by Steve Liszka
As he stood there, giving away no emotion, the other man looked him up and down before eventually speaking.
“You look well Taylor.”
A reluctant smile formed on Taylor’s face, “So do you Ben.”
Chapter 12
After losing his job, Taylor’s old man had spent all his time moulding his son into a first class fighter. Ben’s father on the other hand, channelled his energy in a much different direction. He had once been an engineer for a building firm specialising in the construction of environmentally friendly homes. When the depression hit, his was one of the first businesses that went bust. No one was interested in expensive houses that helped to save the planet when they could barely save themselves. Nails had told Taylor how after being unemployed for months and with living conditions rapidly decreasing for everyone around him, his father had decided to take matters into his own hands.
He realised quicker than most that the government wasn’t going to save the people on the outskirts of society. Being an efficient and organised individual used to dealing with deadlines and managing large groups of men, he used his skills to help rebuild the shattered community he lived in. With a small band of other forward-thinking ex-professionals, he brought the local people together and told them that if they wanted to survive they would have to rely on each other from then on.
Using his knowledge from the building profession, he taught people how to fend for themselves, doing basic but essential repairs they could no longer afford to pay people to do. He organised the other unemployed men and taught them how to create basic housing for people who had been evicted from their homes. His job had taught him how to use cheap materials such as cardboard and paper to act as insulation for these makeshift homes. He had even learnt from indigenous cultures and discovered how to make mud bricks so that people with no money at all could still create the most basic shelter for themselves.
The committee of professionals quickly grew and soon the Old-Town had its own extremely basic hospitals, using retired nurses that had not been selected to be residents of Hope City. In the same buildings where people were being operated on with no anaesthetic, other rooms were being used as schools and nurseries for the children of the workers. Outdoor plots were used to grow vegetables and people’s conservatories were modified to grow fruit.
The people of the Old-Town had responded to the disaster with resourcefulness and ingenuity, and whilst their lives were nowhere near as comfortable as before, they were getting by. Also, for the first time in their lives, they were truly part of their own community, working with their neighbours to help themselves advance. People who had lived on the same street for years but never spoken to each other, were toiling side by side to produce clothing and food for their families. This was all before the food vouchers were put in place, when ClearSkies decided that if the scheme was going to work, people needed to be reliant on the company and no one else. The residents of the Old-Town would soon discover that ClearSkies would not tolerate their short-lived experiment in communal living.
Nails’ father had never wanted him to fight despite the fact he was the most gifted athlete Taylor had ever seen. He was light and quick on his feet but at the same time as strong as an ox and hit harder than any man Taylor had ever fought against. His stand-up game was flawless and he was even stronger on the ground. When they sparred against each other, and he’d be dominated by Ben, he was always thankful that he fought two whole weight classes below him.
When Taylor was sent to the Dragon’s Lair, he remembered how the last time he would ever see him alive, his father had given him one final piece of advice.
“Just remember son,” he had said, “you may not be able to change things, but if you get to the top, you won’t need to. Be the best and they’ll treat you like a god.”
Nails’ father’s sentiments were very different. When Triage was put in place, he was forced to make the decision that Taylor and all the other boys at the Dragon’s Lair had already been faced with. His father had laid his feelings out to him in simple terms; if he went to the City he would be betraying everything he stood for. If he stayed on the outside, he could help with the committee’s plans to rebuild the Old-Town. He didn’t need to spell out the consequences if his son were to accept the offer.
Nails was the last of all the fighters to accept the deal. When he first arrived, the other boys had laughed at this colossus of a man who entered the house crying like a baby, such was his shame over betraying his father. The only other time Taylor ever saw him like this was when his father was arrested and sent to the production centre for instigating ‘subversive activities’. Ben never found out what happened to him.
Once they saw him in the ring and on the mats, the others lad’s opinions soon changed. They quickly recognised him for the excellent fighter and decent human being that he was. The nickname Nails came not only from his last name being Carpenter but also because after sparring against him, the boys usually limped away comparing their friend to one of the small steel objects.
Why he chose to go in the house at all, Taylor was never really sure. Although he was a great fighter, Nails never seemed to enjoy it. Unlike Taylor, who was single-minded in his desire to be the best and would have stepped on any of the other boys to get there, Nails didn’t seem to care about getting to the top, even though he seemed destined to do so. In fact, he usually seemed happiest when they got out of the house on the weekends and he could forget all about the technicalities of cage fighting. He was far more interested in being a good friend than a good fighter and Taylor had never understood him for it.
They walked with their eyes to the ground with neither man looking at the other. Much to Rudy’s outrage, Taylor had left Doyle in charge of the team, whose stares were met with equal malice by Ben’s posse.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Rudy spat, “he’s a kid with two minutes experience. I ain’t taking orders from him.”
“You won’t have to,” Taylor knew if he’d given the responsibility to Rudy, the two groups would have been involved in open warfare by the time he returned.
