This Machine Kills

by Steve Liszka

  A number of the City’s macro-marts had also been hit, with the slogan ‘This Machine Kills Choice’ adorning their walls. Not even the Law courts were safe from the graffiti. It had taken three days of cleaners using the most caustic chemicals before they could free its marble façade from the slogan; ‘This Machine Kills Justice’.

  It was only a few days earlier however that the Shepherd made his first real move, and it was one that had thrown not only the City but also the Old-Town into a complete frenzy. Along with the food vouchers, the Old-Town’s population were also given a lottery ticket for a twice-yearly draw. If they won, the ticket allowed them citizenship into the City along with an apartment and a cash prize to help them to make the most of their new status. The chance of winning may have been absurdly remote but none-the-less it represented hope. The lottery provided them with a chance of improving their lives and ever since its inception, it had done an excellent job of keeping potential troublemakers quiet.

  Whilst being escorted to the City in an open-top car, waving at the envious crowds, Miss Nicola Smith, the winner of the most recent prize draw, was shot in the head by an unknown sniper. Absolute panic quickly followed in the Old-Town. This woman, who had represented all their hopes and dreams, had been brutally cut down before she could enjoy the life of luxury that had been hers for the taking. With one bullet the Shepherd had created more hysteria than if he was in possession of his very own nuclear bomb.

  Understandably, the SecForce execs were not happy. The wall was on the verge of being finished and the last thing they wanted was ClearSkies’ accomplishments undermined by some jumped-up terrorist. Until it was completed, security in the Old-Town would have to be stepped up once more.

  Doyle had successfully placated the angry woman in the queue by producing two sticks of chewing gum that he offered to her children. After overcoming her natural suspicion, the woman finally nodded to the kids who quickly tore off the wrappers and shoved the gum into their mouths before anyone could steal it from them. As Doyle turned away with a satisfied smile on his face, the children frantically chewed with all their might.

  “You need to quit being so nice to them,” Rudy said, unimpressed, “they won’t thank you for it.”

  Doyle shrugged, “It was just a piece of gum.”

  “He’s right,” Lennox waded in, “you act like that and they think you’re a soft touch, and that just leads to trouble.”

  “Yeah well, I think I am willing to take the risk.”

  Rudy looked at Doyle angrily; “Well I’m not, smart-ass. We’re a team, and what happens to you, happens to the rest of us. So next time, do as you’re told and keep your shit to yourself, got it?”

  Doyle tried to stop himself but couldn’t resist, “If you wanted the gum that much, you only had to ask.”

  Rudy was quick to notice the smile that had spread across Taylor’s face, making his own redden ever so slightly,

  “Don’t make an enemy out of me boy,” he said shaking his head, “I’m the wrong fucker to fuck with.”

  The stark warning was enough to quieten Doyle down. If it wasn’t for the sound of Spike’s snoring coming from the front of the Rhino, the area would have been bathed in silence. Sensing the menace in Rudy’s voice, his usual conspirators decided to change the subject rather than further goad the kid.

  “You think once the wall is up we can stop doing these stupid fucking food runs?” Skinner asked from his usual position on the roof of the Rhino. “I hate doing this shit like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Rudy’s complexion had returned back to its normal grey hue, “It’s like Rogers said before he got his head blown off, we make too much money from the government not to do it.”

  Skinner nodded, “True.”

  “I mean you’ve got to give it to Milton,” Rudy said, “he’s one smart motherfucker. How he got them to hand over all that money without pointing a gun to their heads I’ll never know.”

  Doyle’s face was filled with confusion as he processed Rudy’s words.

  “But I thought we were doing this to help them,” he blurted out innocently, “isn’t that the point of the food queues?”

  Rudy laughed louder and more cruelly than was required; avenging the wrong he felt Doyle had done him moments before.

  “You really are green aren’t you boy. The only people being helped out here,” he pointed at the ground they were standing on, “are the ones that pay your wages.”

  “But,” Doyle nodded at the people at the front of the line who had just received their boxes of food, “they’ve got something to eat now because of us, right? Surely we’ve done them a favour?”

  Rudy shook his head, “Not as much as the one they’ve done for Milton.”

  When Doyle could only stare back at him blankly, Rudy spoke again,

  “It ain’t that fucking complicated.”

  He sighed as he realised he was going to have to spell things out,

  “So what happens is this; Milton goes to the government and says that maybe they should feed the people in the Old-Town. He says that just because Triage has left them with nothing, they still deserve one hot meal a day and all that sob-story bullshit. He also says how it’s good PR for the government to help the people who are worst off. So anyway, the idiots buy into it and give him the contract. He gets five dollars a head or whatever it is to feed these fuckers, then he goes and produces that shit they eat for pennies. The guy is making a fortune on every one of those cartons of slop they hand out. Like I said, he’s a fucking genius. He gets the government to feel guilty for doing something he suggested, then rapes them for everything they’ve got.”

  Doyle’s shoulders sagged at the reality of the task he had, up to that point, carried out with nothing but enthusiasm.

