This Machine Kills

by Steve Liszka

  Graffiti marked every filthy wall. Not artistic murals, but gang signs threatening rivals that had stumbled too far into enemy territory. Other slogans were used as vents of frustration: CLEERSKIES SUX ASS, SECFORCE KILLZ, and the one that had made Taylor chuckle to himself; MILTON IS A CUNT.

  With the exception of a few looted objects that had been rejected due to their uselessness, the scorched streets were empty. They passed an abandoned television with a piece of metal pipe protruding from the cracked screen like the periscope of a submarine and on one street corner the charred breasts of a female mannequin stood to attention as the Rhino crossed its path.

  The occasional gaunt face they witnessed hiding in the doorways quickly retreated into darkness when it caught sight of the team. Their movements reminded Taylor of a rodent whose nocturnal activities had been disturbed by a man brandishing a powerful flashlight. If it were not for these few brief glimpses of life, it would have been easy to believe the place had been deserted for decades.

  As they walked, Taylor cast regular glances at Doyle. Although he tried to hide it, the look of shock on his face was unmistakable. It was his job to keep a close eye on his surroundings, but Doyle stared so intently at the gutted environment, he had almost come to a complete stop. Taylor had seen the same expression many times before when kids like him first set their eyes on the waste-ground that enveloped their natural habitat.

  “You ok trooper?”

  Doyle looked over his shoulder and offered a meek grin. His complexion was even paler than when they had left SecForce headquarters.

  “What is this place Sarge?” he asked, “it looks like hell.”

  Taylor managed to suppress his laughter,

  “This isn’t hell Doyle, this is Jubilee Street. My mother used to bring me shopping here when I was kid.”

  “Yeah?” Doyle looked amazed at the claim, “I guess it must have been a nice place in those days?”

  “Not really, this was always the arse-end of the town… You see that building there,” Taylor nodded at the burnt-out husk of what had once been a shop front,

  “That used to be a butcher’s shop… I think.”

  Doyle stared at the ruins of the store, trying to visualise how it would have looked in its former life.

  “It must be strange to see how things have turned out,” he finally said.

  “You got that right,” Taylor answered, “now pick up the pace before we fall behind.”

  Raised voices followed by the sound of a bottle smashing caused Taylor to spin his assault rifle in the direction of the noise. Two old winos; one sitting, one standing, were involved in a drunken argument in the porch-way of another fire-damaged shop a little way up the street.

  Being on Lennox and Rudy’s flank, they were almost halfway to the men before Taylor had even moved.

  “Hold your fire,” he shouted, knowing the pair’s likely reaction. He was in no shape to deal with the smell of fresh guts.

  With their weapons aimed, Lennox and Rudy charged toward the commotion with Taylor running behind to catch them up.

  “Wha-the-fuc-do-ya-wan?” yelled the bum on his feet at the rampaging troopers.

  He was answered by the stock of Lennox’s pump-action shotgun smashing him directly in the jaw. The force of the action lifted the man clean off his feet. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. Rudy kicked the sitting wino square in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. He stabbed his rifle at the man’s face.

  “Are you a terrorist?”

  The drunk looked up at him with a blank stare.

  “I said, are you a fucking terrorist? You better talk old man or I’ll put a hole in your head.”

  The prone figure raised himself onto his elbows and gave out a chuckle that quickly turned into a rasping cough.

  “A terrorist? No sonny, I’m an alcoholic.”

  He laughed again, only to be knocked down again by the sole of Rudy’s boot smashing into his solar plexus.

  Taylor arrived and wrenched Rudy’s arm back, swinging him around so they faced each other. The anger in Rudy’s face quickly transformed into a passive, if contemptible smile.

  “Everything OK Sarge?” he asked, still smiling.

  Taylor let go of his elbow, trying not to wince at the smell of shit and piss exuding from the stinking men.

  “He’s not a terrorist Rudy,” he answered calmly, “he’s a bum.”

