Wasteland

by Terry Tyler

  I try again, feeling down behind the boards to the catch. It's sealed shut.

  Right. Sod this. They've got no right to keep me locked up. Whatever they've put me here for, I'm not having it. I march towards the door and bang on it.

  "Hey! Anyone out there? Can we talk?"

  No answer. I try again in a similar vein but there's still no response; in anger and frustration I kick the door and hurt my toes. Won't do that again. And I've seen enough TV in which people bang on doors and scream to be let out to know that no one ever comes.

  I look around my prison. There's a mattress, with a cushion. Old, but not dirty. The bucket. Some old books. A bottle of water. Two of cranberry juice; one is marked 'morning' and the other 'evening'. Weird. A plastic container. With no little trepidation, I ease off the lid. Don't know what I think I might see in there; Colt's severed hand, maybe.

  Inside is a small box of crackers, a cellophane pack of cheese slices, a bar of chocolate, a slice of ginger cake and an apple. The sight of the food reminds me that I'm hungry. I wolf down the crackers and cheese, then start on the cake, deciding to keep half until later in case this is all I'm getting.

  I look at the cranberry juice bottles for ages, scared to drink in case they've got something life-threatening in them ('morning' and 'evening'? Why?), decide to risk it and drink the 'morning' one. They wouldn't have left me food and books if they were about to kill me.

  Panic washes over me, and I pull myself up to the window again to try knocking and shouting. Nothing. I've read stories in which people are locked up for years and years, eventually becoming emotionally dependent on their captors. Stockholm syndrome. Fuck that.

  Or is this part of the fake abduction? If so, someone needs to be told that no one's watching now.

  I'm not going to get hysterical. I won't. I'm not going to cry, either, 'cause if they're spying on me I don't want to give them the satisfaction.

  Think. I shut my eyes and remember what I tell my clients. There's no point getting stressed out about things you can't change. Breathe in for four seconds, out for four seconds. It calms you down. Exercise relieves anxiety. I do jumping jacks, but it's too soon after eating. So I'm still as anxious as hell, and now have guts ache, too.

  I sit on the mattress with my back against the wall, and think some more.

  And then it starts.

  The music.

  A burst of death metal, then silence. Upbeat dance music that grates on my nerves. Silence. Metal again. Silence. Dance. Silence. Metal. I count the seconds between each burst, just for something to do. Thirteen. Fourteen. Dance. Fifteen―metal. Sixteen―dance. My temples ache. I take deep breaths. Mustn't allow it to get to me.

  I rip paper out of the books and dip them in the water to make papier mâché type earplugs. Not very effective, but better than nothing. I lie on my back and try to imagine myself under peaceful blue skies. The Lake District―but that makes me think about my old life―has it already become 'my old life'?―and how bad I feel about Nash. I should have had the courage to end it before. Then again, so should he. I think about him crushing on Lori and not letting me talk about my family, so I won't feel guilty.

  The music stops. It's quiet for minutes at a time. Okay, earplugs out. I open my eyes and look up. Oh yes, there's the camera. Little hole in the ceiling. Bastards. I wonder who's watching.

  I stand, and look up at the hole. "Can you let me out, please? Or at least come in and talk to me, so I know what this is about? Please?"

  I don't expect a response, and I don't get one. No point banging on the door again; if they were going to respond to that, they would have already.

  Back to the mattress. Right; the books. They're all pretty old. Well-thumbed. I select one called The Last Feast. A sci-fi novella about the last human being, in a one-man space ship. Sounds like a riot, but at least I'll be able to identify with the solitude aspect. I settle down with it.

  An hour later I contemplate the power of a good book; despite my weird and scary circumstances, I've just spent the last sixty minutes totally absorbed in the world of Jim, the last human. I get up, exercise, look out of the window; looks like the sun is going down. Great. This room is going to be as boring as hell when it's dark. And cold. It's getting cold already. I try to work out what day it is; if I've only been here one day, which is all it feels like, it's Thursday, the 20th of October. Autumn. Cooler evenings.

