Wasteland

by Terry Tyler

  The guard smiles, says, "No worries, mate," and takes him to a row of toilets at the back of the house.

  Another hour. He curls up on the lounger and drifts off to sleep; when he wakes up he can tell by the light in the sky that it is late afternoon. Five minutes later, he is called back to the office.

  He tries hard to exude an air of confidence as he walks in, but they're not smiling.

  Nick twiddles with his pen; Kendall just looks sad.

  Steve sits with his arms folded, looking at Dylan like he's dirt.

  "We have a problem, Dylan. Point being that earlier this morning, before you came to us, Rocky sat in this very office telling us a similar story to the one that you told, the only difference being that he cast you in the role of drug dealer, thief and cold-blooded killer. According to him, you've been psychologically damaged by the brainwashing processes employed in Hope Villages and your own drug addiction in your early teens, and probably need psychiatric help; he was actually quite charitable, less so than you were towards him; he said he doesn't think you are solely to blame for everything you've done."

  Dylan's mouth drops open. "But that's not true―none of it―"

  "Rocky says it is. So whose testimony do we believe?"

  "I could never have hurt Emma, I loved her―"

  "And thereby hangs the problem," Steve says, unravelling his arms and executing a quick drum beat on the table with the flats of his hands. "Rocky believes your unrequited passion for her was the straw that broke the camel's back. He thinks you killed her rather than see her in love with another man, and because you suspected that, as far as Lake Lodge is concerned, you would be left out in the cold. He implored us to evict you, before you hurt someone else; he actually described you as, er, 'a bubbling cauldron of unresolved crap that could erupt at any time'. He even showed us the gun―said he felt it was his duty to take it off you."

  Anger and panic overwhelm Dylan; he worries he may scream, throw that posh paperweight through the window or leap over the desk and punch Steve's smug face, but the last thing he must do is reinforce any doubts they have about him. He holds on to the seat of his chair to calm himself, breathing deeply before speaking.

  "None of this is true. Not one word. I only left Hope 9 because I wanted to make sure Emma was alright out here, to protect her. I'm not a thief, I'm not a nutter, and I would never have hurt Emma, or anyone else."

  Steve holds up his hand to halt him. "We don't need a recap of what you've already told us, especially not when we've heard the same story from Rocky." He scratches his head, assuming a weary expression. "Look, the nine of us on the council have discussed the matter in no small depth, because we all appreciate what is at stake. We arrived at three options. One, call the police and let them handle it. Two, evict the pair of you and be done with it. Three, put you both under lock and key and conduct our own investigation, then evict whoever we decide is the guilty party." He rests his elbows on the table, leaning his chin on linked fingers, apparently pondering this weighty matter.

  Dylan fixes his eyes on Kendall; he thought she liked him―won't she speak up for him? But she just stares at the desk, doodling on a notepad. He looks more closely; she draws a box within a box, within another box.

  Steve continues. "Two of us voted for an internal investigation, three for immediate eviction for both of you, and three to get the police involved. Kendall, as owner of Lake Lodge, has the deciding vote." He looks at his wife, and smiles. "You'll do the right thing, won't you, Ken?"

  Eviction or the police. Dylan feels the room swirl around him. Why can't he ever catch a fucking break?

  Kendall doesn't answer. Instead, she places her pen neatly at the top of her pad, and smiles at Dylan; her kind face fills him with renewed hope, but what does Steve consider to be 'the right thing'? Eviction would be better than the police―no, not the police. Rocky will talk them round with his gift of the gab―and what about the gun? He doesn't know where it is but it bears his fingerprints―

  "Dylan," she says, "I believe you. Only trouble is, I can't be a hundred per cent sure, and we don't have one of those lie detector machines here."

  "So let the police decide," cuts in Steve.

  Kendall doesn't look at him. "I've never been a fan of the police, or of the authorities, generally. Mostly, they stink."

  Dylan clings harder to his seat.