  “Thanks sonny,” the drunk shouted from below.

  Taylor thought it was probably the most sincere thing anybody had said to him all day.

  “I was just doing my job, Sarge,” Rudy said, “thought it was best to play it safe.”

  He was too. In basic training, this line of questioning was how the recruits were taught to address potential suspects. They were told not to risk conversing with anyone they considered a threat, but simply to ask them if they were terrorists. If they said yes, they were to treat them with the necessary force. If the suspect said no and they didn’t believe them, again necessary force could be shown. It was a licence for the security forces to do whatever they chose to, and in Lennox and Rudy’s cases, they usually chose to shoot.

  “Next time you see us coming,” Taylor said to the drunk, who now seemed content to lay where he was, “you and your friend need to keep out of the way, otherwise you may not be so lucky.”

  “No problem sonny,” the old man croaked back, “been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  As he spoke, Taylor noticed a wet patch rapidly growing in the groin of the man’s filthy trousers.

  From inside the Rhino, Spike spoke into his throat-mike, “Hey Doyle, ain’t it great being one of the good guys.”

  They carried on for a number of blocks seeing nothing worth concerning themselves over. A young woman carrying a baby approached Lennox, almost getting her head blown off in the process. She had come to offer him sex in exchange for food. Lennox had sent her on her way, but not before enticing her to expose her withered breasts to him and the others. Taylor reluctantly turned a blind eye to this.

  Further on, an old toothless hag had caused Rudy to almost piss himself with laughter when she hobbled toward a terrified-looking Doyle with her palms outstretched.

  “Money?” Skinner shouted from his turret, “What the hell are you going to do with it you crazy old bitch. Buy some shares in the company?”

  Money had been worthless in the Old-Town since Triage had been put into affect. The only currency these people now knew were the vouchers that were handed out by the ClearSkies Corporation in exchange for daily meals. The woman’s mind must have been working a decade too slow, Taylor thought.

  The fact they had come across no hostiles came as no surprise to him, as with the exception of the previous week’s incident, things had been pretty quiet for the past few months. A small, home-made bomb had gone off early in the morning in one of the City’s lower-end shopping districts. Even though it was a relatively minor incident, (the only fatality being an old man who was walking his dog and had taken the full force of the blast), the story had caused quite a stir on the day’s newsbites. The dog had had to have its back legs removed, and in a gesture of support to the man’s family, the research department of the ClearSkies Corporation had offered to use its latest technology to build it new bio-robotic limbs

  Although there was very little damage done with the exception of a few broken windowpanes, the usual hysteria followed the explosion. Despite SecForce’s most solemn promises, they would never find who did it; Taylor and everyone else who worked for them knew it. But it didn’t matter; the bombing had led to the government increasing SecForce’s troop numbers in the City by an extra ten percent.

  Taylor thought his employers had most likely set off the bomb themselves. It was an open secret amongst the troopers that whenever there was a lull in enemy activities, a bomb would go off in some part of the City or another. He’d once met a trooper who admitted he’d planted the car bomb that closed the whole of the Eastside down for a
day. As fucked as it was, he could see where SecForce were coming from. They had to ensure they kept their contracts with the government and in the long term, if it meant people were safer, they were all winners. He just wasn’t sure he could convince the dog walker’s family of that.

  The Rhino halted as it approached what was once a junction of the busy highway that had bisected the Old-Town. Rusted vehicles, now jacked up on bricks, still littered the road. Their owners had driven the cars until there was no petrol left in the tanks, then got out of the vehicles and abandoned them. When gas and electricity were no longer available, they came back and took the tyres to burn for a few hours worth of heat.

  Spike’s voice rang out in Taylor’s ear-piece, “Which way now boss?”

  Although Spike couldn’t see him, Taylor used his hand to demonstrate their direction of travel,

  “Straight on.”

