The Violent Society

by M C Rooney

  “It was two people riding horses and accompanied by four dogs,” Veronica replied. “Danni saw it with her own eyes.”

  “Yes, but who is going to believe that?” the mayor replied scornfully.

  Who indeed? Veronica thought. If she hadn’t heard it from her youngest, and it must be said sweetest, daughter, she would not have believed it herself.

  “Do you want us to leave?” Veronica asked quietly.

  Her daughters, Kerri, Caroline, Anne, and Danni stood behind her; next to them were three husbands and twelve children aged from twenty to three years of age. All the daughters shared the black-haired looks of their father, and also their grandmother, whom they had never spoken to.

  “Yes, I do want you to leave,” the mayor replied in a more moderate tone. “You should go to your son Buzz. He would be more than happy to accommodate you.”

  “They are all busy now with the zombie cleaning of our hometown and the construction of the mini-towers,” Veronica replied.

  She was so proud of her baby boy. What a gift he had found with this new technology. Maybe in a decade or so the West Coast would finally have a power source again. The good news was only soured by her eldest son, who had betrayed the clan and disappeared entirely. Rod was not a nice man, but he was her son and she did care for him, no matter what he did.

  The mayor went red-faced again and was about to yell at her when Veronica’s eldest daughter, Kerri, spoke. “We could go to the tower and help Father,” she said.

  All of her daughters had agreed to come and live with her in the village, but they also loved their father very much, though he seemed incapable of expressing his love in return. What a strange man Maurice was. He may have beaten Buzz twice when he was a child, but he never laid a hand on his daughters, ever, and he expected that to be the proof of how much he loved them. Rod, on the other hand, was beaten by Maurice constantly, but this mostly happened when he had stabbed someone. In the old days he would have simply been thrown in jail, but they handled things differently now. Violence was Maurice’s only emotion; violence was his only outlet. And after nearly forty years of it, Veronica just couldn’t take any more and left him.

  Veronica was about to reject her eldest daughter’s request when Danni began to speak. “We can’t, Kerri,” she said quietly. “I have just heard news of a battle that took place there after Buzz and his tribe left.”

  “What battle?” Veronica said as she felt her heart begin to race in her chest. “There were only two hundred survivors, and they were mostly too ill to lift a finger.”

  Buzz had told her that one of the sick was Maurice himself. He also said some things that gave her hope that Maurice may have finally changed.

  “It was said that an army of over a thousand turned up from the east,” Danni replied.

  “A thousand, that’s preposterous!” the mayor cried out.

  “No, it’s not, Mayor,” Danni said in her soft voice. “The electricity supplied by the tower kept their society running. It is believed they have well over ten thousand people in their communities.”

  “Rubbish!” the mayor called out. “There must be—”

  “Oh, shut up, and let her speak,” Kerri snapped. It seemed that Veronica’s eldest daughter carried a bit of her father’s temper.

  “Thank you, Sister,” Danni said. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “The electricity was supplied by the tower, so the people from the east came over in force to secure the power.”

  “Why did they take so long to try to claim it?” the mayor asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Danni replied.

  “You’re not sure!” the mayor scoffed, then saw Kerri’s face and decided to keep quiet.

  “Get to the end of the story, please, Danni,” Veronica said softly. She was looking at her youngest daughter’s face and could see there was an ending that she would not like.

  “It is rumoured that the Easterners attacked the surviving camp,” she said softly with tears in her eyes, “and less than ten of our people survived.”

  “Was it said who survived?” Kerri asked.

  “No,” Danni replied. “So we don’t know if Father or John Carter are even still alive.”

  Veronica stood still for a long moment and tried to control her breathing and her emotions. Sure, she had decided to leave Maurice, but she never stopped loving him, never for a moment.

  “One more night to pack, Mayor,” she said as tears fell from her eyes. “We will be gone in the morning.”

