by RD Hale
Sniggering degenerates sway in chairs, raising their trembling fingers to the onscreen crisis. Despite occasional lapses of kind-heartedness they are currently revelling in the misery of a predicament more desperate than their own as if they are both good and evil simultaneously.
'At this rate, they're gonna starve and turn into space cannibals! They'll never make it back now.' A vindictive grin causes the outer-corners of Killow's eyes bend upwards.
'One very fat person and a bunch of skeletons will make it back!' Bex remarks.
'You lot are vile-hearted little bunch. Why would you even say such things?' I receive no response as I turn away, scratching my head. Ever since we received a radio signal which hinted at intelligent alien life, space travel has captivated my sense of ambition. I have always wondered if it was for real, if there was a better world to escape to, but we have not heard anything since. One day I will traverse the vacuum, visit one of the moon domes at the very least. A sharp slap on the back of the head interrupts my train of thought.
'Morning Arturo, so ya stealing some guns tomorrow, eh?' Sylvie asks and as her starey eyes gleam, I half expect her to demand to join the mission.
'Aye, I dunno, maybe. Smig happened to leave out minor details like when Turbo actually wants this enterprise to get underway and he has wandered home, wherever that may be these days. I better go out for some food, ya coming brat?' I ask.
'Well, I was gonna go pickpocketing today, but I'm always open to a safer offer. Last time I did it, I had to kick some lad in the nuts and run, screaming Rape! So, ya got any money?'
'No, not today. We'll take a walk to the outer hub, it'll kill a few hours. I'll let you know when I'm ready.'
My body does not bear the most fragrant of odours so I head upstairs and strip naked on our clammy bathroom floor as I look out the mildew-blemished window to the shipyards. Using a filtration hose, I fill a bucket and splash into ankle-deep water left by whoever used the plastic tub before myself.
Braced for the onset of hypothermia, I pour the pail of water over my shaven head and use the raggedy sponge to scrub the film of grease from my skin but there is no soap.
Semi-clean I pounce out of the plastic tub and grab a worn towel to wrap my trembling body until I warm up. Then I step under the radiation emitter which scans my entire frame, discharging rays which supposedly do not penetrate skin, but do penetrate a fair percentage of bacteria spores, probably damaging my DNA strands in the process.
After a couple of twirls I wrap the towel around my waist and catch a glimpse of my stubbly face in the mirror but we have no razor. From a near-empty tube, I squeeze a drop of toothpaste and wince as I brush worn enamel. When I am done, I cannot find any bloody deodorant. Great.
The bath tub wobbles and warps as I lift it from the floor and tip dirty water down the sink. Then I grab the pile of sweaty clothes, careful not to drop a sock as I trot along the corridor. Swinging the door to the mancave open I am greeted by the sight of two posters:
The first is a torn picture of Oetta - the birthplace of extinct democracy which was vaporised during the war. The domed architecture and monuments carved out of limestone remind me there was once a place which promoted free thinking. Some believe it was the zealots who destroyed it.
The other picture is of a fighter called Sydney Anguson. He is a hero because he refused conscription and was sent to a work camp for two years as a result. The words at the bottom of the picture read: I am the Master of my Destiny.
Kicking a loose plug out the way, I dump laundry in a wash pile which has accumulated for too long. The boxing trophy on a wooden shelf brings a smirk which is soon wiped from my face by misplaced vanity. Eyeing my square frame in the mirror, I notice a couple of hairs have sprouted from my chest. 'Disgusting.' I tug one of the aberrations and my face wilts as it breaks from the nipple follicle. 'Ouch!'
I sift through piles of clothes on a twisted metal shelving unit to locate my combat trousers and pull them over my stumpy legs. When I am fully dressed I return downstairs where my lumbering housemates seem to be halfway between hangover and death.
'Has anyone got any deodorant?' I tuck a stray lace into my trainer. 'I've only just gotten rid of this smell and I don't want it coming back any time soon!'
Scoop rummages ever-so-slowly through one of our foisty cupboards and pulls out bits and pieces, mumbling: 'I know there's ssthome in here ssthomewhere... Here ya go,' and he hands a can of Teen Spirit over, looking green around the jowls.