“There’s only one order you need to follow and that’s coming direct from me. Keep things friendly. If anyone starts shooting there’ll be hell to pay.”
As Taylor spoke, Ben gave a similar order to his men who looked to be receiving it with the same level of hostility. It was only when they got far enough from the respective gangs to avoid being overheard, that Ben finally broke the silence,
“That’s a really pretty bunch you’ve got there.”
Taylor laughed, “Don’t let appearances deceive you, they’re sweethearts. You should see the presents I get at Christmas.”
“Bath salts and chocolates, right?”
“Your boys the same Ben?” Taylor no longer referred to him as Nails. That name belonged to another time.
A deep growl that could have been a chuckle rumbled briefly in Ben’s chest.
“So what about your little mob,” Taylor asked, “since when did executions become your thing?”
Ben dismissed his concerns with a huff, “Fuck ‘em. They deserve everything they get.”
Watching Ben’s casual response to the mention of the child he had just murdered, Taylor no longer recognised the outgoing, fun-loving young man he had once known. If anything reflected the horrors of life in the Old-Town, then surely Ben’s stone-faced demeanour was it.
“You know it’s your fault we had to do what we did today?” he said without looking at the man next to him.”
“My fault?” Taylor asked, “How do you work that out?”
“If you didn’t make it so easy for them to steal people’s food we wouldn’t have to get involved. Making them queue up to eat that shit you hand out is a joke.”
As Ben spoke, Taylor noticed the blood-stained patch on his jeans where he had wiped his knife clean.
“Would you rather we let them starve?”
Ben stopped and turned to face his old frien
d, his face creased with anger. For a split-second Taylor thought he was going to hit him. This was not a thought he relished, even though Ben looked much slimmer these day, he still thought the man could crush him with ease.
“I’d rather we could grow our own food and not have to rely on those fucks you work for,” he said “but you don’t like it when we fend for ourselves, do you?”
Taylor rolled his eyes, “Do we really need to go through this again?”
Ben smiled at him patronisingly, “Hell no. I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings, I know how sensitive you are.”
They continued walking in the lazy manner of people who were only doing it to fill time. Ben kicked at an empty plastic bottle that lay in his path, barely connecting with it so the bottle careered lamely off to one side.
Taylor smiled, “I see your kicks haven’t got any better.”
“Kicking’s for girls, that’s why you were always so good at it.”
“Yeah, yeah, keep talking big man,” the tone in both of their voices had softened.
“So tell me,” Ben asked, “you still entertaining your masters in the cage?”
Taylor couldn’t help but laugh, “Every now and then.”
“You still winning?”
“Of course,” he answered without missing a beat.
“You know for a weedy little guy you were one of the most awkward bastards I ever went up against.”
“I ain’t little Ben, you’re just a freak, that’s all.”
The giant of a man fell silent for a moment, before asking something that caught Taylor off-guard.
“Was I any good,” he said, “or did I just win because I was bigger than the rest of them? It’s been bothering me lately…. Don’t ask me why when I’ve got enough shit to worry about as it is.”
“Good?” Taylor looked at Ben like he had said something to offend him.
“Nah, you weren’t good. I hate to say this seeing as you are such an asshole, but you were awesome. Best I ever went up against.”
Despite himself, Ben could not hide the look of relief and satisfaction on his face.
“Thanks.”
Taylor knew he meant it too.
“Don’t you ever miss fighting?” he asked before regretting it instantly.
Ben stopped in his tracks once more, “You don’t get it do you? I am still fighting. I’m out here fighting everyday. What you do, that’s not fighting… it’s performing.”
He spat out the last word like he was accusing him of something far worse.
When Taylor didn’t answer, Ben seized the momentum,
“I mean, I know you always liked to be a good little boy and all, but isn’t it time you quit being teacher’s pet? They ain’t going to kick one of their favourite sons out of your precious city, now are they?”
“It’s not like that Ben.”
“Isn’t it?”
A thought crept into Ben’s head and he started to laugh, “You know something, I’ve just realised what you are.”
“Really,” Taylor said, unsurprised, “and what’s that?”
Ben shook his head as the laughter continued, “You know this is priceless, you’re gonna love it.”
Taylor could feel himself getting annoyed, “Come on then, out with it.”
Ben waited until his laughter had died down before he spoke, “You’re their nigger Taylor.”
The laughter returned so thick, Taylor could do nothing but watch Ben’s shoulders violently shake. If it was anyone else, he probably would have hit them. Wiping a tear from his eye, Ben finally composed himself.
“Shoe shine boss?” he said in an accent imitating the slaves of the American Deep South.
“Very funny asshole.”
“Want me to dance for you massuh?” he got on his toes and did a ridiculous jig where his arms swayed from one side of his body to the other.
“I said, fuck you,” Taylor muttered, failing to see the funny side.
Ben stopped dancing as quickly as he had started, the seriousness having already returned to his face.