  Obeying orders, Spike skilfully weaved the Rhino through the abandoned cars. Occasionally he used its metal bumper to nudge them to one side and create enough room for the Rhino to slip through the gap between two closely parked vehicles. Rogers had been sent ahead of the Rhino to act as a pathfinder and locate the route of least resistance to the other side of the highway.

  As he mounted the bank on the far side, Taylor saw Rogers point to something on the road. He looked back at Taylor and held his clenched fist up; it was the sign for danger.

  “Everyone down!” Taylor whispered.

  Receiving their orders through their ear-pieces, the team quickly dropped to their knees as the Rhino ground to a halt.

  “What is it Rogers?”

  “Hopefully nothing Sarge, but there’s a pack of ferals hanging around one of the cars. They don’t look like they’re out for trouble but I didn’t want to take any chances.”

  “Good work, you did the right thing,” Taylor said, “now stay out of sight while I take a look.”

  He slowly got to his feet, and after checking it would take his weight, carefully climbed onto the nearest car’s bonnet. Through the scope of his rifle he could see ten or more young boys between the ages of eight and fourteen. Their clothing was ripped and torn and almost as filthy as their hands and faces. The boys were staring into the rear seats of a large people-carrier and even from such a distance, Taylor could see they were transfixed.

  “Have they seen us Sarge?” Lennox asked from his kneeling position.

  “Doesn’t look like.”

  “Then shouldn’t we push on? The last thing we need is those little fucks giving us trouble.”

  Taylor ignored him and continued to observe, determined to find out what they were up to.

  When Triage was first put into place, many of the Old-Town’s residents quickly developed a live and let die mentality. With food and other resources in such short supply they could only think about looking after themselves and their own. When their elders were no longer able to do that anymore, some of the children soon took things into their own hands.

  Unlike adults steeped in years of convention and tradition, their offspring quickly adapted to this new environment. They discovered that if it was going to be a dog-eat-dog world, you stood a much better chance if you were part of a pack. Spurned on by the failings of their parents, the feral children abandoned their families and took matters of life and death into their own hands. Unfortunately for their neighbours, the methods of survival they chose were often far from pretty.

  Taylor was about to give up on his curiosity when the ferals suddenly let out a roar in unison. Seconds later, he observed a young girl, probably no more than twelve, stumble out of the car straight into the arms of one of the cheering crowd. She was quickly followed out by a boy one or two years older than herself. Through his scope Taylor could see a smile on the kid’s dirt-smeared face that spread from ear to ear.

  There followed some commotion as the girl was pushed and pulled from one pair of arms to another. Eventually one of the older boys took hold of her and pushed her back into the car. He was about to follow her in when a burst of gunfire stopped him in his tracks. The ferals looked to Taylor, whose rifle now pointed to the air as a thin plume of smoke trickled from the barrel.

  “What the fuck are you playing at Sarge?” Lennox yelled as he jumped to his feet.

  Again Taylor ignored him; waiting to gauge the feral’s reaction. He wanted to see just how brazen they had become. His answer came swiftly, when the boy who was about to have the girl next, smiled at him before leaning into the car to carry on with his business.

  The next burst of gunfire blew out the windscreen of the vehicle and punctured the front wheel arch. This time the boys took their cue and scattered into all directions. After waiting unsuccessfully for the girl to reappear, Taylor eventually lowered his weapon. As he climbed down Rudy greeted him with a sarcastic slow clap.

  “Well done Sarge, now we get to spend the rest of the day dodging bricks.”

  Taylor pushed the safety catch back on his rifle, “How would you feel if it was your little girl?”

  The question seemed to take Rudy off-guard, just as Taylor had intended it. He could play dirty too, especially when he knew how Rudy felt about his daughter. He knew they didn’t see each other anymore, not since his wife left him and transferred to Liberty City.

  “And you wonder why they treat us the way they do?” Taylor added. He knew it made him sound like a self-righteous prick but he couldn’t help himself.

  “They stopped being people a long time ago,” Rudy replied, just loud enough for him to hear.

