This Machine Kills

by Steve Liszka

  Taylor was seventeen when the depression almost destroyed the country. By then he was firmly establishing himself on the cage-fighting scene and the sport’s top promoters were already grooming him for stardom. His father had hunted down and secured the best manager in the business, and if things went to plan, he’d be challenging for the British middleweight title before he was twenty.

  When the violence started erupting all over the Old-Town, Taylor’s manager approached his father with a proposition. It was becoming too dangerous for him to stay at home anymore; all it would take was a stray bullet to hit him and his career would be over. His manager wanted Taylor to move to the house he kept for his fighters in the heart of the City. There, he would be safe from the stabbings and fire-bombings that were taking place all around him. The house had its own gym where he could train whenever he liked, testing himself against the other fighters in his manager’s stable. It didn’t take long for his father to agree. Even though it meant he would no longer be involved in his son’s career, or as the perimeter fence went up, his life at all, he knew this was the best thing for his boy.

  Moving into the house with the other fighters was like a dream for Taylor. He realised when he got there just how poor his father had been. Unlike the sparse conditions of his own home, the Dragon’s Lair, as the other housemates had nicknamed it, was positively state of the art. More importantly for him, he was suddenly surrounded by people of his own age and with similar interests. Ever since he’d been taken out of school, Taylor had mixed with very few other kids. He’d spent virtually all of his childhood alone with his father, training how to be a man. Less than six weeks after moving to the City he received a message from one of his old neighbours. His father had died of a heart attack.

  By the time he finished his pad work, a light sheen of sweat covered Taylor’s body. He spent a few more minutes diving to the floor with his arms outstretched in front of him, then returning to his feet as quickly as possible. This technique was known as the sprawl; a way to stop his opponent from taking him to the ground. He threw a series of knees and kicks at the larger pad George was now holding before shaking his arms and legs out. He was ready.

  Just before leaving the room, Taylor stepped onto the scales; it was his only pre-fight ritual. He was 188 pounds, only three more than he had been when his fights were big news and still split into weight divisions. For this fight his weight was irrelevant, he was going to be fighting a man at least fifty pounds heavier than him. Taylor wasn’t getting much money for the fight, but combined with the earnings from his classes with Charlotte, the cash would help him get his gym off the ground. If things went to plan, he would use the gym as a platform to introduce to the world some of his father’s unorthodox training sessions that had worked so effectively for him.

  George held the double doors open as Taylor stepped into the noisy and smoke-filled hall. All around him were tables filled with men in their best outfits as their mistresses sat next to them in dresses that would have paid his rent for more months than he cared to think of. Whilst the people at the tables barely noticed his arrival, he was met by a roar of cheers from the real fans wearing far less ornate outfits, who packed out the balconies above. They had come to watch the fights and support their favourite fighters, but for the suits on the tables below, the evening was purely business.

  It was a commonly held myth that ClearSkies carried out all the works that took place in Hope City. In reality, they only did the jobs they deemed worthwhile. Even though they won all the contracts the government handed out to develop the City’s infrastructure, many of them were beyond ClearSkies’ remit. When this happened, they simply contracted the jobs out to specialists. In many cases, if that company did not feel they were up to the task, they simply subcontracted the job out to the company beneath them in the pecking order and so on. Often the contracts that ClearSkies had been awarded for millions of dollars were carried out by firms paid only a few thousand, or in some cases, hundreds.

  It was in these halls, whilst the fighters in the cage were being ignored, that businessmen fought each other to earn their companies the invaluable contracts. They would beg, bribe and bully their way into the wallets of the ClearSkies officials they wined and dined. Some said that the violence in the cage was nothing compared to the ruthless business taking place on the outside.

  As he made his way to the podium, a huge, fat man stepped into Taylor’s path blowing cigar smoke straight into his face.

  “Sonny boy!” the drunken man shouted as he rested his hand on Taylor’s shoulder to help keep his balance.

