Wasteland

by Terry Tyler

  Underneath this message is a whole line of red hearts. Lori smiles to herself; she expects Nash to make his play for her any day now. Sadly―for him―he's way too average. Once she's got over Colt's disappearance (because she knows, in her heart, that he's not coming back), she will choose her next partner with care. Meanwhile, who could possibly blame her for having a little fling, here and there? Come to think of it, there might be some satisfaction to be had in fucking Nash. Poor guy's been hot for her for months.

  Yeah, what the hell. That'll serve Rae right, won't it?

  Nash Green is having the time of his life. He's been given a week's compassionate leave from work and his friends are queueing up on holochat. No sooner has he finished with one than another pops up, ready with sympathy and offers of drinks, dinner, a games night to take his mind off his situation. Never knew he was so popular! Of course, he has not mentioned that final conversation with Rae, which was, by anyone's standards, the prelude to breaking up. If not the actual break-up.

  The only thing he is not so keen on is having to spend his time in the flat share, instead of round at Rae's place; Security took his ID off her door scan as soon as Nula reported the abduction. He didn't realise, until he'd spent a few nights at home, what pigs Keir and Davide are. Empty beer bottles everywhere, and they never clean the shower.

  Still, he now has a genuine excuse to get close to Lori. Last night they holochatted while he was in bed; he just happened to be naked to the waist. The way she kept licking her lips made him damn sure that she was imagining what was going on under his duvet. Quite a lot, actually; something to do with the silky cami and little lace-edged shorts she was wearing.

  He's sure Rae is okay. She's with Colt, isn't she? Big, alpha male Colt. Wanker. He doesn't actually miss her. Sometimes, he finds it hard to respond when his friends show their sympathy.

  You must be going out of your mind with worry.

  Night times are the worst, aren't they?

  If Missing Persons are on the case, I'm sure she'll be back in no time!

  I'm so sorry you have to go through this, Nash; it must be hell.

  But it's not.

  He can't remember, now, what he and Rae talked about. Diddly squat, really. He did his thing, she did hers, and they rarely met in the middle. Never had a conversation that lasted more than five minutes. A while back she was prattling on about finding her family, but she seemed to have got over that. Probably knew it was a pipe-dream. Nash didn't like to say so at the time, but he was surprised she wasn't embarrassed about having a rat family and a psycho killer for a father.

  As for sex―well, he's been using his right hand and fantasies about other women (usually Lori) for months now. On the rare occasions it happened, Rae was so unenthusiastic he felt like telling her not to bother. Just yesterday, though, someone from Missing Persons called him up on holochat. A super-hot babe called Quinn Matheson, who assured him that they were doing all they could to find Rae and Colt, and guaranteed his girlfriend would be returned to him ASAP.

  Nash's spirits took a dive when she said this. If Rae comes back they'll have to go through the whole 'are we splitting up' thing; this way, the decision has been made for him. Not only that, but he will look like the world's biggest shit if he dumps her after all she's been through. She'll be traumatised, so he'll have to give her special attention. Nash isn't good at TLC. Can't see why people don't just buck up and sort themselves out.

  Perhaps Missing Persons won't find her.

  Nash touches his com and takes a look at his stills of Quinn. Nice. A bit skinny, but he likes her short, shiny black hair with its heavy fringe, and that air of quiet authority is as sexy as hell.

  Yeah.

  He lies back on the couch, unzips his jeans, and plays the holochat back from the beginning.

  Caleb Bettencourt fingerprints his approval to take no action on Ginevra Carlton. He skims over his last interaction on the subject ('Have a heart, man; Samantha Carlton is ninety-five years old. Let her live out whatever time she's got left without her daughter disappearing; in a month's time none of that Link network crap will matter'), and shuts his eyes.

  Fifteen years ago he might not have made this decision, but back then he had not witnessed the deterioration of his uncle Paul. The founder of Nutricorp, a force of nature whose mind gave up on life before his body did. Five painful years of Alzheimer's before death came for him. He can see him now, dribbling onto his bib; Caleb had always considered himself a hard-hearted bastard, but the sight of Uncle Paul as a drooling wreck shocked him to the core. Especially when he cried, confused, because he thought Mona had abandoned him, though she'd actually moved back to the States to care for him; he just didn't recognise her.