“You remember the last time we were here, in this square together?”
Taylor nodded.
“Remember what you said to me after Billy pushed that pig off the stage, when everyone charged the City?”
Taylor lied and shook his head, “Not really.”
“Well I do. When they were trying to tear the place down, you looked at me and asked if it meant we weren’t going to be famous anymore. You haven’t changed Taylor. The only person you’ve ever given a fuck about is yourself.”
“That’s not fair Ben.”
“Isn’t it? You think just ‘cos you try and keep your men on a tight leash it makes you any better than them? Well, let me tell you, it don’t. At least those assholes are too stupid to realise how fucked up the things they do are. What’s your excuse?”
Taylor met Ben’s stare, “I don’t have one, and I don’t need one.”
“Well that’s where you’re wrong. Pretty soon things are going to change around here in more ways than you can possibly imagine. If I were you, I’d start to think of some good reasons why you’re helping those bastards, otherwise your back will be one of the first against the wall.”
Taylor took a step towards his old sparring partner, “Are you saying the Shepherd is planning another Uprising?”
Ben shook his head, “Forget the Uprising, the shit that’s about to go down will make what happened then look like child’s play.”
Taylor laughed, “You’re full of shit.”
“I don’t think so. And this time we’re organised, we won’t be making the same mistakes as before. When your boys killed Billy Nothing in their bombing raids the Uprising died with him, but this thing is already bigger than the Shepherd. Even if you find him, it won’t matter, the people are ready for action, no matter what.”
With Taylor too taken aback to speak, Ben started again, “If I were you I’d run on home and tell your masters to be ready for us, ‘cos we’re coming for you.”
He turned and began the walk back to his men only to have Taylor pull him back by the wrist. Ben looked down at the offending limb like he was ready to rip it off.
“Who is the Shepherd?” Taylor asked, quickly removing his hand.
Ben smiled, “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.”
Screams coming from the food lines brought an abrupt end to their conversation.
“Sarge you better get back here,” Doyle’s voice penetrated Taylor’s ear-piece, “we got trouble.”
The two men turned and sprinted back in the direction they had come from, both fearing for their own men and the scores of people still waiting in the lines. As they got closer they were met with a wall of panic, limping and scuffling towards them. Taylor saw fear etched in each of their faces. As he and Ben collided with the group, he turned to his side, trying his best to squeeze and push his way through the crowd. He made care not to lose his footing; being trampled to death by the old and sick was not how he planned to go out.
When they finally emerged from the other side of the throng of people, he was met by a sight that made his heart sink. Although there were no obvious signs of an explosion, bodies lay scattered everywhere. These were the unfortunate ones who had been trampled by the crowds fleeing from the line. As his own men pointed their assault rifles at an unseen enemy, Ben’s posse helped the injured, tending as best they could to their injuries. The air was thick with smoke that was now lazily escaping from a metal bin that Doyle was pointing towards,
“Looks like it was just a smoke grenade, guess someone just wanted to stir things up.”
Taylor turned to Ben, hoping to read from his face whether he knew anything about it, but he was already assisting his men lift a bloodied old woman to her feet. He turned and addressed his own team,
“Skinner, you stay there and keep guard, the rest of you, I want you to help these people.”
Rudy and Lennox looked at him in bemusement.
“You heard me,” he yelled, “fucking help them!”
They shrugged at each other then slowly made their way towards Doyle, who was trying to right a wheelchair that had toppled over with its young occupant still strapped into it.
As they worked, Taylor suddenly became aware that he was holding something in his hand that had not been there a minute before. He could only guess that it had been put there by one of the crowd who forced their way past him in the commotion.
He stared at the torn and yellowing piece of card before it dawned on him what it was. He was looking at a postcard with a picture of a tropical beach on it, and ‘Welcome to Paradise’ written across the top in multi-coloured lettering. A young well-endowed girl in a yellow bikini was walking hand-in-hand with a sun-tanned man along the white sand as waves lapped against their feet.
Taylor turned the card over to see a simple message written in the empty space:
“If you want to know who the Shepherd is, be at Ringo’s at 2am.”
Chapter 13
The trooper at the checkpoint took the identity card and ran it through his scanner. Taylor could see the green light on the machine spring to life, telling his interrogator the card was authentic. The man’s face continued to look concerned as he glanced back to Taylor, no doubt comparing him to the mini-image embossed on the card. He thought that having this type of stern, soulless expression must have been a prerequisite for the job. None of the check-point guards ever bothered to smile at him even though most knew who he was.
Before handing the card back, the trooper gave it one last stare for what he thought was an unusually long time.
“So Sergeant, you say you’re going to the Strip to pick up a package for Captain Mason?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Taylor snapped, “that’s what I’m doing.”
He leaned his head out of the car window to get a better look at his inquisitor.
“What’s your name trooper? I think I may have to report you to Captain Mason for trying to impede me in my duties.”