  The Rangers

  Hussein rode on his horse and tried hard not to stare at his companion. So fast, he thought in complete and utter awe. The leader and the bowman were dead in seconds. Her hands moved faster than his eye could track. And those dogs! Where the fuck did those dogs come from? One minute they were nowhere in sight and the next moment, they were ripping the living men’s legs off. She had lied about the throat tearing, but those dogs certainly bit deep into those men’s calves. And as soon as the men were down, screaming in pain, Kirstin had leapt from her horse and cut both of their throats. It was over within twenty seconds. And what had Hussein done as this happened? Nothing—not a bloody thing; he just sat on his horse and stared. Hussein rode alongside Kirstin for another ten minutes before he finally asked her what was on his mind.

  “Who trained those dogs?” he asked. They were the same breed as the mayor’s dog, and the mayor’s dog was so placid. Wasn’t it? He knew the answer as soon as he asked the question.

  “The mayor,” they said together.

  Kirstin began laughing in that innocent way she had.

  “And who taught you to throw knives?”

  “The mayor,” they said together.

  “Never underestimate the mayor, Davo,” Hussein mumbled to himself, “and never underestimate this young girl, either.”

  That night they camped and ate some kangaroo the dogs had caught. They hunted as a pack. Kirstin sat by the campfire and cuddled her dogs. They licked her face and looked back at her with total devotion.

  The Martin Mansion

  Brett Martin strode along the pathway that led to his home. People who were in his way moved quickly to the side with averted eyes, as it was never a good idea to gain his attention when he was in a pensive mood like he was today. The land that was initially home to nearly two hundred people had expanded for miles in all directions to accommodate the thousands of people who once lived here. Now it only sheltered a quarter of that population and had an empty feel to it, almost like it was a ghost town. His thick black hair fluttered in the breeze, and the war paint on his chest glistened in the sun as he stopped and surveyed his mansion with pride. A thousand people his clan now numbered, according to that bookish nerd Grant Hamill. A thousand people led by him alone.

  He had never thought that he would be clan leader. Hockey had always scared him if he was honest, and even though the man had killed his grandfather, father, and uncle, he would never have had the courage to take him on. In fact, over the last forty years, nearly twenty poor sods had tried to displace him, and all suffered some sort of grisly end. But three years ago Hockey had left the mansion for that bloody noisy tower inlands and had decided to stay. And now it was rumoured it had become his graveyard, either by sickness or a strange army that had arrived from the east. Brett Martin, though, had returned home, on the insistence of his old bag of a great-aunt, and after fighting and killing the current leader in the Circle, where Brett’s sons had watched his back, he had become the new clan leader. All was looking good, and he could almost smile with pleasure, but rumours of Hockey’s death had also come with rumours that Hockey’s son Buzz had returned to the west. He had sent his own sons out scouting to see if they could find any trace of Buzz’s tribe, but so far, they had come up with nothing.

  What was he to do if Buzz returned to the mansion? What was he to do if Buzz returned to a nearby town in the west? Buzz would have had nearly four hundred warriors by his reckoning, but Brett had only around one hundred. He in
itially had more, but for some strange reason, a lot of young men had decided to give up their fighting ways and were now wearing handmade shirts and jackets instead. Fucking cowards!

  Brett’s second son, Jonas, walked out of the mansion towards him as he approached. Thankfully, his boys had continued to wear the traditional clothing and war paint.

  “Did you find any trace of Buzz?” Brett called out.

  “No, Chief,” his son replied. “I saw nothing out there.”

  All of his six sons were in their early to mid-twenties, but Jonas was the only son who looked exactly like him.

  “What about the other boys?”

  “All have returned except Glen, and all have found no trace.”

  Ozzie, Shane, and Brad soon joined their brother outside of the mansion. All were healthy and fit—except for Ozzie who was incredibly lazy—and with nasty dispositions, which Rebecca said reminded her of her brother and nephews.

  “We didn’t find anything,” Ozzie said as he brushed his blond curly hair out of his face. He looked just like his mother.