  "I don't want anything to do with the megacities or the Hope Villages, which is why we've stayed unlinked, and will do as long as I'm in charge. A long time ago, when I first lived here, a good friend of mine called Lita Stone―look her up, next time you're online―dared to speak the truth against Hope Village 37, where we both lived, and she was treated like a criminal, hounded by the police and bloody Nutricorp, till she was forced to change her identity and move to the other side of the world." She turns to her husband. "So no, I'm sorry, Steve, I won't be calling the cops. We don't know if Rocky is telling the truth, if Dylan is, or if neither of them is, but I'm certain of one thing: the so-called law will decide on whatever truth they want, and it could end up with an innocent man being put in jail for the rest of his life."

  "Kendall, you're making a mistake."

  Dylan waits, hardly daring to breathe. Kendall stands, hands on table. Steve's comment has clearly riled her.

  Finally, she speaks. "I am the owner of Lake Lodge. Me, not you, Steve, or anyone else. Jaffa left it to me, 'cause she thought I would make the right decisions for her home and her community, so I'm respecting her now by doing what I think she would have done. Dylan, I'm sorry, but you and Rocky will have to leave. Our people won't sleep easy in their beds if you stay, because we don't know the truth, and we haven't got the knowhow or the equipment to do our own investigation. So my vote is to let you both go, although I think the only thing you did wrong was hooking up with Rocky in the first place. I've asked Gwen to put supplies in your cabin―you'll find a backpack in there, with a sleeping bag, clothes, a toothbrush and whatnot, and enough food for a few days. We'll be talking to Rocky next―I'd say you need to get going now, before that slimy bugger catches up with you."

  Steve stands. "This is wrong, Kendall―we need to get the police―"

  She turns to him. "I am not having the police storming into my home, turning the place upside down, invading our privacy, taking statements that are just words put into people's mouths. I've been there and worn out the fucking t-shirt. So you can forget that. Dylan, I'll walk you to your cabin."

  She walks him to the gate, too; when she opens it he feels only gloom and fear about what lies ahead.

  "I'm sorry," Kendall says. "I wasn't sure about Rocky from the start, but I was overruled, and a lot of people like him. They think he's a bit rough around the edges but he's charmed the pants off 'em. That day you first turned up―I so hoped you'd return with Emma." She frowns. "Oh my God, I should have spoken up then―it might have saved her―"

  Dylan puts an arm around her shoulders, and squeezes her to him. "It's not your fault. You weren't to know. All of this is Rocky, not you, or me."

  And then the gate is shut, and he is alone. He knows where he's going first, though; back to the house where Emma lies, to find Rae. She mentioned that place where you can look people up; perhaps they're going back there.

  He wishes Kendall was his mum and Rae was his sister. If only you could choose your family. Or just not be kidnapped by fucking Hope Village guards when you're nine years old. Because that's what it was; a kidnapping.

  He's with Kendall on this one: fuck the establishment.

  Somewhere, out there, will be a place he can call home. He just has to find it.

  Part 3

  Operation Galton, Phase 10

  Chapter 29

  Run

  Ace says, "We've got to go. Now."

  "Okay, but can you tell me why?" What if Dylan turns up here, and I'm gone? I feel oddly responsible for him because his life has been totally fucked by the shithead who happens to be my brother.

  "Ye
s, but only if you get your kit together while I'm telling you."

  I start rolling up my sleeping bag. "Where are we going?"

  He flops down onto the arm of the sofa, one leg bent up. "First to your sister's. I gotta talk to her fella and his mate about their boats."

  "Why?"

  "It's started. Like I said. Like no one believed me about. They're clearing."

  I stop rolling. "What?"

  "Up near Carlisle―they're clearing the wasteland settlements. Army. Ordering everyone out at gunpoint, herding them into trucks. This guy was there, at Vince's place―he escaped, and cycled down to warn them."

  I feel like someone's just poured a bucket of icy water over me. "Bloody hell. What d'you think they're doing? Maybe it's just those communities―like, a particular reason for it?"

