, like in films, but it isn't. It is a little bit exciting, but it's terrifying, too, and I may not care for Nula, but hearing her attacked like that was pretty disturbing.
I think about this as I run along in the dark behind Xav and Colt, down little alleys, past sleeping houses, our bare feet silent on damp pavement. Mick falls behind, shouting to us that he'll catch us up. We run like the wind; this is a far cry from the running machine at Mojo, a flat, smooth surface and my impact-reduction running shoes. I'm no longer cold, I'm sweating.
Xav streams ahead of us. Ginevra told us all about him; he's something of a wasteland legend, who ducks and dives and blends into the background like a chameleon whenever he is needed, taking on missions for Link then melting away, contactable only on his dark network phone by the few who are given his number. His sole mission in life is to swell the number of the wastelanders and turn them into a viable force.
"Some think he's a fantasist; he talks about an uprising, one day. No, I don't think that will happen, but I have a great deal of respect for him."
We reach his van, at last. It looks like something that's been knocked together from several contraptions from pre-electric days.
Colt slaps his hand on the side of it. "What does this baby run on, then?"
"Biofuel. We make it, and our vehicles. They don't want us mobile, but we've acquired the skills we need, so fuck 'em."
Inside, the cab is one long seat. I am in the middle. Eventually Mick puffs and pants up behind us, and dives into the back.
We drive, in silence, into the obscurity of the wasteland. After about five minutes, Xav says, "Mick, chuck over that black bag―it's clothes for Rae and Colt." He turns to look at me. In the moonlight, his face is a structure of sharp peaks and hollows. Serious. Not the sort of face you mess with. "Don't feel bad about the other woman; I had to rip her t-shirt and take her necklace to make it look real, but I hardly hurt her. Ginevra tells me she's a tough cookie, and she'll be offered therapy and other megacity bullshit. It'll look more convincing if she appears to have been assaulted; that's what they expect from us rats." He rubs his leg. "I actually think she hurt me more than I hurt her."
Colt's rummaging in the bag; Mick flicks on a torch to help him, and a pair of jogging bottoms and a hoodie appear on my lap. Socks too; oh, bliss. And a pair of slip-on trainers. I'm in heaven.
Colt says, "Won't it look weird that we were taken and she wasn't?"
"Possibly," says Xav. "Could be we left her because she seemed like too much trouble, or because we had intel about her being a hard nut to crack. The only other option was to take her and dump her somewhere, but that could have put her in danger; there's a gang based about ten miles away. I'm hoping that no one will get an alert about your chips going dark until morning, but even if they do, we're far enough away now."
I snuggle into my sweatshirt. "What will happen to the people back there? Liam and Jasmine? Thad and Evelyn?"
"Oh, they'll all be questioned, to find out if any of them are Link undercover. But nothing too bad, and even if it is, those sly bastards deserve all they get."
A sick realisation hits me. "And Ginevra? She arranged all this―asked for permission for me to come out here―"
"She knows the risks. She's been putting himself on the line for Link for years."
"Will they hurt her?"
"Not physically. Don't worry. Ginevra's as strong as steel."
Have the words 'don't worry' ever stopped anyone doing so? I think of smart Ginevra with her designer scarves, being submitted to―what?
"I'm scared for her."
"If you weren't, you wouldn't be the sort of person she'd have helped."
I try again. "So what will happen to her?"
"She's a respected sixty-five-year-old woman who's given twenty-odd years of her life to the megacity. She has an aged mother in the Senior Village. She's never been in any sort of trouble. I imagine all that will happen is that she will be questioned and, like I said, she's as strong as steel. She knows what to do."
"All this, so that I can find my family." I'm not really talking to anyone; I'm just overwhelmed by the enormity of what's happened and what's going on.
"All this, so that we can reunite a family forcibly separated by the UK's new order. This is what we do. The NPU programme is inhumane, and the megacities are vile places. If we can get one person out per week, one more person who chooses freedom over that life, however hard it is, that's one more who refuses to kneel to a fucking government that spies on you and encourages friends to report on each other for imagined sins. All those people who bought into the 'working together to save the planet' bullcrap―they didn't see that by moving to the megacities they were handing over every right to privacy, making their own decisions, free speech, forever. You're out―it's a good day."
"But this was planned so I could go back―"
"It was. And yes, when you've done what you need to, you might decide you can't live without your com, your rabbit hutch in the stacks and having your life controlled by a load of rich fuckers you've never met, at which point we'll rough you up a bit and dump you somewhere in the megacity hinterland with a carefully constructed story. But think on: once you're back in, you'll never be allowed out again. Ever. Your chip will be reinserted, you'll be given a new com, and you'll probably be under full surveillance for a lot longer than you realise."
I look out of the window. I feel overwhelmed; I just wanted to meet my mother, brother and sister. "I never thought about what would happen when I went back."
Xav stares ahead, eyes on the road. "Ginevra told me you're asking questions; it's all good. One more free thinker, one less megacity zombie. Did you know that people disappear, out here? Not often; just one or two at a time, here and there. Not kids; they're taken to Hope Villages. Adults. Never seen again. We need more eyes and ears inside the megacities, badly, so you can still help us even if you do go back."