  I want to clean my teeth. Take a shower. My face is pleading for moisturiser. I try the switches, but there's no light. The radiators are cold. More jumping jacks.

  The music starts up again.

  Death metal. One, two, three, four, five, tinny dance crap. One, two, three, four, five, six, death metal.

  I make more earplugs.

  It goes on a long time. A very long time. I use the bucket. I eat the rest of the cake, the chocolate and the apple. The music stops. I talk to the camera in an assertive but reasonable fashion. Reasonable considering that I've been locked up by total strangers who are supposed to be helping me. I say words that would earn me a social demerit back home.

  As the morning cranberry juice did not appear to be doctored, I decide to risk the evening one, and five minutes later I can't stop my eyes from shutting.

  Ah. Now I get it.

  As my lids grow heavy, I panic. Anything could be done to me while I'm unconscious. I fight it, get up, walk, run up and down, but my body is like a lead weight and I'm falling asleep even as I'm putting one foot in front of another.

  I stop.

  I fall.

  I sleep.

  When I wake, it's light again.

  The bucket has been emptied, the plastic box refilled with a tuna sandwich and a bottle of orange juice. I don't know if I should drink the orange juice but I'm too thirsty not to.

  It's okay. It doesn't make me sleepy. I'm on edge, anxious, waiting for that bloody music to start again. I want to eat the sandwich, but I'm worried that more food will result in the need to empty my bowels, which I am reluctant to do, given the primitive lavatorial arrangements.

  I'm just settling onto the mattress, back against the wall, to return to Jim in outer space, when the door opens.

  It's her. The tank woman who smiled at me then told Mick to inject me with drugs.

  I lurch up. "What the hell is going on here? You let me the fuck out of here, now―"

  She walks towards me. "It's a good book, that one, isn't it? I thought you'd enjoy it." She holds out her hand to me. "I'm Yara. I have a proposition for you."

  She asks me to be an agent for Link back in the megacity, like Ginevra.

  I say, "That's a bold move, considering you've kept me locked up and peeing in a bucket to a backdrop of death metal for the last forty-eight hours."

  We're sitting in another room, on comfortable chairs, and it's warm. I've had a shower in the house next door―a cranky old thing, lukewarm, from rainwater collected in a tub outside―and been given clean clothes; undies, jeans, a t-shirt and hoodie.

  "I understand your reaction, but I wanted to see what you were made of. Problem is, you see, we don't have enough people on the inside. It's hard enough to even make contact with anyone from the megacities these days, let alone persuade escapees to go back once they've got out. You're the first possibility I've come across in a long time. Ginevra told Xav you might be interested; she said you're a hell of a lot stronger than you think, and you're only just scratching the surface of what you can achieve in your life."

  I'm so angry and totally flabbergasted that I can't get my head around all she's saying, for a moment.

  "Ginevra sent me to meet you, knowing what you would do to me?"

  "What, you mean feed you and provide you with some excellent reading material?"

  "And this is your standard recruitment procedure? Can I suggest you employ a human resources manager who's been on an effective social interaction course?"

  She laughs. "I'm sorry you're so angry. But it's a necessary part of the process, to see
if you're suitable. If you crack under pressure. You didn't. No, Ginevra doesn't know how I go about it, and it's true that many in the network think my methods are too harsh, but there's no point recruiting someone who caves when the going gets tough." A shrug. "I thought you might be prepared to give something back. Bearing in mind all we're doing for you."

  "Fuck your emotional blackmail. If this is what your help is going to cost, you can shove it. I offered to pay, but Ginevra told me you do all this willingly, for a cause you believe in."

  "We do, but Xav took massive risks with his own safety to get you out of that house, as does Gin whenever she's active."

  "She offered. I didn't ask her. If you wanted to recruit me, couldn't you have just asked?"

  And couldn't Ginevra have mentioned it?