  Taylor nodded, “Mr Fraser.”

  “Make sure you win tonight, I’ve got a lot riding on you.”

  “Don’t worry -”

  “Of course,” the man bellowed, “you always win, right?”

  Taylor half-attempted a smile, “I’m sure your money’s safe.”

  The fat man grinned and removed his hand, causing him to promptly fall back onto his chair. With his path now free, Taylor continued his journey towards the cage.

  “Remember, keep your chin down and guard up.”

  Old George was giving Taylor his final words of advice before the cage door closed. It was the same thing he said before every fight. He breathed in deeply through his nose and immediately regretted it as the cigarette smoke violated his system. He coughed and spat out a parcel of phlegm just before George could wedge his gumshield into his mouth.

  “Do me a favour kid,” he yelled over the noise in his rasping tones, “knock this bum out quick. I ain’t going to last long before I need another piss.”

  Taylor laughed as the official stepped between them, slamming the cage door shut.

  He turned to inspect his opponent for the first time. He was at least four inches taller than Taylor, who was no shorty himself at six foot. The man was solidly built with huge arms and chest and virtually no neck to speak of. His shaven head appeared to be embedded into his shoulders. It amused Taylor to see that for such a big man, his rival had the skinniest legs imaginable. He thought a few low kicks would soon sort them out. As their eyes met, Taylor was sure the man snorted at him.

  His opponent called himself the Butcher, and had been drafted in as a potential candidate for the Prison Fights. He’d banged out a few of his rivals at the prison gym and had made a name for himself as a fearsome puncher. Before they exposed him to a pay-for-view audience, the TV guys wanted to make sure he could hold his own at smaller events like this. Taylor would have to stay away from his right hand, he knew all too well that a guy this size could easily send him for an early bath if he wasn’t careful.

  The TV execs knew Taylor would fully test their man, and with him being so much smaller, it was unlikely he would mess him up too bad. Plus, Taylor was well aware how things worked. If he beat the guy too badly and broke an arm or a leg in a submission, it would be the last time they used him. This is what it had come to he thought, testing out the chumps who were making millions for the TV execs, rather than for him.

  As he walked to the centre of the ring to receive the referee’s final instructions, Taylor thought how in the old days he would have made a witty remark in the post-fight interview about how the butcher was now just a lump of meat or some other lame shit like that. He decided not to bother working on it further, knowing the only people who may hear his words would be too drunk to remember them anyway.

  As the referee talked, telling the men how he wanted the fight to stay clean, Taylor impassively gazed at The Butcher who was staring at him so intensely, his eyes were beginning to redden. He remembered when he had looked at his rivals with the same intensity when he started out. Now though, he simply couldn’t be bothered. As they stepped back to their respective corners of the cage and waited for the referee to throw his hand down and tell them to fight, Taylor noticed that The Butcher’s shoulders were hunched in a way that could only mean one thing; he was going for the early knock out. A split-second later he had already decided how he would
deal with the threat.

  The overhand punch was an interesting one. If landed correctly and in the right circumstances it could knock an opponent cold, but thrown badly (which it was in most cases), it was just plain ugly. It made the person throwing it look like a drunk lashing out at the imaginary friend that had been taunting him all night. The punch wasn’t straight and it wasn’t a hook, instead it involved a looping, over-the-top action where the arm stayed virtually straight, as the person throwing it tilted his upper body towards his opponent.

  Some fighters (particularly the wrestlers who weren’t always so clever with their hands), would throw it as an aggressive punch whilst they attacked their opponent. They liked the move because it kept them at distance from their rival, so if it didn’t land they were unlikely to get hurt. The problem was that if they were fighting anyone with even a nuance of boxing talent they would see the punch coming from a mile off and slip it all day long. What the technique was really design for, and what Taylor was so good at, was using it as a counter to his opponent’s attack. It took confidence, skill and timing, but if landed as the other man was throwing his own punch, the results were often devastating.