Grabbing the can of deodorant, I spray my armpits in a mountain fresh fragrance and Sylvie ties ribbons into turquoise hair which will no doubt be another colour by this time next week. She applies sparkly eye makeup, then grabs a loose-fitting coat with big silver buttons, smiling to signify she is ready to go.
'Getting dolled up to impress ya fellow chipmunks, eh?' I grab my hoody from the top of a filing cabinet, unleashing a dust cloud.
'A girl has to look her best, Arturo. This is why I'm always beating 'em off with a cricket bat! Maybe you should make more of an effort to catch the eye of you-know-who,' Sylvie replies.
'I had a bath today, didn't I?' Standing in the doorway, I yell: 'Guys, me and Sylvie are going out to get some food. We might be a while, does anyone fancy coming? You'll be hungry later!'
After several moments with no clearer response than a polite grunt, Sylvie says: 'They're all nursing hangovers in there, let's go,' and we navigate piles of junk, departing our headquarters to discover Oscar kneeling over an upturned bucket in the dusty yard.
'Look at this almighty specimen!' Oscar causes Sylvie to shriek as he raises the pail to unveil a hand-sized arachnid which makes a determined break for the refuge of the human den. He immediately recaptures his hideous prisoner for what purpose only he knows. When these critters creep into our territory, the girls and Scoop tend to flee the perceived threat, squealing. I can well imagine the arguments if Oscar introduces his new pet to the gang but thankfully I will not be there to suffer it.
'Dermatobia a-aramea, also known as the b-bot spider. Lays eggs under the skin, they eat human brains. I'm gonna keep it as a pet!' Oscar announces.
'Oh no, you're not! What if it escapes and wants to have babies?' Sylvie asks.
'Relax Sylvie, they don't eat brains. They just crawl around inside them!' I reply.
'Arturo, stop it! See ya later, Oscar... and get rid of that spider you weirdo.'
Sylvie and I head through the wire-mesh gate and leave our makeshift football pitch, following the dirt path past the withered oak and beige constructions. After a short distance we approach a pair of limestone eyesores - one of which has a barb-wired fence of chipboard and iron. Bypassing piles of rustling binbags, we walk below a rusty girder which connects the two factory buildings.
'So Arturo, you've been quiet about what really happened yesterday. At first I thought you'd bottled it until I noticed that thing on your wrist, ya sly dog! I take it you've already sold the rest?' Sylvie exaggerates her blinking as she awaits my reply.
'Like I said, I dropped everything into the alley and it was stolen by kids, the cheeky shits! My holowatch is just a consolation prize.'
'Ya wouldn't be keeping your credits secret? Ya can tell me, I won't tell the others... As long as you buy me a present!' Sylvie demands.
'I don't have any credits! We're going shoplifting, remember?' I turn away with an eyeball flick.
'Ah never mind, worth a try. Anyway, while you were risking ya neck, we went to the beach. There was this weird thing washed up, so we started poking it with a stick. Scoop was stupid enough to pick it up and it stung him! No idea what it was though,' Sylvie recollects.
'Sounds like a jellyfish.'
'Don't be daft, that's a ridiculous name! It was more of a slime monster,' Sylvie asserts with a confident nod of the head.
'Oh, a slime monster. Yeah, silly me.' I sigh.
'Probably a mutant I reckon, from all the stuff we dump in the sea. The lads went swimming in the water,
can you believe that? Brown water! They were stinking of sewage when they came out.'
Squinting through the perma-haze, we follow the riverside for roughly a mile and I count how many words Sylvie says without reply. She reaches one hundred and sixteen when I lose track.
'Arturo, please use the toilet next time!' Sylvie remarks, upon spotting a turd smeared onto a bench with a broken plank. I avert my gaze from this fly attraction as a blue and white boat chugs along the tainted river against a backdrop of crimson towers. The details of the social housing blocks are indistinct, but patches of dampness soak through walls and the blackened windows create a lifeless and pitiful impression. A wrecking ball would be merciful.