  “I mean, you do know if we wanted to, we could just round them all up and stick them in the production centres? …But Milton don’t want that. He’s already got a big enough workforce as it is. The breeding programmes take care of that. This lot,” Rudy pointed his thumbs at the bedraggled line, “are more profitable to him where they are.”

  Lennox laughed at Doyle’s naivety, “A few more months of this and all those good intentions of yours will be gone. You’ll be a horrible cunt like the rest of us.”

  Taylor had stayed quiet throughout the conversation. He felt it was good for Doyle to be exposed to the realities of the job he had signed up for, but now, seeing the boy look so crestfallen, he felt the time was right to step in.

  “Come on fellas,” he barked, “quit yapping and start watching what’s going on. You all know what Billy Nothing did here. If the Shepherd is going to try something, this is one of the places he might think about doing it. Now do yourselves a favour and stay sharp.”

  Not everyone had been content to shrug their shoulders after the country was taken over by Triage. The politicians, writers and actors may have quietly accepted the new world order but there were some people out there who were not willing to go down without a fight, no matter how bloody it got.

  Billy Nothing was only twenty-four years old; three years younger than Freddie Milton when he became the unintentional spearhead of the Uprising. He was known at the time as the leader of the punk-rock group the Machetes. His band had had a few hits, but were best known for their biggest and most controversial song, ‘Reclaim the Streets’. It was an acidic and barely veiled critique of ClearSkies’ methods, and a call to arms to the City’s youth. The response from those in power was to quickly ban it from all the television and radio channels. Unsurprisingly, (this was in the days before it was nothing more than a giant shopping network), the anthem soon became one of the most downloaded songs of all time on the Internet.

  When the perimeter fence was first erected, the Machetes and a few other bands announced that they would be doing a free gig in the heart of the Old-Town. It would be a farewell concert for their fans that had been left outside since the division had taken place. Fearing a disturbance, SecForce initially refused the
band’s permission to perform but were reassured by their manager that the gig would be trouble free. He told them the band were just a bunch of middle class kids who needed a marketing gimmick to help boost sales of their album. They were not prepared to risk losing their rightful places in the City by challenging Clearskies’ status. This was what the rest of the band thought too, so when on a cold winter’s night, in front of fifty thousand people, Billy Nothing made his infamous speech, there was no-one more shocked than his guitarist, drummer and bass-player.

  Taylor had been there that night. He had gone to the gig with a couple of his friends from the Dragon’s Lair. He hadn’t been particularly keen on going but his best friend, Ben Carpenter, known to the other boys as Nails, had insisted on dragging him along. He couldn’t recall all of Billy’s words, as despite Nails’ efforts, they were too far back to hear him above the roar of the crowd. What he could remember, was that after he finished singing ‘Reclaim the Streets’, Billy grew quiet as he watched the sea of faces stare back at him in awe.

  In the silence, before Billy even opened his mouth, a sense of barely-contained excitement swept over the crowd. It was as if they were aware something special was about to take place. Standing at the front of the stage, wearing only a pair of skin-tight jeans and combat boots, the gyrating ball of energy was about to deliver one of the most potent speeches of the modern age.

  With his band looking at him in bemusement, Billy wiped the sweat from his face and pointed his outstretched arm in the direction of the City.

  “What I want to know,” he yelled at the audience, “is why are you here watching a stupid band like us play, while they grow fat in their city? This isn’t the way things are meant to be, you are not their slaves.”

  At this point, a large SecForce trooper walked menacingly onto the stage to a roar of boos from the crowd. He remembered, how rather than trying to subdue Billy, the trooper instead approached the microphone and attempted to turn it off. That was his big mistake and Taylor had often thought if he had gone for the singer instead, the whole uprising may never have happened.

  With the trooper’s attention diverted, Billy took a few steps back and then launched himself at him, shoulder-barging the bigger man completely off the stage onto the concrete floor below. The crowd roared together like Billy had just scored the winning goal in the World Cup Final. As the other troopers from either side of the stage sprinted towards him, he snatched up his microphone and yelled; “There’s more of us than there are of them, let’s take these fuckers down!”

  Before any of the uniformed men had reached him, the audience had already stormed the stage. Any of the SecForce officers who were too stupid to flee for their lives were the first to face the fury of the mob. By the end of the night, as fire raged through the City, everyone would know what their anger felt like.

  The length of the queue had shrunk dramatically; they had been there for four hours and most of the Old-Town’s residents had already received their food. It had been a quiet day with only the occasional scuffle for positions in the line. Taylor’s fears of something going down looked to be unfounded. With little left to do, the team had congregated near the Rhino, idly watching the sick and infirm patiently wait in line. It was this group who always waited until the end of the day before getting their food. They were too fragile to be part of the human scrummage that took part when the trucks first arrived.

  As the others argued over how much more work they had done than the next man, Doyle alerted Taylor to a scene that he had spotted through his binoculars. A few hundred feet up the road, a gang of ferals had circled a group of old women and were harassing them for their food.