  “I think the prick is too scared to come back,” Brad said as he also brushed his thick, wavy brown hair out of his eyes. He also looked just like his mother.

  “Buzz is a fuckwit,” Shane said, and that was probably the most articulate phrase that would come out of his mouth. He was small, skinny, and had dark hair and skin like his mother.

  “But Glen isn’t back yet?” Brett mused. That was strange; the boys had occasionally camped overnight, but usually they preferred to return to the comforts of home instead.

  “No,” the brothers replied, finally realising that something may be amiss. They weren’t the brightest of boys, but they had done well finding the betrayers both times he had been challenged in the Circle.

  Glen was the smart one, though, and fortunately, the eldest and the heir to the clan. He had the thick black hair of the Martins but also looked a lot like his mother.

  “Then you better go look for him, hey?” Brett replied, trying to control his temper. He hadn’t beaten his sons in quite a while, but he was feeling the urge to do so now.

  “I’ll go, Chief,” said Brad.

  “No, Brad,” Brett replied, holding up his hand. “Shane will go, with four men, and take Warren as well; he is slow, but he is the best tracker.”

  Slow. That must be the biggest understatement of the new world, Brett thought. I was almost going to give him back to his mother he was so dumb.

  The youngest son, Warren, or Junior as he liked to be called, lumbered out of the house and flexed his huge muscles. He had the red hair of his mother and the intellect of a bag full of bricks, but Great-Aunt Rebecca said he had a very familiar body shape. He was very huge, and he was very violent. Apart from the hair, he looked a lot like Maurice Roberts.

  Grant Hamill looked through the window and watched as Brett Martin talked to his four sons. They were all looking for any sign of Buzz in the last few days, and you could easily tell how worried they all were. Where is Glen? he wondered. He hadn’t come back last night. Grant hoped that somewhere out there, the smug prick had fallen over and broken his neck. He was glad that their attention was focused on external dangers, as Grant and his brothers and his mate Bean Pole were silently doing everything they possibly could to break the Martin rule from within. The greatest threat they had committed, however, was encouraging young men to wear jackets, as simple as that sounded. He watched as the giant oaf Junior and that rude bastard Shane gathered four warriors and ran off into the bushlands.

  Four, Grant thought. That leaves around ninety warriors left in the clan. “Still too many,” he muttered to himself.

  “What are you doing staring out that window?” Rebecca Roberts asked as she shuffled into the room.

  Bloody hell, doesn’t that old lady stay still for longer than ten minutes?

  “I was indeed looking at the brave Martin boys and wondering what they were up to. I must apologise, Rebecca,” Grant replied with a kindly smile.

  “Ha, up to no good, knowing them,” she replied with a toothless grin.

  She was also looking him up and down in a way that made him feel more than a tad uncomfortable.

  “They look worried,” he ventured to say.

  “Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” she replied, smiling and trying to look him in the eyes.

  Dear God, is she trying to flirt with me again?

  “The Martins know how to protect us,” she continued.

  Just like they protected my mother, Grant thought angrily, and again felt the urge to kill the lot of them.

  “They do indeed protect us,” Grant replied with his best smile.

  “Some are made to rule, some to follow,” she replied.

  Yes, and I am just a dumb peasant, you stupid old bag.

  “Of course, Rebecca,” Grant said aloud.

  Rebecca was about to move closer to him when Grant decided now was the best time to leave.

  “If you will excuse me,” Grant said as he walked to the door, “I need to meet my brothers and see if they have been successful in hunting.”

  “You could stay here for tonight’s meal,” Rebecca replied in hope and once again smiled at him coyly.

  Not a chance, Grant thought in disgust.

  “Thank you for the offer,” his mouth replied politely, “but I really need to check on my younger brothers. They don’t seem to function properly without me.”

  And I need to get out of here.

  “Another time, perhaps,” she said.

  Never!

  “That would be delightful,” he replied, and with a smile, he very quickly walked out of the room.