  When he told Freya he thought it best to leave Ginevra Carlton alone, she said he was going soft in his old age.

  He's not, though. Not where the rats are concerned.

  Oh, no.

  Chapter 21

  Rae

  Off-Grid #1

  I remember Colt telling me about the off-grid he visited as a child, the rural paradise that stuck in his mind as his ideal.

  Beckett's Farm is its dark dimension counterpart.

  Doesn't help that it's a dull, drizzly day, mist rolling o'er hill and field, which makes this part of untended Yorkshire countryside appear positively post-apocalyptic; I would not be surprised to see zombies mooching out of the abandoned houses. As for Beckett's Farm, I expect to find a cellar filled with naked wretches waiting to be turned into dinner, at any moment.

  It consists of a large farmhouse, a few fields, some outbuildings and static caravans. We are greeted by a man who looks as though he materialises out of a compost heap whenever there is a visitor, then decomposes back into it as soon as he has directed them to the shabby little hut that functions as an office and visitors' reception area.

  "There's no one here called John Farrer, or with that date of birth," says the rotund young woman whose work we have clearly just interrupted. She has greasy brown hair and glasses so thick that her eyes are magnified when she looks at us, and she's talking to me with a mouth filled with sandwich. There is a glob of what looks like vomit on her cheek, though I think (hope) it's sandwich spread. I thank her and get up to leave, but she tells me to sit down.

  "We've got some new people here who came from a Hope Village. In the fields. If you wanna wait until they come back for their dinner, you can ask them if they know him."

  Ace turns to me. "That's a bit of a long shot."

  "I know, but if I'm going to find him I've got to try every avenue, haven't I?"

  "I guess." And I guess his reluctance is due to the fact that he wants to get the hell out of here.

  I look back at the girl, which is not a pleasant experience; she is now eating a grey-looking scone covered in jam, some of which has joined the sandwich spread on her cheek. "When do they get back?" It's only three in the afternoon.

  "'Five." She picks up a mirror, examines her cheek, and wipes it clean with the back of her hand. "It's my lamb stew tonight, so they'll be back prompt."

  "Sounds good."

  I am honoured with the first hint of a smile. "Best in Yorkshire." She puts the scone down and licks her lips. "I slaughter the lambs myself."

  I daren't look at Ace.

  He says, "Can we go down to the fields and have a word with these folk ourselves?"

  "That's a good idea," I say. "Then, you know, we can get on our way, and we won't have to take up any more of your time."

  She stares at me with those huge eyes. "Visitors are not allowed onto the farm."

  I give her my best smile. "Could you not make an exception, just this once?"

  She doesn't speak. She just stares at me through those weird fucking glasses, then goes back to her work.

  Two hours, then.

  Ten minutes pass. There is no sound in here apart from the ticking of an ancient clock, and the rustle of paper as our host flicks through a pile of documents on her desk befo
re entering something onto a computer that looks like it went on strike to protest against the digital revolution. The longer I sit, the more aware I am of a nasty smell in the room, as if something has died in here.

  We can't sit here for two hours.

  "I'm sorry to be a pain, but could I possibly use your loo?"

  With luck, I can scoot down to the fields and have a word with the former Hope Villagers, then we can get the hell out of here.

  Ace shifts in his seat beside me. "Me too."

  For a moment I think she's going to ignore us; then she stops, finger poised over one of those mouse things that people used with computers back in the Dark Ages, and picks up an antiquated radio.

  "Olly, we got two visitors. They need the lavvy."

  With that, she turns back to her work, hand dipping into her lunch box for another scone.

  Olly turns out to be a cheerful chap with sepia teeth, sandy hair and freckles, who has lived on Beckett's Farm for twenty-two years; a third of his life.

  "My parents moved here when our town was cleared into the megacity, 'cause they knew Simon Beckett," he tells us, as we sit on a wall after Ace and I have both visited the surprisingly clean outside loo. "I was only eleven―I wanted to go to the megacity like all my mates, get one of them smartcoms and ride on the ziprail!" He laughs. "Must be brilliant, that, mustn't it?"