  “Shouldn’t we do something about it Sarge?” an already deflated Doyle asked.

  Before Taylor could answer, Skinner detached himself from the angry conversation he was having with the rest of the team.

  “It’s feeding time for the animals now. Nothing we can do about it bro.”

  Doyle looked to Taylor, who simply shrugged, “He’s right, we’re here to protect the trucks, not the people.”

  Doyle raised his binoculars once more, when he put them back down his face was drained of its colour.

  “Sarge, they’re attacking them now. Can’t we at least fire some warning shots?”

  Taylor shook his head, “There’s no point, they know we’re not going to do anything. Besides, if we start shooting, we’re just going to panic these people.”

  Doyle looked at the frail faces of those still waiting in line, then back at Taylor, “That’s convenient.”

  Taylor tilted his ear towards Doyle, shocked at the youngster’s dissent, “What was that?”

  Doyle looked to the floor and shook his head, “Nothing.”

  Lennox approached Doyle and placed his hand on his shoulder,

  “Don’t worry, they just want their food. They’re not going to harm them.”

  Doyle pulled away from his grasp, “And taking their food isn’t harming them?”

  Lennox shrugged and walked back to the others, “You’re a good kid, but you’ve got a lot to learn.”

  Taylor had always found it fascinating how the older guys like Rudy and Lennox treated the Old-Towners. Troopers like them; the ones that had joined up when it was still an alternative to being sent to the production centres, seemed to hold the people who had once been their neighbours in far more contempt than the new guys ever could. The people who should have had most sympathy for their plight were invariably the most cruel. He tried to think of something reassuring to say to Doyle but decided to leave him alone. At least they couldn’t hear the women screaming from such a distance.

  Taylor was about to tell him to remove the binoculars and get back to watching the crowd, when the recruit suddenly let out a whispered cheer.

  “What’s going on over there?” he asked.

  “I think you should take a look,” Doyle answered as the grin on his face grew.

  He took out his own binoculars and cast them towards the scene of Doyle’s interest. Whilst the ferals attempted to steal the food packages from the old women, a group of ten or more men armed with sticks and clubs had suddenly appeared from behind a half-fallen building and descended on the youngsters with such speed they had taken them completely by surprise.

  Out-numbered, he watched as the ferals scrambled for safety, sprinting off in all directions. Being faster of foot, most of them had managed to get away, but the men had succeeding in catching two of them and were dishing out a savage beating. Meanwhile, he watched as a large black man and a couple of others helped the elderly women get back to their feet. None of them looked too roughed-up by the experience.

  After they had gently sent the women on the way, the smaller group of men approached the two ferals who were being forcibly held down by the rest of the gang. Even from where Taylor stood, it was clear the big man was in charge of this group. He picked up one of the ferals effortlessly as his men forced the other one’s head in his direction, making sure he was witness to what was about to take place.

  As another of the men grabbed hold of the sobbing child, the ringleader took a ridiculously large hunting knife from his belt and with one hand clutching the boy’s hair, used a series of brutal sawing actions to sever his head from his still-twitching body. Taylor ignored the gasp he heard coming from Doyle and continued to watch as the man took the bloodied sphere and pushed it into the hands of the other feral. After a few brief words, the crying child turned and ran off, cradling his friend’s head in his arms like a football.

  With their gruesome job complete, the man turned and looked to the food queue, then slowly towards Taylor and his team. He wiped his knife across the front of his trousers then placed it back into its sheath.

  “Oh shit Sarge,” Doyle said quietly, “they’re coming over.”

  The mob now approaching them was known as the Old Guard. They were a vigilante group formed of men that were in the appropriate age bracket that should have seen them sent to th
e production centres. Their self-imposed task was to prevent unrest in the Old-Town, whether it be by protecting the residents from attack by ferals, or getting involved in disputes between neighbours that threatened to boil over. When necessary, they were quick to act as judge, jury and in cases like this executioner, dishing out brutal punishments to anyone seen to be going against the interests of the people. As their roles was vital in keeping order in the Old-Town, SecForce was happy to turn a blind eye to their existence.

  In the few minutes it took for the lynch mob to reach them, Taylor’s team had fully prepared for an assault. Spike had manoeuvred the Rhino into position as Skinner sat on his perch, his fingers resting on the trigger of the fifty-cal. The ragtag group may have overpowered the ferals but if they wanted trouble they would soon find out that their clubs and sticks were no match for the hardware Taylor’s boys were brandishing. The coughing people in the line continued to wait their turn with no regards to the possible situation unfolding around them.

  When the two groups were only twenty metres apart, Rudy looked across at Taylor.

  “If it’s alright with you, I’ll take the nigger.”

  Taylor stared daggers at him, “You will not fire-”

  “I know,” Rudy said, rolling his eyes, “until you give the order.”

  When they were within spitting distance of each other, the large black man slowly walked forward.

  “Whose in charge here?” he demanded in a deep, powerful voice that instantly commanded respect.

  Taylor stepped forward and met with him face to face, “I am.”