We're all silent for a moment; then Colt says, "Sorry, mate, but I'm out. That's me gone."
Xav says, "Good man, though you'd have been a great asset; you work for Locate, right?"
"Yes, but―"
Xav puts his hand up. "No worries, I'd never try to force anyone back there against their wishes. It takes a certain type of person to work for Link on the inside, anyway. Ginevras and Milos are few and far between. I'm just glad this part's over; it was bastard cold prowling around in the dark, so I could be sure where you were sleeping. No, don't thank me. Just doin' ma job."
And then no one speaks for a while; we just drive. I don't think Xav is the sort of person with whom one can make small talk.
Travelling in this van is nothing like gliding along on the ziprail, or in a pod. It's noisy and jerky, and the unlit, neglected roads mean a bumpy ride. But I love it. I feel as if I'm in a story; I've always loved movies and TV shows about post-apocalyptic worlds, or fugitives escaping across hazardous landscapes. Colt downloads old ones off the dark net, but not many are made nowadays. I'd never thought about why not, before, but now I wonder if it's because they glorify the spirit of adventure that 'they' don't want us to have.
I glance at Colt. He's smiling as he looks out into the night. He's got all that he wanted, now. I can't help feeling sorry for Lori.
Although this area is not lit, the sky is not that dark; light pollution from the megacities seeps into every part of the country. Far away, I see clumps of buildings surrounded by high, floodlit fences; a Hope, I assume. We pass through the remains of a real village; Xav tells us it's been empty fo
r over twenty years, when the last inhabitant gave up and accepted the inevitable.
At last we get to where we're going. The silent shell of a deserted small town. If I was expecting a dark cavern in a hillside filled with anarchic rebel warriors in camouflage gear brandishing guns―which, okay, I kind of was―I am sorely disappointed. The van chugs to a stop outside an ordinary house in an ordinary street. Outside is a motorbike, a strange contraption like the van. We get out, and the first thing that strikes me is how quiet it is. No people, no constant hum of city life. Samantha Carlton told me that, pre-megacity, the world was far noisier, with all the cars and buses, streets filled with shops, restaurants and bars, but I have never before experienced the quiet that surrounds me when I step out of Xav's van in the wasteland.
It's not a dead sort of quiet, or a peaceful one. More like the calm before a storm.
Xav opens a front door, and I wonder what it must be like to live in a place that is just yours, without others above and below. Nash did, when he lived with his parents, but he's never talked about how it felt; I doubt he's even thought about it.
I ask, "Are there others living nearby?"
"No, this is a contact house. Where we take people like you to meet people who will take you to wherever. It's a bit basic, but it's only a stop-over."
Colt, Mick and I follow him down a dark hall and into a room that is bright with candles.
"Sloane and Dior." He gestures to them individually; Sloane is a fabulous looking girl with blonde hair in an arty topknot, dressed in black, more how I imagined underground wasteland warriors to look, and Dior looks Eastern European or possibly Asian, with dark hair slicked back.
They both look much more cool and scary than anyone I've ever met before.
Xav gestures towards us. "Colt, Rae."
When I look to Colt for a bit of familiar reassurance, he's not looking at me. His face is lit up, eyes wide.
He's staring at Sloane, like all his birthdays have come at once.
Dior smiles first. "Hi. Welcome."
I smile back. "Thanks. I love your name." I think how Lori would love it, too.
She rolls her eyes. "It's fucking stupid, chosen by my fucking stupid megacity mum, who was obsessed with stupid fucking clothes and make-up."
"You can't hate it that much, or you'd change it," says Mick, mildly.
Dior laughs. "Well spotted, you clever bastard." She turns back to me. "I got out as soon as I could. Fucked a delivery guy from one of the charities, who was taking stuff out to the drop-ins."
Sloane gets up in one languid movement, and takes a couple of steps towards me. "You're the one who's looking for her family, right?"
I steel myself to not be nervous. "I am. My mother, brother and sister. Are you the person who's going to help me find them?"
She narrows her eyes, without smiling. "Not me, no. But I'll take you to someone who can." And then she turns to Colt, looks him up and down. "Nice." She glances at me. "He yours?"
I smile. "No."
She gazes into his eyes, and touches his mouth with long fingers peeping out of fingerless gloves. "Good. I'll take him as payment."
Chapter 15
Proposition
My first morning as a free woman.
We were given mattresses in the front downstairs room of the house, though Colt went upstairs as soon as he thought I was asleep; shortly afterwards the floorboards above me started creaking. Sloane wasn't kidding.
Lori, it wasn't me you needed to worry about.
Dior shows me where to pee and wash―the garden, and a bowl of water on an old draining board, respectively.
"If you need to take a crap, go in the garden next door and bury it. There's bog roll and a spade in the kitchen."
Thankfully, I don't.
Colt's back in our designated bedroom by the time I return.
Nula will have been found by now. Locate will have been alerted―will they have drones out looking for us? Have Nash and Lori been told? Has the plan worked, or do they think we were a part of it? Is Ginevra in trouble?
I put all these questions to Colt, but he shakes his head at me.