  Doyle tugged at Taylor’s sleeve like a child trying to catch an adult’s attention.

  “Shouldn’t we go down there and help her Sarge?”

  Taylor shook his head, “That’s not why we’re here, we’ve got to move on.”

  He placed his hand on Doyle’s shoulder and gently guided him forwards.

  Chapter 3

  They walked for another hour seeing only a badly burnt body that made the Rhino alter its path to avoid dirtying its tyres. Lennox took great joy in positioning himself over the blackened corpse and pretending to fuck it. Their route had taken them straight through the heart of the Old-Town, yet the place was almost dead.

  Taylor had never seen it this quiet before and wondered where the inhabitants were hiding. Maybe they’d finally grown sick of these intrusions by the security forces and moved to the outskirts where they were more likely to be left alone? It was of little consequence to him, as far as he was concerned, the quieter things stayed the better.

  They had now left the old commercial centre of the town and were walking through what was once an area filled with cheap high-rise tower blocks. At one time it would have been home to the majority of the Old-Town’s population. All that now remained of these buildings were mountains of rubble, some as high as thirty feet, piled up on either side of the road. The occasional half demolished building still towered over its fallen comrades. When the uprising began, these blocks were used as sniper positions against the security forces when they entered the Old-Town. SecForce’s response to the threat was to send in the bulldozers to destroy them all.

  The sun’s rays had intensified, burning off what little cloud cover there had been. The rubble piles were acting as wind shelters, preventing any cooling air reaching the hot and tired troops. Taylor glanced at Lennox, who was sweating by the bucket-load and visibly starting to slow; they would have to take a break.

  Taylor spoke into his throat-mike, “Spike, we’re going to stop here for a few minutes.”

  The Rhino came to an abrupt halt.

  “Don’t tell me you boys are too hot,” Spike replied, “‘cos I’m getting a little bit frosty in here. This air-con’s just too damn efficient.”

  “That’s funny asshole,” Lennox growled. The others listened to Spike as he chuckled to himself.

  The team found themselves suitable piles of rock to sit on and take the weight off their aching feet. Whilst the others thirstily drank from their canteens, Skinner c
limbed down from his turret to take a piss. Lennox took his helmet off his beetroot-red head, pouring what was left in his canteen over his clean-shaven skull.

  “Put your helmet back on trooper!” Taylor yelled at him.

  “Just give me a minute Sarge,” he begged, “I’m cooking up.”

  Taylor shrugged, “It’s your head that’ll get blown off, do what you want.”

  Rogers, who had chosen to stay on his feet whilst the others rested, cast Lennox an unsympathetic glance. Barely a trickle of sweat lay on his brow and his breathing was no more laboured than when they first left the Rhino. He looked like he’d just finished a leisurely stroll in one of the City’s parks. Unlike the muscle-bound physiques of Lennox and Skinner, Rogers looked more like a middle distance runner. Although he was close to forty, Taylor was fairly certain Rogers could outrun the lot of them.

  Lennox spoke again, “I told you this would be a waste of time, the place is a fucking ghost town.”

  Skinner zipped himself up then strolled across to the rest of the team, “Could be worse, we could be working the City.”

  “Fuck that shit,” Lennox answered, “you’d never catch me with those metro-pussies.”

  Skinner laughed, “They’re goddamn heroes Lennox. The City’s a dangerous place.”

  “Yeah,” Lennox agreed, “they could always get attacked by some kiddy fiddler with a hard-on.”

  The crime rate in the City was virtually nil. The only criminal behaviour that still existed was a high case of management level fraud that seemed to attract incredibly lenient penalties. Other than that, the only crime that was consistently rising was the child pornography found on peoples’ computers in SecForce’s regular spot-checks.

  Rudy dug into his pocket, searching for his cigarettes,

  “You’d be ok Lennox, you’re way too old for those perverts. Doyle here on the other hand… well I’m sure they’d just love a bit of this fresh meat.”