  I think I’m going to be sick, he thought, and in his haste to get away from Rebecca Roberts, he bumped straight into Brad Martin.

  “Watch where you are going, you fucking nerdy cunt,” Brad said as he glared at him.

  “I’m sorry … Brad,” Grant mumbled as he stared at the fourth Martin son.

  “What are you fucking staring at?” Brad spat out. “You a fucking poofter or something?”

  Grant was too stunned to reply to that dumb comment. He just kept staring at this man’s face. Does he realise how similar we look? Grant wondered.

  “Out of my way!” Brad shouted and pushed him against the wall.

  Grant watched as Brad, and then Ozzie and Jonas all walked past him, glaring. All six of Brett Martin’s sons had different mothers. And Brad’s mother … Brad’s mother was his own mother.

  Grant felt his breathing become erratic, as his hands clenched again into fists. He had to kill them. He had to. His mother had never recovered from the ordeal, and soon after giving birth to Brad, she had died of a fever. His father soon followed. His Grandfather Arnie said it was from a broken heart, although whispers said he had taken his own life. He had to avenge his parents somehow. The Martins always took what they wanted, and Brett Martin took other people’s wives, daughters, and mothers and raped them. All of his sons were products of rape, and God only knew how many daughters he had out there. Brett Martin had to die, and he had to die painfully.

  Hockey and his Crew

  “He is starting to move more quickly,” Ian said as he looked at their former chief walking in front of them.

  “His cough has gone,” added Alex.

  “It’s his friends,” Sam replied. “They have lifted his spirits.”

  “And his feet,” Ian replied.

  “He has been smiling as well,” Alex said.

  “A miracle,” Ian said in awe.

  “Look at his clothing,” Sam said.

  “John started calling him Lawrence of Arabia,” said Alex.

  “Who?” asked Ian.

  “No idea,” replied Sam.

  “I still don’t know where we are headed,” Alex said as he looked around at the old road they were journeying on.

  “So long as it is towards Buzz,” said Sam.

  “And away from the Martins,” added Ian.
>
  “Then I am happy,” finished Alex.

  “Do you like your jacket, Alex?” Ian asked.

  Alex looked at his fur clothing with admiration. “Yes, I have to admit I do, Ian,” he replied with a smile. “It’s nice to be warm for a change.”

  “And you, Sam?”

  Sam looked at his blue jacket in wonder; it was amazingly warm. “Yeah, it’s all right, I suppose,” he said nonchalantly.

  “That’s crap.” Alex laughed. “You love it; admit it.”

  Sam looked at his brother and tried to maintain his bluff, but a big grin came over his face. “I do love it,” he said. “It’s freaking awesome.”

  “What did Craig say it was?” asked Ian.

  “A bomber jacket.”

  “And what is that thing in the middle?”

  “A zip.”

  “Such wonders,” Ian replied in awe.

  “And what about your jacket, Ian?” Alex asked. “Feel any urges to quack yet?”

  “No.”

  “What about flying?”

  “No, not really.”

  Craig Cheng had given Ian a big robe with a hood, except it was covered completely in duck feathers.

  “He said it was good for keeping the rain out,” said Sam.

  “Oh, yes,” Ian replied, “and the same with your bomber jacket.”

  They both looked at Alex in his furs. “Shit,” was all he said.

  Suddenly Hockey, Cheng, and Carter stopped and pointed farther down the road.

  “Strangers,” said Alex looking at what they were pointing at.

  “What the hell are those things?” Sam called out.

  “I recognise a horse,” Ian replied and started salivating at the mouth.

  Hockey glanced behind him at the young men who had been talking about how warm they were.

  “Those things, as you say, Sam, are dogs.”

  “Really?” Ian replied, and the extra saliva made him gulp.

  “They are rangers,” said Alex. “I recognise the green jackets.”

  “Is it Tom?” Ian asked.

  “No,” Alex replied whilst squinting his eyes. “One is a dark-skinned man and the other …”