by Steve Liszka
“I know that Spike, but Rogers was one of my guys, its up to me to tell his wife before she hears it elsewhere.”
He was referring to the newsbites. Taylor knew it wouldn’t be long before Rogers’ face was plastered all over them, his death further terrifying the City’s inhabitants.
Spike shook his head and sighed, “All the fucking cocksuckers they could have chosen from and they had to get him. Life really ain’t fair is it boss?”
Taylor shrugged, “It’s not about fair, shit like this just comes down to luck. A gambling man like yourself should know that better than anyone.”
“Yeah,” Spike laughed, “me and luck are well acquainted.”
“It’s a damn shame though,” Taylor sighed, “took me six months to get the team back to full strength and then this happens.”
Spike smiled, “Looks like you’ve got to go begging to Mason again.”
Taylor’s team had been a man down since Goldman’s freak accident. The team had been calming down a minor skirmish at a food queue when the teargas grenade he was holding went off. As he had lost his trigger finger and thumb there had been no choice but to retire him on ill-health. There were rumours it had been done on purpose as a means to gain a pay-out for his family. It wouldn’t have surprised Taylor; Goldman was an edgy fucker who should never have been operational in the first place. The first thing he had done upon retiring was up sticks and move to Ocean City; the only one still left on the coast. Taylor imagined him lying on the beach; a cocktail glass in his mutilated hand.
He took a fifty out of his wallet and pressed it into Spike’s hand, “Get the first round on me, hopefully they’re shallow enough that I can still buy their affections.”
Spike inspected the note, “It can only work in your favour, although I’m sure a hundred will give them a real hard-on for you.”
Taylor nudged Spike’s chubby arm, “Go on, piss off before I take the money back.”
“Be safe Taylor,” Spike said as he turned and waddled back towards the shower room.
“Hey Spike,” Taylor yelled down the corridor, “take it easy on the kid tonight, I want to make sure he’s back in one piece next week.”
“Don’t worry, you can count on me,” Spike answered without bothering to turn round.
Taylor could imagine the smile on his face growing as he said it.
He decided to walk to the Rogers house. It would give him time to think. He realised that when talking to Doyle earlier in the day, it had been the first time he had spoken about his mother for years. He smiled when he remembered how angry he had got as a child when she made him take the long bus journey to Jubilee Street. He would constantly nag her as she dragged him from one dingy shop to another. Why didn’t she just save time and buy all the food in the mega-market?
His mother, a beautiful woman of Greek decent and a lover of authentically cooked food, never relented. ‘If something was worth making’ she would say, ‘then it was worth making properly’. ‘Anyway,’ she would add, ‘wouldn’t you rather give our money to lots of different people rather than just one who’s already rich?’ Taylor never responded, knowing she would dislike his reply.
She died just before his tenth birthday. It didn’t come as much of a surprise to him, most of his friends’ mothers had already passed away by then. What it was that caused virtually a whole generation of women to disappear so quickly and unexpectedly, nobody knew. There were all sorts of theories raging at the time to explain the phenomena. Everything from cancer clusters in the brain caused by mobile phones, to the lack of omega 3 in the intensively reared chickens that filled the mega-market shelves, were considered the possible cause. Taylor knew the latter couldn’t have been the reason, his mother had always bought free-range.
More sinister conspirators believed the deaths were the government’s solutions to the increasingly growing population they could no longer afford to support. All anyone really knew was that men had somehow escaped the epidemic and suddenly they were all their children had left to read them stories and tuck them in at night.
It was also on Jubilee Street, following the first stages of the depression that the violence finally exploded into the open. It was probably no coincidence that when the wives were no longer around to act as peacemakers to their arrogant husbands, things quickly started to go wrong. Even though most people with any sense knew the real cause of the economic slump, one politician in particular made himself very wealthy by claiming the fault laid with the influx of immigrants that had made the country their home. Within no time, even fourth and fifth generation migrants like the shopkeepers on Jubilee Street, were being attacked by their scared and gullible neighbours.
That was when The ClearSkies Corporation finally revealed its trump card and Triage was born. They say that history has a habit of repeating itself, and when the communities of areas like Jubilee Street were packed up and sent to the production centres, it seemed that things had gone full circle. As it began to grow dark, Taylor quickened his pace; he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. At least when he’d finished being death’s messenger he could go home and drink himself into oblivion once again.
Chapter 6
Taylor cradled his head in his hands, willing the noise to stop. The monorail may have been silent as it glided over the City’s upper atmosphere, but the constant advertisements that filled its interior were anything but. The two teenage boys who sat opposite him were doing nothing to ease his discomfort.
“That’s fucking awesome dude,” one of the boys nudged his friend’s arm, “I’m getting that shit, for real.”
The other boy’s immaculately kept blonde hair could easily have led to him being mistaken for a girl. He was staring open-mouthed at the giant animated billboard that started just above Taylor’s head and curved over the ceiling of the monorail giving a three-dimensional view of the products it was selling. If Taylor had chosen to look above the boys’ heads he would have been able to see an exact replica of their view.