'I'm glad I don't live in a place like that anymore.' Sylvie's shoulders shake as she clenches her fist. 'The day I ran away, it was liking escaping from prison - and a psycho cellmate called Dad. Gives me nightmares.'
'But you've been going over there all the time with the girls. I thought that's where ya boyfriend lives?' I reply.
'I don't have a boyfriend,' Sylvie snaps. 'And anyways, I wasn't going inside the apartments, just onto the rooftops. That's where the lads live, they built their own dens and they've made bridges between the buildings with ladders and bits of wood.
I had to crawl across, but the lads were running back and forth making it wobble! I nearly had heart failure but when you're up there you can see everything... They're really huge, those towers, I wonder how many people are trapped inside them, must be thousands.'
'Well, each block contains fifty floors and twenty thousand apartments. If there are twenty blocks, you're probably looking at two million residents.' I pluck figures from toxic air.
'Whoa, two million. How did you work that out? You're clever!' Sylvie gasps.
'Cognitive quotient of one five nine, which just happens to be the combined total of my housemates' scores!' I smirk as Sylvie's brain actively tries to verify the accuracy of that statement.
'Can you remember much about living over there? Weirdly enough, I can't. Well bits and pieces obviously, but I r-r-what's-the-word? Repress it. I hated that place.'
'Aye, I remember the misery of those towers all too well. Like the day Scoop's mother got bored of sipping brandy in her rocking chair and jumped from a tenth floor balcony. The blood stained the concrete for weeks. That's why I prefer not to talk about it.'
'Selfish woman,' Sylvie whispers.
We approach store-houses, mills and processing plants as we pass half-built ships lining the river banks. I pity the workers in the docks, toiling in their hard hats and overalls as cranes move hull segments overhead. The hope-crushing nature of their work elicits a shudder. Most roles could be filled by industrial robots, but the elites need to keep the 'simpletons' occupied somehow.
'Have you ever thought of getting a proper job?' Squeakiness disappears from Sylvie's voice as though she believes there to be wisdom in her suggestion. 'They're taking people on. You could earn a living.'
'There's no way I'd live like that… Slaving ya guts until you're so tired ya can barely stand, being shouted at and told you're useless or lazy, earning barely enough to eat… I'll stick to being an outlaw, thanks!'
'But at least you'd have food on the table - and you'd be granted Level Three Citizenship,' Sylvie adds.
'Do you wanna work there? They get beer tokens with their wage, you know why? Cause it stops them thinking for themselves. They don't want them complaining about workers' rights, they'd rather have them sozzled the whole time.'
'Beer tokens sound perfectly good to me!'
'Ya know how much they pay apprentices? Ten credits a week. I could make more in a day, but seriously look at those guys. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't last two minutes.'
Sylvie and I look towards the dock workers and they are double my size; their rigid skeletal frames perfectly suited for heavy labour, kneeling with wrenches in calloused hands, focusing spite into raw aggression to get through the day.
I imagine gravitating towards a dingy tavern at the end of a miserable shift as if some biological urge was wired into my cerebrum. My exhausted frame flopping onto a bar stool and clasping a pint glass as a jukebox hums in the background. Sharing precious spare time with a bunch of snarling savages. Overalls soaked in liquor and sweat, sporting black eyes and fat lips as we gamble whatever we have left. Betting on who might fail to survive the next week's hover race our one highlight.
The 'Rescue'
Sylvie's shoulder bashes into mine and as I adjust my footing she receives a sidewards glare. 'Let's take a dangercut!' she says, pointing at a domineering wall of greenery interposed by enormous pink orchids. The intensity of the sun's rays diminishes as we follow a well-trodden path below a dense canopy where gigantasized insects buzz around. Luminous pollen swarms drift in the air and vines strangle towering trees which are surrounded by overgrown bushes.
'I swear ya can hear voices in this place sometimes,' Sylvie squeaks as though she is nervous of ridicule. 'Me and the lasses heard chanting when we passed through here the other night, but it was really faint. Lel reckons it could've been faeries!'