  He had assessed the situation correctly. As soon as the referee stepped out of the way, the man charged. Looking at him through his raised guards, Taylor stayed perfectly still, waiting patiently for his potential assailant. When he was within three feet of him, the Butcher let loose with a left jab; not a stinging stiff one that would make your eyes water if it landed, but a lazy, aimless one that merely served as a precursor to the massive right hand he was about to unload. With split second timing, Taylor pivoted so that the punch went wide and at the same time threw the overhand right, catching the other man flush on the nose. The Butcher staggered backwards with blood flowing as freely from his nose as the tears that ran from his eyes. Taylor knew he had taken the wind out of his sails and was pretty sure he wouldn’t try to storm him like that again.

  The fighters circled each other with his opponent still too shell-shocked to know what to do. He threw a few cautious jabs that were easily pawed away and seemed slightly bemused by the whole affair. He was used to fighting people who were willing to stand there and trade with him, not someone who would be so rude as to avoid getting hit. Taylor threw a couple of quick jabs of his own, both landing clean and jolting the other man’s head back. This was followed by an ultra quick left-right combination that made the larger man’s legs wobble. He switched it up after that and delivered a series of solid kicks to both of the man’s knees. Not having any grounding in Thai boxing, the Butcher was at a loss as to how to defend himself. All he could do was wince with increasing displays of discomfort.

  Quickly realising that his best chance was to take the fight to the floor where he could best utilise his superior size and strength, the Butcher had no other choice than to lunge for Taylor’s legs with both arms. He had already foreseen this, and met the man’s clumsy challenge with a knee to the side of the head, buckling his legs and sending him crashing to the floor. Before he could take stock of what was happening to him, Taylor dived onto his chest and with both knees straddling him, rained punches, elbows and forearms down onto his sorry opponent’s head; it was classic ground-and-pound.

  When he felt the corner of his elbow smashing through the man’s cheekbone, Taylor knew the fight was all over. The Butcher quickly gave up any pretence of defending himself and tried to turn onto his back to escape the onslaught. It was the worst move a downed fighter could make, and if he’d wanted to, Taylor could have further punished him until he knocked the man cold. Instead, he gave him a few half-hearted slaps to the back of the head whilst nodding at the referee to let him know the fight was done. Reluctantly, the official stepped in and stopped the fight. Like everyone else there that night, he had wanted it to finish in a knockout. As the victor’s arm was held aloft to the discontent crowd, the Butcher probed tenderly with his fingers at the newly made crater in his face.

  On the way back to his dressing room, Taylor’s arm was grabbed by the fat man, who was now so inebriated, he could couldn’t even attempt to stand.

  “Good lad,” he just about managed to say, “you just made me an awful lot of money.”

  Taylor gave him the sort of pat on the back usually reserved for pets,

  “No problem Mr Fraser. Least I could do.”

  The sweating mass tugged at his hand, pulling him towards the table,

  “Come on boy, sit down and have a drink with me.”

  Taylor released his hand from the clammy grip, “No thanks, I’m trying to go easy.”

  With drunken enthusiasm, Fraser clasped one of his hands around the back of Taylor’s head, allowing him the opportunity to appreciate his toxic breath,

  “Nonsense,” he slurred, “the least I can do is fill you with drink for the rest of the night. And with the money I’ve just won, this could be a long one.”

  “In that case,” Taylor said, letting the obese man guide him to his table, “I don’t mind if I do.”

  As he staggered down the street towards his home, Taylor recognised the metallic stirrings in the back of his mouth; he was going to be sick. Not wanting to get fined again, he retreated to an alley adjacent to the TV station that produced the newsbites and many of the ads that filled the City’s screens. Making it off the thoroughfare just in time, he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the spotless road, grateful that is was only liquid coming out. After a few minutes of muted retching he stood up, trying his best to wipe his mouth clean.

