by RD Hale
'A state of the art energy barrier and they can't even bother to build a proper fence! Don't worry lads, the dozy bastards won't catch us! By the time they've got off their backsides, we'll be long gone.'
A siren blares as we race towards a housing estate with the hologram depicting a rapidly shrinking base from which the hyper-efficient armed forces are surely set to respond in angered numbers.
With every passing revolution my fear seems to be ill-founded because expected gunships and seeker missiles do not emerge. Sirens quieten as we swerve corner after corner with the backend of the jeep swinging outwards, but another jeep momentarily emerges until a terrace blocks our view.
'Somebody's following us! Can this thing not fly?' I yell.
'You kidding? It's about twenty years old. Hold tight lads,' Turbo roars.
Smig's skin is ghost white as we negotiate labyrinthine streets with the vanishing chasers re-emerging whenever I am gullible enough to assume we have lost them. Suspension thumps violently as we mount a kerb and skid across a grass verge onto another road with tyres somehow still inflated.
'Whoo!' Turbo howls as our pursuers struggle to keep up, reluctant to risk a life-ending crash but we have no such luxury. Unnecessary steering precision hinders the lagging vehicle as our driver throws inhibition to the wind and hurtles like death is a secondary concern.
'I should've been a racing driver, eh lads?'
Minutes pass without sight of our not-so-hot pursuers as we bypass the outer hub, reaching the undulating north of the city. Smig and I have eyes stuck to side windows, just to be sure the lack of hostile activity in the rear-view display is correct.
'I think we've lost them,' I gasp but Turbo refuses to decelerate as we switch lanes to weave through traffic. The speedometer hits one hundred and forty miles per hour, achieving hair raising free air at every peak of this well-chosen road which is unsuitable for the hover vehicles favoured by the San Terian Guard.
'Best not take any chances. They'll have called for backup and the STG may not be so disorganised. Time to disappear… like rats scurrying back to the sewers!' Turbo says.
'The gun cases don't have tracking chips, do they?' I ask.
'Don't be stupid. The army can't track every weapon, they have millions of them!' Turbo replies.
'But what about the jeep?' I ask
'It did... but I got rid of it.'
A spotlight shines aimlessly from the winged pod of a guncopter a few miles away, thankfully clueless as to our location. Any military worth its salt would have incapacitated the vehicle or cut short the chase by blasting us to smithereens. It would appear the world's most powerful army is also the most shambolically organised, but organisation is not so important when you can solve conflicts with antimatter weapons.
'They'll never find us now. We'll go to your warehouse. They won't look for us there,' Turbo says, slowing to a sedate eighty miles per hour and it dawns - this is why he wanted an inexperienced liability to join the mission. Not because was I gullible enough to take the risk, but because I could supply the perfect hideout.
More Questions than Answers
Having outrun the supposedly inexorable military with nerve-racking ease, we arrive at the warehouse intact. Jumping from the vehicle I am relieved to touch terra firma but incredulity is subdued by an incomparable hourly rate and our proudly achieved fugitive status. Wood thunders under the force of my fist as I bang repeatedly on stupid doors which are unopenable from the outside if locked from the inside and vice-versa.
'Hellooo!' I shout for the lazy sods to get off their backsides. The gang can leave you in the cold for an eternity if they are playing music or occupied by one of a million distractions as is likely the case right now.
At last the runners rattle to reveal Killow with screwdriver in hand, confirming the budding engineer was tinkering with the out-of-action mechanoid mere yards away when he chose to ignore the return of heroes.
'What took ya so long? We have the military and the STG looking for us, idiot,' I snap, but Killow disregards the question to invade my eyeline with a pesky grin.
Turbo parks his jeep in the vestibule alongside our rusty van, then recounts weapon crates with the midget keenly watching, but any notions of playing soldier must be kiboshed. Killow follows me through the junk room and the springiness of his stride is somewhat at odds with his initial tardiness.
'So what happened then? Are there really guns in the boot?'
'They figured us out. We had to outrun them,' I mutter.
'And you escaped? They better not turn up here. I don't wanna be institutionalised for your misdeeds!' Killow says with a slight increase of volume.