"Don't. The only answer to any of that is 'we don't know'. Try not to think about it; you'll drive yourself nuts."
Being told not to think about something is not unlike being told not to worry. I've got to try, though, because I know he's right.
The mattress I slept on was comfortable, I slept well, and we're given nasty coffee and a bowl of non-Nutricorp muesli-type cereal with soya milk made from powder. I'm lost without my com; I used to tap on Heart every morning before I even got out of bed; I'd look at the weather, my personal messages, last night's feed to see what my friends in the US had been talking about while I was asleep; I'd tap onto HealthLine to check my blood pressure, cholesterol and blood sugar levels, then onto NuSens to see my breakfast and lunch suggestions. I'd maybe have a quick interface with Destiny about the forthcoming day; her boyfriend left her a few months ago and she's on Heart every minute she's not at work because she can't stand being alone. Basically, my com performed twenty different functions before the day even began. This morning, though, I get up to people having conversations.
Nash and I scarcely talk in the mornings. There is a mass of information to be absorbed, allowing little time for chat until we get on the ziprail, and mostly we don't bother to talk even then.
As I'm eating my breakfast, I consider that for years, decades and centuries, human beings survived without NuSens. So maybe we don't need to have perfectly balanced diets all the time. Perhaps our bodies are stronger than we think. Perhaps we won't fall down and die if our selenium levels fall below the recommended daily amount on any particular day.
After breakfast, Mick gets out some chocolate biscuits, and I dive in with everyone else.
Xav has disappeared, and so has the motorbike from outside. When we're setting off, I ask where he is.
Dior smiles. "Ah, no one ever knows where Xav is, unless he wants them to. I've never known anyone like him for being elusive. There's a theory that even when you do see him, it's actually just a hologram."
"He'll be fighting the good fight somewhere," says Mick. "He's the William Wallace of the wasteland, that one."
I don't know who William Wallace is, and don't like to ask.
Dior opens the clanky old side doors of the van, and she and Mick climb in the back. Sloane's driving. This time Colt is in the middle of the long seat, and I feel mildly uncomfortable because the two of them are giving off heavy 'we had great sex last night and are totally into each other' vibes; Sloane's eyes keep leaving the road, and I've never seen Colt smile so much. Her hand strays to his crotch, and I look out of the window. Maybe I ought to suggest we pull over so that Mick, Dior and I can go for a discreet walk and they can get Round Two out of their systems.
I don't even know what time it is. Even weirder is the realisation that it doesn't matter.
It's a drab, wet morning. I enjoy looking out of the window, but there's nothing much to see. Our destination is the village of Fennington St Mary, where, I am told, it all happens. I have no idea what to expect.
We stop outside some houses. A long row of them, like last night, but these ones are bigger, with front gardens; they're built in twos, with small alleys down the sides of each pair.
Sloane says, "We're here," and I jump out of the van; I hear the side door slide open beside me, see Colt get out and stand with Sloane. Mick and Dior are behind me as I walk up the driveway of what I guess was once a family home. The door opens and a woman comes out. She's built like a tank, tall, broad and square with chunky legs in combat pants, short, spiky dark hair, with a warm smile, and I feel a great sense of coming to the end of a long journey. The sun peeps through the clouds, behind the house, and all at once I feel more positive, not so disorientated. I take a step forward―
―and suddenly I can't move, or see.
I hear Colt shouting, "Hey―what's going on―"
S
omething musty is covering my head―a bag, I can't shake it off, I can feel someone securing it, and someone else has got my arms. I'm struggling but it gets me nowhere―I'm kicking and shouting with all my might, hollering out for help, when I hear a voice from the direction of the door―the big woman?―saying, Mick, give her a shot, she's a feisty one; I feel a sharp prick and my whole body goes limp, floaty―I'm fighting to keep my eyes open, to keep standing, but I can't, and I fall―
I think it must be the next day, because it's been dark. I woke up when it was night, but I was so groggy―I tried to stand up and call out for help, to get to a window, but I fell back and couldn't summon the energy to move again. I wasn't being pathetic; my limbs were like lead weights, and my eyes kept shutting.
It's light again, but I have no idea if I've been here for a day, or a week, or a month, or longer―fuck. That's scary. I feel my fringe. I had it cut two weeks ago and it's still out of my eyes. Can't have been here that long, then. I feel under my arms, my eyebrows. No, still smooth. Had them lasered two weeks ago, too. I pull out the neck of my hoodie and sniff. I can still smell shower gel and body spray. Can't have been here more than a day or so, maximum, then.
My bladder is bursting; I spy a bucket in the corner, which I assume is there for my use. Too bad if it's not. Ah. Bliss. Now I can think straight.
I stand up.
What the fuck? What the actual fucking fuck? What has Revolutionary Xav sent me to?
Did Ginevra know?
There's a tiny window, not big enough to crawl through. The bottom two thirds are boarded up, but if I stand with my feet sideways on the tiny windowsill and press my hands onto the wall I can look out―I'm in a basement and there's nothing to see out there, no people, just houses, and I can't tell if anyone is at home―ouch, shit, I lose my balance, my foot slides off the windowsill and I'm on my arse on the floor.