  "No―he heard one of the guards say something about the wasteland being 'repurposed'. This, and the drop-ins closing―it was always going to happen, one day." He shoves his hair out of his eyes. "Xav's been around, up there―Vince said he's seen this new building, huge great thing surrounded by fences up near Hadrian's Wall, but you can't get near it. When he tried to, he was shot at. No warning; they just fired. He had to roll down a hill and into a ditch to get away."

  "Jesus. What do you reckon―more Hope Villages?"

  "Maybe. Maybe worse." He stands up. "Come on. We gotta go."

  "What about Vince?"

  "He's leaving tonight, going by boat to the Hebrides, but I'm not getting stuck up there. We've got to head back home. King and Yara won't know anything about it."

  "Ace―if they really are clearing the wasteland, we've got no place to hide, have we?"

  "Yeah, we have." He hoists my sleeping bag over his shoulder. "We can get Dan and Jude's boats over to Europe. Netherlands, Denmark. That's why I went to look at them―to see how many they can carry. Reckon forty on Jude's. Another twenty on Dan's; Lilyn said there's twenty-six of them, and there's over forty of us. If they agree, most of us can get out."

  My heart thuds. "You think it's that bad? That we've got to run for our lives?"

  For a moment he just stares at me.

  "Ace? You really think it's that bad? Thing is―there's something going down back at Lake Lodge; I don't know what, but I told Dylan that if he needs me, I'll be here―"

  "He'll have to look after himself, he's a grown man. Do we have to run for our lives? Yeah, we might have to."

  "But they can't do anything too bad to us―there are too many of us; there would be an outcry―"

  "Who from? When you lived in MC12, did you know anything about what went on outside its walls? Wastelanders are like ghosts―we can just disappear, and no one will be any the wiser." He reaches out for me. "Get your stuff. We've got to go. Now."

  Chapter 30

  Dylan

  Alone

  When he reaches the house, Rae and her friend have gone.

  He knows, even before he gets there; it exudes an air of emptiness.

  No one here but the dead.

  He walks out into the back garden, in the almost-dark of the evening, and looks at the place where they buried Emma.

  Where will he go? What will he do?

  In the living room he finds a note, written on the inside of an old book jacket.

  Dylan. Go to Fennington St Mary, Cambridgeshire. Get there as soon as you can. Rae and Ace.

  He doesn't know where Cambridgeshire is, but he knows it's a long way away. It's nearly dark; the sensible thing would be to stay here until morning, but he can't face being in the place where Emma lies. It should bring him comfort to know she is here, but it doesn't.

  He doesn't want to risk being found by Rocky, either. Or have him know where he's going.

  He tears up the note, whispers goodbye to the woman he loves, walks through the house and down the garden path, shuts the gate, takes one look back, and carries on into the night.

  Chapter 31

  Government Village, MC5

  Ezra Bettencourt, Director of Operations, is most pleased with the report from Martin Abbs, Head of Logistics.

  The closure of the charity drop-ins was completed the day before the squads moved in, and the clearance of the far north of England is taking place with hardly a hitch, nothing more than pathetic outbursts of desperation on behalf of the wastelanders. Most boarded the trucks with only verbal protests. No casualties have been reported among his men, just a few amongst the rats. These he welcomes; they serve as a warning.

  The compounds are filling up, and Phase 10/A―selection of labour units for relocation―has already begun. Once they have been dispatched, further selection will take place. Phase 10/B units will be assigned to the Dartmoor, Hadrian or Thurso centres for medical and behavioural research; Phase 10/C will be retained for on-site treatment.

  Ezra spoke to Abbs just ten minutes ago, then checked the 'public view' satellite of the Hadrian Centre, and all is well―there is nothing to see but green fields.

  Now, he touches the eye-within-a-triangle icon on his screen, and the compound is revealed, as if by magic―a view granted to only a small number of carefully selected people in the whole of the country.