'Nah. They sent a guncopter but we left them behind. I'm surprised by how incompetent they were.'
Killow backsteps into the main room which provokes caution of being interrogated by tongue-loosening scamps. However, the outlaw's welcome fails to materialise as we join a scene of grubby faces engrossed in civilised conversation. They sit on pulled-in chairs, circled around Dynah who appears to be getting used to the calci-light. Pleasingly her hair is restored to its original colour and a black and grey striped top and denim jeans have transformed the still unidentified lifeform into a 'normal' kid.
'You never guess what? It's terrible, they're bastards. Right bastards, but it's amazing as well. She... I'll let her tell you,' Sylvie says, barely able to get her exasperation out.
'Shift along,' I instruct, nudging chubby cheeks out the way to squeeze onto a three-seater couch between her and Mila.
Although Dynah is crammed between people she has only recently met she seems comfortable with the lack of personal space. Still timid in her mannerisms, but aware she could render any of her inquisitors helpless. And we should probably be more risk conscious because our new living arrangement could be like sharing a cage with a half-tame lion.
'Hi Dynah, I trust they haven't been too repugnant in my absence. Are you feeling okay?'
'I'm more resilient than I look.' Dynah's pink lips half-smile. 'Got those who experimented on me to thank for that.'
'Your face is completely healed now, there's not even a blemish. That's pretty amazing.' I stare at the faint mark on her cheek.
'I know, they designed me this way.'
'Who are they? Are you ready to tell me? We may be putting ourselves in danger so it's important we know.'
'I've always lived in the laboratory, that's all I can remember. When I was small they kept me in a room with a few toys, I was never allowed out. They came in with white suits and masks on, they said it was so I didn't get sick. They would put needles and wires into me, then ask how I was feeling. They'd ask me to guess numbers, to describe pictures, but I couldn't see them. I didn't understand. They said I wasn't very good at it. I didn't have any friends until I was six, that's when they put us together. Omicron Eighteen was my only friend. They tested us...'
'They tested you?' I ask.
'They'd see how long it would take for our wounds to heal. They'd put us underwater, but I couldn't breathe. They'd shock us if we refused to do as we were told. Some of us disappeared. They'd stop moving and be taken away. They said we were designed to be obedient and if we weren't they'd discard us.'
Dynah's eyes twitch as she recounts her harrowing past, as if each moment relived is eliciting physical pain. My sister rubs the plucky test subject's arm to ease her distress but I need to be aware of possible connotations so I press on:
'Discard you? You mean kill you? Sick, but unsurprising really.'
'It was scary, but we realised we were more powerful than they were. Their energy field subdued our powers but when it was down we realised we could escape. They didn't know what to do because some of us weren't as obedient as they thought and they couldn't control us anymore. They killed the ones who didn't obey. Omicron Eighteen was taken away, but I obeyed - until I got the chance to escape.'
'And I thought I'd been through a lot, feels pretty weird to pity someone you envy,' I mut
ter.
'Don't worry, you'll be safe here. Even with their technology, they're never gonna find you in the slums. They wouldn't know where to start,' Sylvie says.
'So do you even know what you are? Are you human? Machine? Or something else entirely?' I ask.
'I-I don't know. I'm just me.'
Dynah's face expresses deep-routed anxiety and confusion, but no hint of anger. The gang have responded with atypical looks of concern because her trusting nature invokes a protective instinct, even though her unique attributes have been protecting us. Although this could backfire, discovering Dynah's potential is an irresistible prospect and I would prefer not to hear Smig interrupting from the doorway:
'Arturo, come and take a look at this beauty!'
I reluctantly get up from my seat out of politeness and we enter our makeshift garage where Turbo poses before the jeep like an action hero. Smugness erupts from his facial orifices as he salutes with a chrome-finished rifle resting against his shoulder. The princely sum fetched by such killing devices fully justifies our lunacy and a perverse attraction develops as I envision this state of the art contraption endowing almost goddess-like power.
'That is the most stunning thing I've ever seen!' I swoon like a teenage girl.