  As my anger abates, though, I start to consider Yara's proposition―not that I'm about to admit this. Is it naïve of me to be excited by the thought of becoming an undercover agent? It's okay, I know the answer to that.

  The problem is that when I imagine myself going back to MC12, I hear prison doors clanking shut behind me. All options closed. Xav said, you'll never be allowed out again. Ever. I'll be megacity till I die.

  I'm not sure if I can cope with that.

  Yara is saying, "I had to know if you were Link material."

  "Yeah, well, now you know. Never mind the megacities being inhumane―I thought I was going to be sex-trafficked or offered up as a sacrifice in a satanic ritual, or―"

  "You've been watching too much TV." She refills my cup with coffee; good coffee this time. "Had you started screaming the place down, or lapsed into a state of panic and hysteria, I'd have let you out," Yara continues, "but you didn't. You worked out a way to make your time in the room as comfortable as possible; I was particularly impressed with the earplugs. You followed instructions as per the cranberry juice, you rationed your food, made sensible attempts to communicate with your captor, looked for ways of escape, then calmly made the best of your circumstances."

  I give her what I hope is a scathing look. "I've lived my life in a megacity. That's what we do. We don't question, we accept."

  "But you didn't. You investigated, to see if there was a way out. You worked out that there was a camera. You made a connection. I'm sure that if you'd been kept there a third day, you'd have found a way to escape."

  "Too damn right I would. Has Colt had the same treatment?"

  "No, because Sloane stopped it―I now know he has no intention of going back; this was his way out. But your plan is to find your family, spend some time with them, then return, yes? When that time comes, we'll go through various possible scenarios with you―basically, which story you'll be able to keep to, when questioned."

  "So when's it going to happen? What I came here for?"

  "When we've finished talking. The central records system is next door, though people move around; it's all so haphazard, that's the problem." She leans forward, elbows on her meaty thighs. "You could be such a valuable asset. Ginevra told me that apart from a recent demerit you have a clean slate, so all you'd need to do is settle back into your life with Nash, and―"

  My irritation levels soar. "Don't tell me what I need to do. I've been controlled by other people my whole life. I don't even know you."

  She isn't fazed. "You'd be helping so many people. Like Ginevra has helped you."

  "So we're back to emotional blackmail."

  Yara runs stubby fingers through her spiky hair. "We're doing you a favour here, mate. I'm just suggesting that you could do us one back."

  "It's more than a favour. You're asking me to do something that could put me in jail, or worse. Mate." I swallow the last of my coffee, and stand up. "So you can quit with trying to make me feel beholden, and maybe do some work on your interpersonal skills. Just point me in the direction of this records place, and your job's done. No, on second thoughts, don't bother. I'll find it myself."

  "And then what? How will you get back to MC12?"

  "I'll walk."

  "It's about eighty miles away. What will you eat? Drink?"

  "I'll figure it out."

  I move towards the door, but she calls me back.

  "Rae. Sit down. I'm sorry; I just wanted to show you what a valuable asset you could be. We need to replace Ginevra; she's already quit, because of her mother, but for some reason she particularly wanted to help you―is there a personal connection?"

  I'm not answering.

  "Anyway, we need someone to fill her shoes, desperately. Working for Link would give your life a purpose. Think of all the people you'd be helping. People like you."

  I shake my head. "There you go again."

  She stares at me, unsmiling. "Sit down. Please. You need to hear this. So that you understand. Really understand what sort of people we're working against."

  I stop in my tracks.

  "Okay. You've got five minutes."

  She gestures to the other chair; I sit.

  "You have no idea what it was like when the clearances started. I was fifteen when they came for us. We'd heard what was going on in the rest of the country, but it was given such a positive spin on the internet and the news; we thought we'd be going to those nice new flats that we'd seen on TV. But they weren't for people like us, who lived in what was called social housing. I came home from school to find our whole estate cordoned off and marked for demolition, with armed guards everywhere; they gave us no notice so we couldn't run and hide, or alert anyone for help; the phone signal and internet went dead just as they turned up.