The advert showed a beautiful groomed, handsome young man walking through the heart of the City. When he reached the end of the busy street he came to a stop, striking the most dramatic of poses before turning to address the camera directly.
“Life in the City can be tough on your skin,” he breathed huskily, “that’s why I always use Hydro-Gel Protection Formula. It moisturises, hydrates and keeps my skin young, even through the toughest of days.”
As the advert finished the longhaired boy turned to his friend,
“He’s right you know,” he said seriously, “this place will fuck your complexion up.”
On closer inspection Taylor could see that both of the boys were wearing a layer of make-up on their faces.
Far-too-loud, jingly music poured out from the speakers as another advert kicked into life. This time, a woman dressed only in her underwear was seductively fingering the screen of her Lifeline. Taylor couldn’t help but feel smug as the voice-over listed an almost endless supply of things the device could do for its lucky owner. He watched the boys drooling at the images in satisfaction.
It may have only done a fraction of the things the Lifeline could, but at least the sorry-looking phone Taylor had owned as a child could call anywhere in the world (not that he had known anyone outside of the Old-Town). The range of the Lifeline however, was limited to within the City’s limits. Calls to other cities were only possible if made at SecForce headquarters and charged at such exorbitant rates, most people had accepted they would no longer be in touch with friends or family. As for calling abroad, they had about as much chance as contacting Mars.
“I’m getting that, I don’t care what anyone says,” the first boy yelled as the girl writhed on the bed like the Lifeline’s vibrating application had started up.
His friend gave an unimpressed sniff, “I thought you already had one?”
“I do man, but mine’s like three month’s old already. This one’s the real deal.”
The two boys had carried on in
this manner since they first got on the monorail, just one stop after Taylor. His heart had sunk a little as they took their seats on the already busy locomotive. He had only managed a couple of hours worth of sleep the night before and had not been prepared for the rude awakening he had received. It was his day off and he’d been expecting to spend the morning in bed, sleeping off his hangover, but when Freddie Milton’s secretary called him at seven-thirty, Taylor knew it must have been important. Unfortunately for him, he also knew Milton was not a man to be kept waiting.
As the two boys continued in their semi-retarded conversation, Taylor imagined himself hurting them in all manner of different ways. He was tempted to let the scenario expand to the rest of the passengers too, especially the fat woman and businessman on either side of him who forced his knees tightly together so he sat like a shy schoolgirl. Fortunately for them, his brain wasn’t up to such a mental workout.
When one of the boys blurted out a demand for the running trainers that were now being displayed on the screens, Taylor could contain himself no longer.
“Hey boys, I’ve got an idea,” he said, quickly attracting their attention, “why don’t you try shutting the fuck up until you see something you don’t want to buy.”
Just as the fat woman gave him a disgusted frown, it dawned on him that if the speakers had picked up his indiscretion, he would be fined for the use of obscene language in a public place. The City’s communal swear box had been set up as a way to not only improve social behaviour but also to ensure that for those who continued to offend, their money would be spent on worthwhile charitable causes. As the government was in so much debt to ClearSkies, he knew those charities would never see that money and wondered whose pocket it would eventually line.
When the boys, who had also realised his mistake, finished laughing, they caught Taylor’s attention.
“Look man,” the prettier of the two said, “we’re just trying to take care of ourselves that’s all. Just cos you look like you come from the Old-Town, it don’t mean we have to.”
“Yeah,” his friend added, “you really should take more pride in your appearance. First impressions count dude.”
They laughed again before casually making their way to the doors of the slowing monorail.
“Feral!” they shouted together as the doors opened and they hopped out.
Taylor knew this was one of the worst insults the youth of the City were branding each other with. As the train moved off he watched them standing on the platform, laughing like they were the cleverest people in the world. The fat woman did little to try and hide the smirk she was wearing on her make-up-laden face. It impressed him that she could manage any positive emotions considering the size of the hanging jowls that had once been cheeks.
Looking down at the clothes he was wearing, Taylor had to confess that the boys were more or less right. Whilst he didn’t exactly look like he belonged on the other side of the wall, his choice of dress was scruffy to say the least. He had owned the worn jeans he was wearing for at least six years and his battered boots, although comfortable and highly functional, had been his since Canada, where he bought them off an American marine for a bargain price.
In City terms, Taylor was a non-spender, one of the most irresponsible things a good citizen could be. He had already been warned about his behaviour on a number of occasions by the City’s financial department, the people responsible for overlooking consuming habits. If it wasn’t for his job with SecForce he would have already been given the final ultimatum; spend your money or lose it. After having his position so rudely reminded to him by the teenagers, he tried to think of something he needed to purchase.
It was his visit to the dead man’s widow that had sent him on another marathon drinking binge. Luckily for him, Rogers’ little girl was already in bed when he arrived at the house. His wife, a quiet, well-dressed woman must have known straightaway that it was bad news. This was the first time she had ever met Taylor (as their commanding officer, he didn’t like to socialise with the team out of hours), so immediately her thoughts must have been grave.