'This is an anti-material rail gun. It fires bullets at mach ten by generating an electromagnetic charge, could take a mammoth's head off,' Turbo states.
'I wanna keep one.' Drool leaks from my mouth.
'You can keep a handgun for yourself but it'll be five hundred credits out of ya share, with ammo of course,' Turbo replies.
'Sounds good.' My shoulder-blades tingle as Turbo opens one of the smaller cases to collect my prize.
'Take a look at this bad girl.' Turbo reveals the grips of automatic handguns poking from their slots and he hands over a compact, but devastating piece of equipment which fits comfortably into my grasp like an extension of my arm. Every notch and groove captivates imagination but this life-stealer looks too small to be so deadly.
'Don't worry, it's not loaded. This is a safety catch. It's on at the moment, but you can pull it down to switch it off. Just make sure that if it's loaded, the safety is always on. I'll give you a few clips as well. You'll never use them all, but just in case. You never know what's gonna happen... and make sure those kids don't get their hands on it. You don't want them hurtin...'
Turbo's voice fades into disregardness as I smirk, picturing adversaries dropping to their knees to beg for forgiveness but my hypothetical competitive edge becomes strangely disheartening. One day a human life may end at my hand and a rival is just a fellow outcast lost in this post-apocalyptic era. A single moment of rashness could lead to the cowardly option but without that capability there is no life and death decision to get wrong.
'Actually Turbo, a gun among this lot would be begging for tragedy.' I slot the pistol into the case as fear of weakness tempts reconsideration but I stick with the tryingly sensible decision.
'That's probably a smart move, you're more mature than you look! I'm gonna have to stay with yous until we can shift these. They'll be looking for us. What we're gonna do is lie low for a while, then drive into Underworld to meet a bloke called Jardine. He can be a right mean bastard, but he's sound. He's the one who wants these. He's part of a rebel group, but I'm not supposed to talk about that. Pretend I never said anything.'
'No bother, Turbo. Ya'll have to sleep on the couch mind, hope ya don't mind rats!'
'Considering I've slept among body parts of squadmates, I'd call this an upgrade.'
Turbo locks the boot and we rejoin the guys in the living room, having probably just prevented an irreversible accident. A firearm in the presence of my hot-headedness and the gang's naivety would be a recipe for disaster. And the irony of supplying weapons to a terrorist is not lost but our wellbeing supersedes any concept of social consciousness. Turbo and Scoop take a seat at the table as I raise my voice to address our comrades, most of whom are still sitting on couches pestering Dynah:
'Right guys, you all know what we've got in the jeep. Don't tell anyone. If people find out before we've shifted them, we could be in trouble. I know what you lot are like, but this is serious. STG level serious. Turbo's gonna be staying a while and he'll be keeping an eye on you. Oh, and that jeep is locked shut so don't think you can sneak in there and play with them. They're not toys... Now, do we have any beer?'
I gain the impression they have not listened to a single word as they resume their nebbiness without answering my question so I rummage through cupboards. Decapitated chickens are yet to be eaten and there is a cardboard box on foisty shelves, containing fruit and vegetables which are still covered in bird poo. Below them is an opened crate of Dog beer; an essential staple of our diet.
'Guys, you could at least have washed the fruit... Keeping the beer quiet, were you?'
Handing booze bottles to the boys I proudly take a seat at the table, having earned a promotion on the ladder of this illegal economy. Killow bites a metal cap with oversized gnashers, causing froth to leak out as Turbo and Smig follow suit but I shudder, staring at my bottle with reluctance to do the same.
'Giz it here, man,' Killow says, snatching the bottle from my grasp and biting the lid open, then returning my fizzing drink with a smirk. I do not know what their teeth are made of, but it is not the same stuff as mine. And that thought is more embarrassing than it should be, but man points are never allocated in a rational manner.
'Warm beer, nice. I'm really gonna have to get a mini-fridge while I'm staying here.' Turbo guzzles his unwanted beer.
'I've no idea how we got away with that. What a day!' I sigh with waves of giddiness in my breath.