'If you guys were hearing voices, that suggests you need to keep off the happy pills!'
'No seriously, if we could all hear it... Ah, never mind. Anyways, we went rummaging through a supermarket bin in old town. A few other girls had the same idea, but we pushed our way to the front and stuffed our faces with all the good stuff. It's amazing what they throw away. You'd think it was dirty, but the food was packaged and good as new. Next time we're gonna take bags with us, probably tonight. I can't wait that long though.'
'Tell me about it. There's dogs who eat better than us - and that is depressing.' My stomach tightens at the thought of expired groceries.
'So anyway, last week we were throwing stones off a bridge. This man chased us and... Oh my goddess, look at that pretty flower!'
Sylvie continues to ramble at exponential speed with one word blurring into the next, sentence after sentence. I have only a vague idea of what she is saying so I politely nod, occasionally saying, 'Mm-hm'.
Sylvie points out every natural detail like we have not witnessed the native wildlife a million times. She gets excited by any flowering plant which has managed to survive the strangulation of vines and weeds and she looks upon songbirds with glee until I mention they are preyed upon by tarantulas, which provokes a pathetic slap of my arm as she says, 'Shut up.'
Sylvie skips lackadaisically along the mud and reels at the sight of every creepy crawly until our one-sided conversation is interrupted by a scream that signifies somebody... a girl, is clearly in trouble. Sympathy is invoked by the desperate cries of another one of a million daily victims whose suffering can be prevented no more than the flow of the tides. A notion of gallantry could see a would-be rescuer sharing her grave so I plod on through fallen leaves.
'You can't just ignore that, someone's getting attacked or raped or something.' The skin stretched over Sylvie's nose, mouth and eyes contorts with contempt.
'Happens all the time,' I sigh and as those selfish words leave my gob I reconsider my duty to rescue the 'street-rat' in distress. But before I can peer through the bushes to conduct an impromptu risk assessment, Sylvie yells: 'Heartless bastard!' and the girl who moments ago was cowering from every beasty in sight, runs with a sense of exigency in the rough direction of the scream. I have no idea what this puny thing believes she can accomplish, even if she does have a temper.
'Let her go!' Sylvie screeches with demonic fury. 'Let her go, you bastards or I swear I'll crush your private parts into the ground. You'll never use those things again!'
'Ah, here we go. We're going to get ourselves killed.' I groan.
Venturing off the trodden path into a clearing with an algae-filled pond, I brace myself for trouble as two assailants pin a young lady next to a felled tree, clawing at her clothing. Few local girls would be naive enough to pass through an isolated location alone - she is fortunate a pair of valiant
outlaws were nearby because she would have stood no chance at all.
My attack plan is quickly reassessed as the pair rise to their feet, upon the realisation these are not your average scumbags. Both must be nearly six and a half feet tall with skin-bursting muscles, probably due to growth-enhancing drugs. What in the realms of the underworld am I going to do?
'Howay man, she's only a girl. Let her go,' I plead.
Suddenly and menacingly, these dastardly attackers advance and although running is not part of my intrinsic nature, the selfish option is tempting because we are pygmies by comparison. The larger of the steroid abusers tosses Sylvie and her spine slams into a tree, impeding her ability to breathe as air whistles through her throat.
'Right, you bastard, I am going to destroy you for that.'
I have no idea how to accomplish that feat but in times of peril my instincts are far more dependable than any realisation of conscious thought. One of the super-heavyweights lunges towards me, but I utilise quick feet to evade his assault.
Summoning every available calorie, I throw a haymaker and my hand crumbles against jutting jawbone, knocking him onto his backside. Casually dusting his upper arms, he nods to acknowledge my self-defeating blow, then rubs that reinforced chin with knuckles and clambers to his feet.
I yell at the girls to 'Run!' but they refuse, frozen either out of foolhardy solidarity or well-sighted fear.
As I stagger back my throat is constricted by an enormous hand which pins my squirming body to a conifer tree. Trainers slide in dirt as I clutch the brute's wrist in a futile attempt to struggle free.