  "We had to collect our belongings together and get on buses that would take us to a Hope Village. My mother lived on Social Care benefits before they were phased out, as did most on the estate. We were the non-working class, no use to anyone―the useless eaters, they called us. Not even deserving of our own homes. People's pets that were part of the family were taken away; they said they'd be looked after in special sanctuaries, but I doubt that was true. In just a matter of hours, our lives were destroyed. Houses, schools, the pub, the community centre and the kebab shop, which was the only business that hadn't already closed down―it was all to be bulldozed. Kids cried, parents shouted and screamed, barricaded themselves inside; the riot police turned up and some of the brave hurled petrol bombs, but they were too strong for us.

  "Mum and me, we watched as our friends trooped towards the buses, but Mum said, 'This isn't happening to us'. She tripped up a guard, her friend Barb punched one in the face, others joined in, and some of us escaped in the chaos. Most of them were caught; gunshots into the air were enough to make 'em stop and turn around, hands up. In the end there were just six of us; me, Mum, Barb, and a family from down the street―a man and his two sons. One of them was only a toddler, and he was crying 'cause his mum had been grabbed and hauled off by the guards. We hid in a derelict charging station for three days, eating nothing but stale chocolate and crisps that we found in the storeroom; place had been closed for a year. And that kid never stopped crying for his mum." She pauses for breath. "This is how they made sure the underclass had no voice; by the time they could get online again, they were in Hope, where every single communication is censored. You post even a sentence they don't like, and the bots shut you down. This what we're fighting for. To claim back our rights as human beings, to reunite with those from whom we've been forcibly separated, because no one should have total control over the lives of others. We're fighting against a system that encourages you megacity lot to report on each other for ticks in boxes. So forgive me if you think I'm using this story as emotional blackmail. It's not blackmail. It's the reason. So that we can help more people like you."

  I'm speechless. I had no idea. I was part of the lucky majority, sitting pretty in my megacity flat, without a thought for how all the people in the Hopes actually got there. They have been stamped 'unworthy', and cleared away where they can no longer be seen by rest of us.

  "You think your life is restricted in the megacity―you have no idea."


  She experienced something I can't comprehend. Her plan has worked, because it's helped me make up my mind. Not in the way she intended, though.

  I've heard Ginevra's angle―the lucky ones, with their own houses and the skills necessary for employment, who were sold the ecologically sustainable ideal. I've heard how their children soon adapted, how all those young people like me, twenty and thirty years ago, thought the megacities sounded like pretty cool places to be. But now I know the full story.

  "You've convinced me. I'll help."

  Her face relaxes into a smile. "That's great! So, after we've located your people, you'll go back and―"

  "Sorry; that's not what I meant. I'm not going back. I'll gladly become active in Link, but I can't go back to sitting in my comfortable little counselling suite every day, telling people how wonderful it is to live in the megacities."

  Her smile fades. "But it's inside that we need people―that's the hard part―"

  "I know. I get that. But I can't go back." I stand up. "Maybe it's time to review that recruitment procedure? Now, can we go and find my family?"

  Chapter 16

  Family

  Next door I find Colt and Sloane holding hands and whispering to each other. I remember being like that with Nash, at first. Long time ago.

  Nash. Is he worried about where I am? If I've been hurt? If I'm still alive? I don't know what goes on inside his head, like he has never known what goes on in mine. Or maybe there wasn't much to know, for most of the time we were together. I was as blinkered as he was. Neither of us is to blame for that. Everyone is just how they are, until something happens that makes them think differently.

  Lori must be going out of her mind wondering where Colt is. Four years, and this is all she gets; he disappears in a pod, and she never sees him again. I have no doubt she will consider me totally to blame.

  I feel sad for all four of us. Life has jogged on, day in, day out, for the past few years, and now I've blown it up, literally overnight.