'Security is poor because the funding is being stretched beyond its limits. Those guns were just begging to be rehomed,' Turbo advises.
'I don't understand, their technology is so advanced. Those missile launchers could take down a flying fortress but they were helpless to stop one jeep, even when they figured us out,' I reply.
'Like I was saying, they don't expect anyone would have the balls to rob a military base but I knew how easy it would be. Securing every weapon would be a logistical nightmare and every credit spent on a tracker could be spent on another gun. Basically, they have no way of finding us.'
'You'd think they'd be more concerned about the weapons falling into the wrong hands, if only to avoid being shot by their own guns!' Killow says.
'You would, but it rarely happens. Their decisions aren't always logical but they have many distractions. People think the war is over, but they are fighting insurgent groups worldwide and their complacency's gonna backfire. The resistance is stronger and more determined than they realise,' Turbo explains.
'You're lucky to not be in bloody pieces, idiots!' Mila glares as she walks past our chairs, like she has a moral opposition to the credit-making scheme which will benefit her first and foremost. Hypocrite.
The Scientific and the Supernatural
Gulping super-strength beer, Smig stares into gleaming brown glass and slams the froth-swilling bottle down, belching proudly. The near-continuous emptiness in my stomach reaches an uncomfortable level as I slurp bitter dregs so I get up for overdue sustenance. Standing four bottles of Dog on the bench, I take a bloodied lump of flesh and feathers from the cupboard which must weigh at least five pounds.
'Anyone cooked a chicken before?' I lift our meal by the claws.
'Not a chicken, but I've cooked pigeons. Used to hunt our own food when we were on active duty. First of all, you'll have to pluck it. Easiest way is to dump it into hot water to soften it up,' Turbo advises.
Smig grabs the bottles of Dog from the L-shaped bench and lads commence the second round of alcoholic beverages as I scoop charcoal from a sack with my plastic glove. Lasses peer over the couches like a mob of hungry meerkats as I fill a circle of bricks and replace the blackened grid of our rarely used barbecue.
'Killow, get some water, will ya?'
Water spla
shes onto concrete as Killow plonks a bucket beside the barbecue then pours oil onto old newspaper which he ignites with a lighter and places onto charcoal. Embers glow as they are consumed by flame and water bubbles gently, then violently so I submerge the bird until steam burns my one bare hand.
When I remove the chicken its warm, soggy feathers strip away with surprising ease. Within a minute the carcass is almost entirely bald and this prickly lump of flesh now resembles something behind a butcher's counter. Killow rummages through the cutlery tray and hands over utensils encrusted with dried food morsels.
Hacking the feet off, I stab the belly with a two-pronged fork and rotate the lump of meat over barbecue flames. The effort strains my good arm as sizzling skin turns from brown to black and there is a particular satisfaction to knowing we have captured and killed our own meal; even if we cheated.
'You need to ensure it's cooked all the way through, otherwise we'll get food poisoning and chickens carry nasty diseases. Avian flu can make the skin peel from ya face!' Turbo advises.
'Killow mate, you may as well grab the other chicken and do the same. I think this one's flu-free now. Someone grab a couple of plates,' I request.
A plate clanks onto the ground courtesy of the midget so I drop the chicken, shake my tense arm and tear off a juicy chicken leg. Killow snatches the fork to cook the other carcass and tear-ducts stream as I take a hungry bite, scorching my tastebuds in the process. Gasping to soothe my tongue, I move half-chewed meat around my mouth until it is cool enough to swallow.
'Is that hot, Arturo?!' Bex squawks, but I disregard her smart remark and place a poo-encrusted orange into my pocket, then I sit to enjoy the carnage as feeding time commences at the hovel.
Sylvie's over-eagerness causes her to blow on burnt fingers as Oscar and Scoop tear chicken to shreds like ravenous mutants. Killow finishes cooking the second bird, unaware of Bex's presence until she shoulder barges him but Turbo prises the squabbling pair apart to retrieve a chunky leg. When the commotion has settled, Emmi and Mila share the remaining scraps with Dynah, who should have blasted the rabble out the way with her super powers.