  At first he thought he was seeing things, then after staring at the wall of the TV station for another minute, he realised his eyes were not deceiving him. Written in red, scrawling letters was a statement that made him shiver. He read it, read it again, then just to be sure it wasn’t the drink fooling him, he read it one more time. On each occasion, despite his wishes, the slogan read the same:

  ‘This Machine Kills Truth.’

  Part 2

  "Take it easy, but take it."

  Woody Guthrie

  Chapter 11

  The slow moving queue of sorry-looking faces snaked a weary path around the square. At the front of the line sat three huge trucks with large towers of cardboard boxes stacked around them. The people in white boiler suits systematically dipped into the opened boxes, removing handfuls of styrofoam cartons filled with a grey porridge-like substance that they handed to the waiting masses.

  Taylor shifted his weight on his heels. He’d been standing in the same place for almost two hours, watching impassively as the Old-Town’s residents filed past him. The team’s job for the day was to make sure that peace was maintained in the queues and more importantly, protect the trucks from anyone who may have seen them as an easy target.

  It was younger women, children and the elderly who dominated the scene. There were almost no middle-aged females apparent; a visual reminder of the epidemic that had swept the country nearly two decades earlier. Most of them had their eyes fixed firmly to the floor but every so often one of them would stare at him with such hatred he’d be forced to turn his head and pretend to speak into his throat mike. Of all of his jobs, he hated the food runs the most.

  “Move along please people,” a man’s voice shouted in a friendly, non-threatening manner, “we don’t want another repeat of last week.”

  It was Doyle, talking to a group of elderly men and women so busy complaining about the length of the queue that they had failed to notice the large gap between them and the people in front. The woman who stood behind them with two young children, was growing restless at the lack of movement and threatened to push past in order to get closer to her only meal of the day.

  Doyle had turned out to be something of a revelation to the team. Despite his lack of experience, he had excelled in operational activities, displaying a wisdom well beyond his years. He was surprisingly tough in awkward situations showing a level of resilience Taylor had not expected in him. More importantly, he was steady o
n the trigger and unlike certain others, Taylor got a feeling that Doyle actually cared about was going on in the Old-Town.

  With the exception of Rudy, who hated just about everyone he met, the rest of the team were also fond of Doyle, and this had proved something of a problem. Skinner and Lennox had taken him under their wing and got him training with them in the gym on a regular basis. Since involving him in their workouts, Doyle’s physique had changed dramatically. His back and shoulders were now broader giving him a more proportioned appearance and his body armour, which had once hung off him, now fitted his solid frame to perfection.

  Not wanting him to be corrupted by Lennox and Skinner’s attitudes, Taylor had got Doyle involved in the mixed-martial arts class he took for the SecForce troopers. The boy was a natural, reminding him of how he had been as a young fighter. He was quick and agile, and more importantly, knew how to read a situation, knowing exactly when to ease back and when to launch into an attack.

  As they trained, Taylor would subtly offer him advice on how best to handle himself on patrol, as well as iron out any of the views his gym buddies had tried to instill in him. If he could just keep this one kid on the straight and narrow, maybe he would feel like he’d finally achieved something. Watching Doyle diplomatically ease the tension between the warring parties in the queue, Taylor remained hopeful.

  It was just over a month since they had first heard the Shepherd’s name being used, yet now it was all anyone in the City could talk about. It had started with whispers in coffee houses and bars, all sparked off by the growing numbers of slogans sprayed onto the buildings that represented the establishment of the City.

  After the TV station, the library was the next place to be hit. The words ‘This Machine Kills Knowledge’, had been boldly painted across its front. Taylor thought this most likely a reference to the removal of the objects that had once filled its shelves. The history, science and geography books had been replaced with shiny new virtual-reads that shamelessly praised the creation of the Cities and all their glories. The advent of Triage was revered in the texts like it was the Second Coming of Christ himself. All classical literature had been traded for stories filled with rich, beautiful heroes who knew no bounds in their brave spending of their hard-earned cash.