  Phase 10 is progressing with quiet grace and speed, too swiftly for the wasteland network to communicate via their antiquated systems―Abbs assures him that there was not one escape in the North Cumbria, Northumberland and Tyneside areas. Already the squads are moving into South Cumbria, Merseyside, Yorks, Lancs and Lincs, and up into Scotland, with roaming trucks to pick up stragglers. The holding compounds await them, as do the factories for the lucky few.

  Within two weeks, the country will be free of vermin.

  He touches his com, and his favourite of Freya Wilson's secretaries appears in front of him.

  "Good morning, Mr Bettencourt. What can I do for you today?"

  For a moment Ezra is tempted to reply with a flirtatiously suggestive remark, but he doesn't want to make a fool of himself. He does not have any illusions about his own physical appeal, and winces at the thought of Angus telling his colleagues, over one drink too many, how that sad old queen Ezra Bettencourt was trying it on with him―again.

  Once bitten, twice shy.

  Still, never mind that now. Today is a good day, and one which he hopes will put him in the running for the position of Home Secretary.

  "Get me the PM, please, Angus. And tell her I'd like a holochat―I want to see her face when I deliver the good news!"

  Chapter 32

  Road Closed

  Ace decides we should go back to Fennington, gather everyone together and head straight for Lilyn's, but I think this would be a bad idea―we can't just turn up, mob-handed, and say 'Hi, we're back; John turned out to be a psycho, but we've got forty mates here who want a lift across the North Sea, is that okay?'

  He actually laughs, and says he takes my point. First, then, we're going to Waxingham so we can break all news to them, and feel out Dan and Jude's reaction.

  Whether or not they will take on board the urgency is another matter.

  I feel like anything might happen, up to and including my head exploding. I'm homeless, rootless―my whole life has blown up, so it doesn't much matter where I land, but everyone else has their home, established―will they agree to leave, based on what we have to tell them?

  I can't see it. They probably won't believe us.

  Ace wants to do a detour past two charity drop-ins in North Lincolnshire, to check whether or not they've been closed down.

  "Just so I'm sure what we're dealing with, when we tell the others."

  As we speed through the night, he taps me on the leg and points; through the twilight I see the first building.

  We don't need to investigate to see that the place is empty, but we take a look, anyway. The door hangs open; inside there is nothing. Ace shines his torch around, and the light falls on a notice.

  This facility is permanently closed, from 22/10/61.

  "Looks like they've done a countrywide sweep in
just a few days," Ace says, after we've found the second one in the same state. "They're cutting off our resources. They want us gone."

  "Gone where, though?" I shiver in the cold of the night, and get back on the bike. "That was rhetorical. I know we don't have an answer."

  "Yeah, well, we need to make sure that no one we care about finds out."

  Ace wants to keep going, which means we would roll up at Lilyn's after midnight, but somewhere in South Lincs he stops, and says he needs to rest for an hour or so.

  "We can carry on if you want, but you'll need to keep jabbing me in the side so's I don't fall asleep. Your sister, your decision."

  I feel similar; the cold night is taking its toll.

  We find an abandoned house, and are laying out the sleeping bags when Ace says, "It's not too late for you, you know. You could still go back to the megacity. You'd be safe there."

  I think of Lilyn. My unborn niece or nephew. Dylan, if he finds his way to Fennington. Colt, even.

  Ace.

  Yes, I'd be safe, but they'd all be lost to me, forever. "No way. I couldn't."

  "Good. Look, I'll have an hour or so while you keep watch, then we'll switch. I don't like the idea of us both being asleep, not with all this shit going on."

  He rolls over, his back to me.

  Guess that kiss really was just a one-off, then. Never mind. I'll work on getting over my crush on him once we've got to wherever the hell we end up.

  Three hours later, we're back on the road.

  Lilyn is overjoyed to see us again, and ushers us in out of the cold early morning. Inside the café she has a log fire burning; Shanna and Beth are up, too.

  She's saying how sure she is that she felt the baby kick yesterday, and how wonderful an experience this was, but I can feel Ace's impatience; he touches my arm and whispers, "You gotta tell her."

  "I know. And I will, but not till I've told her about John."