  "Must be," I say, in a noncommittal fashion.

  "Yeah, so I got stuck here, instead," he says, but he's still smiling.

  "What's it like, then? Living here?"

  He shrugs. "Hard work. My job is mucking out the pigs and horses, and feeding all the animals. It's good in the summer, but in the winter it's just cold and boring." Big sigh. "And it's nearly winter."

  Ace gestures towards the office hut. "They all like her?"

  Olly guffaws, like Ace has said something hilarious. "The Becketts are, yeah. She's Anna, one of the daughters." He sniffs, and rubs his nose. "It was a brother and two sisters what bought this place way back in '28; they could see the country going to the dogs, my dad said. Sold their houses and bought this place for cash. Ploughed a bucket-load into it, told the government to piss off when they tried to buy them out, and applied for an approved private homestead permit."

  "Wise move," says Ace. "If you've got the money."

  "Yeah, well, they had. So they didn't get hit like the other farms did, when the banks pulled out. Trouble is, they have to protect what they've got, so it's run like a fucking military camp, if you'll pardon my French. If you're more than five minutes late for a shift without a good reason, you get half rations at dinner. Same if you don't produce enough. Lamps out at ten o'clock sharp, every night. If you get drunk, apart from Christmas or your birthday, you're locked up for a couple of days." He grins, and a waft of foul breath hits my nostrils. "Everyone fucks a lot, though. Often people they ain't supposed to be fucking. It's the only thing you can do round here that's any fun. 'Part from Anna. She gets her kicks out of the slaughtering. My mate Jess, he reckons it's 'cause no one wants to fuck her." He stands up. "Right, better go and kill some chickens; it's curry tomorra night. D'you wanna come and watch?"

  "Any chance you could nip down to the fields and ask if anyone knows the person I'm looking for, first?"

  "Sure! Just don't tell Anna, or I'll end up in the freezer!"

  I can't help feeling that he might not be joking.

  Nobody has heard of a John Farrer, originally from Megacity 12.

  I can't get out of there fast enough.

  Two down, two to go, then.

  Chapter 22

  Hope Village 9

  Sixteen Days Earlier

  Dylan is lying on his bunk, absorbed in the tattered pages of a paperback, when his little corner of the men's dormitory is plunged into gloom.

  At first he thinks he must have been so engrossed in the life of Lucky Luciano that he hasn't noticed the hours slipping away to eleven p.m. (lights out), but when he looks up he sees that it's just Rocky, his broad, athletic frame blocking out the naked glare of the strip-lighting.

  "Hey―"

  Rocky crouches down to his level. "Bro. I need your help." His voice is no more than a whisper.

  Dylan lifts his head from the pillow, propping himself up on his elbow. "What's up?"

  "I've got to get out of here." Rocky looks to the left and then to the right, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket, pulling it closer around his body as if it might keep him safe from whatever is troubling him. "Can't talk here. Come outside."

  "But it's pissing down―"

  "Don't care. Come on. Now."

  Dylan thrusts his feet into trainers, reaches for the hoodie thrown across the bottom of his narrow bed, and hurries after Rocky, who is already yards ahead of him. The other man does not speak again until they are outside, where the narrow overhang just outside the door provides little shelter. In the eerie, dim glow from the spotlight thirty yards away, Rocky's eyes dart around.

  "I gotta leave here. Tonight. Or I'm fucking dead."

  "What's happened?"

  "Fucking Lennox, ain't it." Rocky digs in his jeans pockets and pulls out a cigarette, cupping his hand over his lighter. "Thinks I've been on the take. Tel said he's coming for me. Tomorrow."

  Dylan huddles against the wall, trying to avoid the worst of the rain. "Have you, then? Been on the take?"

  "Doesn't matter if I have or not. Lennox thinks I have."

  "You can plead your case, tell him he's got it wrong―"

  Rocky blows out a long stream of smoke. "Okay, so I might have had a bit away here and there, but it was nothing much. I just shaved off a few Hope credits, 'cause I wanted some new trainers; it's not like I've been robbing him blind."