What shocked him was how passively she had taken the information. There were a few tears at first, but the speed with which the woman composed herself took him by surprise. By the time she had made him a cup of tea, she was already speaking like her husband had been dead for years; telling stories of how Rogers would go fishing in the indoor lake on the weekends and what a good father he had been to his daughter.
“He spoke well of you too,” she had told Taylor, as if not wanting to leave him out. Whether it was true or not he couldn’t say.
The real kicker was that just as he was leaving, Rogers’ wife took both his hands and looked straight into his eyes.
“Tell me something,” she said, as the tears welled up once more, “have the things he did made a difference?”
Taylor didn’t miss a breath before answering,
“Your husband helped to make a lot of people’s lives better.”
On hearing this, she hugged him so hard he could feel the breath being forced out of him.
Walking home, he thought about the last thing he had said to Mrs Rogers. He wasn’t lying when he said her husband had made people’s lives better. What he didn’t tell her was that those people were the owners and shareholders of the ClearSkies corporation. As far as he could remember, nothing him or his boys had ever done had helped the people who needed it most.
When he got home he sat on the couch in his tiny apartment with a bottle of whisky in one hand and the television control in the other. He had tried to resist at first but he kept returning to the channel. After half an hour of free porn he punched his code into the remote to authorise payment of the Prison Matches.
Set in a maximum-security prison, the arena for the bloody spectacle was a concrete pit sunk six-feet into the floor. Three levels of prison cells encircled the pit making the building design not too dissimilar to an old-fashion football stadium. A perfect view of the action was guaranteed for the men who pushed against the bars of their cells, screaming obscenities at the camera as it panned along each floor. This wasn’t necessary to the action, but it made good television and helped create the appropriate atmosphere for the fans that watched from the safety of their homes. Taylor wondered if the television crews had to whip the prisoners up into a frenzy to get the desired effect or if they acted that way on a permanent basis.
When the event kicked into life, he grew angry with the fighters and yelled at the television in an attempt to school them.
‘Use your legs, keep him at range,’ or to the two men who were scrambling on the floor ‘come on, pass the guard for fuck’s sake.’
Unlike the contests he was used to fighting in, these men were sloppy amateurs, throwing wild desperate punches and getting hit at will. The main difference with this and his fights though, was that in the prison match-ups there were no rules and neither of the two competitors, (or more if it was group match), wore gloves or mouth-guards. This was as primitive and brutal as it came.
As he got more and more drunk it occurred to him why the prison matches had taken over as the main form of entertainment in the cities, knocking his sport of its pedestal forever. It certainly wasn’t because they were better fighters. There were only one or two guys in the prisons who would have had any chance of making it in the cage. Watching two first-timers beat each other to a stand-still, he realised it was the fear and desperation they fought with that made it such a spectacle. They may not have been skilful, but these men, who knew defeat could very well result in their own deaths, fought with every morsel of energy they had left in their bodies. It was gladiatorial stuff and people loved it.
When the novices had finally finished (the larger of the two winning by smashing his opponent’s head repeatedly into the concrete floor until a yellowish liquid pooled around his skull), it was time for the main event. The long reigning prison champion, Warchild, was pitted against a new up-and-coming fighter known simply as
The Beast. The aggressive challenger had destroyed his last three opponents; killing two and putting the other in a coma.
It wasn’t unusual for fighters to take names that made them sound like super-villains or wrestling stars. Some of the troopers in the security forces had even started doing it too. Taylor remembered the time when Lennox had come to work insisting the others were to address him as Fight Machine from that day on. The ridiculous new moniker didn’t last, not after Spike spent the rest of the day calling him Fart Machine.
Taylor had seen Warchild fighting before and in his opinion he was by far the best of these warriors. He was a big guy, but unlike most of the other heavyweights he was quick and limber, moving more like a middleweight. If he was pumped full of the steroids the guards handed out to the fighters, it certainly didn’t show. His opponent was smaller but younger than Warchild, with his whole upper body, shaven head included, covered in scrawling prison tattoos.
When the fight started The Beast came out trying to knock Warchild’s head off but he easily dodged the younger man’s wild hay-makers. Taylor thought he saw the bigger man smile as he leant back to avoid a right hook that only connected with air. After allowing the challenger a few more clumsy attacks, Warchild finally countered with one of his own, landing a perfect five-punch combination. The last two were unnecessary as his opponent looked to be out on his feet before they had even landed. The fight had lasted less than two minutes. With the other prisoners chanting Warchild’s name, Taylor was surprised to see the victor walk back towards the guards and not stomp all over his unconscious victim as would have certainly happened if their roles had been reversed.
When the phone rang in the morning Taylor was still lying on the couch with the bottle of whisky held tightly in his grasp. A small stain lay on his carpet where the remains of the bottle’s contents had spilt out. Usually when he woke up with a hangover he would force himself through a gruelling circuit of press-ups, sit-ups and pulls-ups, followed by a short but intense run through his neighbourhood. On this occasion he could barely get dressed.