  "Just credits? Come on, he's not going to care much about that."

  Rocky faces the wall, resting the sole of his boot against it and bending his knee back and forth, flexing his leg. "Yeah, well―look, I was having a bit of blitz away, 'n' all. Like, for the guards. So's they'd let me and Emma use an empty couples unit."

  Dylan shrugs, helplessly. "Well, can't you just come clean, and promise you won't do it again? He likes you and Emma―"

  Rocky gives a short, sharp laugh. "You don't rip Lennox off and live―that's why Tel told me, so I can get a head start. 'Cause he knows what Lennox is like―I've got to go. Any way I can."

  "How, though? If you get caught trying you'll end up in the box." Dylan thinks for a moment. "Hang on―that might be better, mightn't it? He couldn't get to you there."

  Rocky does that laugh again. "Did your old lady only pop you out of her twat yesterday, or what? If Lennox wants to get to someone in the box, he can. I tell you, I won't come out alive. I've got to go. Tonight."

  "How?"

  "Bribe the guards to let me out. Tel told me which one to go for―bloke on Entrance D. The delivery gate."

  "Bribe him with what?"

  Rocky takes a long drag from his cigarette and throws the butt into the darkness. "Lennox's stash. I know where it is. I ain't supposed to, but I followed Wicks and Branson one night when they were loading it up. He's got four lockers in the bathroom block. There's fucking everything in there; blitz, gold jewellery, tech shit, you name it."

  "How you going to get them open, then?"

  Rocky digs into his pocket and pulls out two pieces of wire. "Lock-picking is within my skill set, bro. But I need your help. You've got to stand on watch."

  Dylan takes a step back. "But what if somebody comes along―Lennox―"

  Rocky places a hand on his shoulder. "You've got to help me. 'Cause if I don't get out of here, I'm dead."

  Every sound sends Dylan's nerves into overdrive. What if one of Lennox's crew sees him standing there―what will he say he's doing? Anyone could come in; one young lad came out of the shower only a minute ago, and Dylan grinned at him foolishly, as if it was perfectly normal to be lounging at the entrance to the changing rooms at ten o'clock at night. Lad hurried off, n
ervously; did he think Dylan was trying to pick him up? There's a gang that waits for young lads, those new to the place, to go in and take a shower on their own. Shit, what if the rumour goes round that Dylan Hall is one of them?

  A clank makes him jump; Rocky bounces up.

  "This should be enough." Eyes scanning the area, he opens a bag for Dylan to look inside at the gold chains, bracelets, rings, gadgets and lots of little bags filled with green crystals: blitz.

  Rocky screws the bag into a bundle, and shoves it inside his jacket. "Right, now we've just got to get Emma, and we're away."

  For a moment Dylan thinks he's misheard him. "But―you can't make Emma go with you―"

  "I ain't making her, she wants to come. I told her before I came to you. Said I had to give her time to get some kit together, you know what birds are like."

  "You can't take her―" Fear floods his body. This scheming, manipulative bully is about to take his Emma away from him. No. No. He can't lose her. She's the only thing that makes his days worth struggling through.

  "I ain't going without her, mate. She's my girl." He laughs. "Loves me, don't she? Come on, we've got to hurry." He grabs Dylan's arm and drags him out of the bathroom block, back towards the dormitory. "Go get your stuff now, but only take shit you can stick in your pockets. Gotta look like you're just nipping outside the dorm to take a piss. And leave your com; they track you with it."

  Dylan stops, bewildered. "Me? You want me to go, too? What for?" But even as he says that, the thought of life without Emma seems like too much to bear. Without her, he is truly alone. Without him, she will have only Rocky to protect her against the world.

  He has to go. He doesn't want to, but he has to.

  "You're my brother, ain't you? And you can help me take care of Emma." Rocky slings an arm around his shoulder. "Mate, I'll need you out there." He pushes open the door of the men's dormitory. "Go on, get to it. 'Cause it's twenty past ten, and if we're not gone before lights out, I'm a dead man. Go on!"