by Steve Liszka
Taylor raised a cynical eyebrow, “You try telling that to the people on the other side of the wall.”
“It’s true. People in the City are brought up to be unhappy, to be constantly striving for a better life. If they were happy the whole system would collapse in an instant.”
Taylor was unconvinced, “How’d do work that out?”
“Think about it,” Jacob said, “from birth, your citizens are raised to always want more, to never be content with what they’ve got. No matter how much they have, for them it’s never enough. Even though they’ve got far more than they’ll ever need, I doubt they are any happier than the people who live out here, scratching around in the dirt for food. What I want to do will benefit everyone…on both sides of the wall.”
Taylor pursed his lips and blew, “Well, no one could accuse you of not being up for a challenge.”
Jacob shrugged, “It just means a change in thinking for everyone. That’s all.”
He paused, then gave out a chuckle, “We could have had it by now too, if we had done things differently.”
His laugh acquired an air of menace, “On that first night of the Uprisings, the City was ours for the taking. We could have snatched it back with ease if we’d done things the right way, but the greed of the mob soon raised its head. I’ll never forget watching two men beating each other to pulp over a television they had looted. Instead of storming the government and ClearSkies buildings, they were fighting over a TV that neither would be able to watch.”
He shook his head in disbelief, “Electricity in the Old-Town had been cut off weeks before.”
“Isn’t that just human nature?” Taylor casually enquired, “don’t you think exactly the same thing will happen again?”
“Not this time,” Jacob answered confidently, “this time we’re ready and we’re organised. We won’t make the same mistakes as before.”
“But why wait so long? Why didn’t you do it before the wall was up, it would have made your life so much easier?”
Expecting the question, Jacob prepared himself to answer, “After the fire… when I was finally well enough to re-emerge into the world, I realised that there was no point trying to instigate any further action. I had to wait until the people were ready for it. For years I thought it would never happen, but then the wall started going up, and that’s when people changed. The fatalism and apathy that had filled the Old-Town was slowly replaced by anger and resentment. People had been happy to stare into the City and the things they once had, but after the wall’s construction, that all changed. By denying them the opportunity to view the City, Milton effectively killed their hopes and dreams, no matter how unrealistic they were. It was the wall that finally got people angry again, so in a way Milton was the catalyst for what’s happening now, not me… Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”
Taylor smiled, “Funny how things work out, ain’t it.”
He walked across the room to a faded poster on the wall that had caught his attention. It was a black-and-white picture of a skinny, serious-looking man, staring at an unseen audience. There was a large sticker on the battered guitar he was holding that said, ‘This Machine Kills Facists’.
“So I guess this is who you stole your catchphrase from?” Taylor asked without smiling.
“That’s the thing,” Jacob replied, “history has a habit of repeating itself. In his day the rich and powerful also used the depression as a way to take what they wanted. He reminded them that no matter how much money they had, they couldn’t buy the air that we breathe and the earth that we stand upon. He was a wise man.”
“Musicians should keep their noses out of things they don’t understand,” Taylor replied.
“I was a showman,” Jacob corrected him, “not a musician. I couldn’t even play a note.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Taylor answered, “that makes two of us. Now if you don’t mind, I need to speak to Doyle, we’ve got things we need to discuss.”
He would have preferred to be sitting beneath the direct rays of the sun, but it was too risky; the drones were probably in the air above, silently scouring the earth. The shade of the covered yard he had taken refuge in however, made a more than sufficient substitute. The cool air that swept over him in occasional waves felt heavenly compared to the stuffy building he had been crammed in for the last few days. Taylor closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose; inhaling the smell that reminded him of his childhood.
“I thought they may have done something bad to you,” Doyle’s voice broke the silence, “when you didn’t come back.”
He opened his eyes and looked Doyle up and down for signs of injury, then seeing he was unscathed, nodded to the empty space on the bench next to him, “Take a seat, we need to talk.”
Without question, Doyle did as instructed, his feet trailing across the powdery earth. Knowing what he was about to say, Taylor couldn’t help but feel that he had somehow betrayed the dedicated trooper.
“You need to listen very carefully,” he said with all the seriousness he could muster, “we haven’t got long and it’s important you understand what I’m about to say.”
He scanned Doyle’s face for any give away signs, but the young man was too intelligent to jump to conclusions.
“These people who’ve captured us… they’re not bad guys Doyle. They’re just normal people who are sick and tired of having nothing to live for.”
Taylor waited for a response but when one did not come, he continued, “They’ve had enough of being treated like animals…of us treating them like animals, and now they’ve decided they want things to change. Jacob, the man in charge, wants to get into the City before the wall is completed. He wants them to take a piece of what they believe is theirs…They need someone to help them get in and I’ve said I’ll do it.”
Taylor stopped talking. He wanted to hear Doyle’s response before he said anymore but again the boy was silent. Taylor could feel himself growing angry that he was having to explain further.
“This may be hard for you to understand because you never really lived outside the City,” he said, not trying to hide the patronising tone in his voice, “but I did. I used to be one of them, I know what it’s like to feel that no-one gives a shit whether you live or die. Well I’m through with being one of Milton’s boy scouts, I turned my back on the Old-Town once, I’m not going to do it again.”
When Doyle continued to remain silent, Taylor could refrain himself no longer.
“Say something damn it!” he yelled, his raised voice disturbing the peace of the lazy afternoon.
“What do you want me to do?”
Doyle had spoken so calmly and in such a matter-of-fact way that Taylor thought he had misheard him.
“What?”
“I said what do you want me to do. You do want my help don’t you? I’m assuming that’s what you wanted to ask me.”
Taylor was having trouble computing the information that he was receiving,
“Hang on a minute, you’re telling me that just like that you’re willing to betray everything you believe in?”
Doyle nodded insolently, “Pretty much, yeah. And it’s a good thing I’m up for this, ‘cause you’re doing a pretty lousy job of selling it to me.”
Taylor shook his head in disbelief, “Listen, you’re right, I do want your help, what I’m going to ask of you could be vital to whether this thing works or not, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to be this easy. I mean, what about your family, what would they think?”
Doyle let out a laugh, “My family? If anyone could understand, it would be them. You know it sounds crazy now after all the shit that’s gone down, but I only joined SecForce because I wanted to do the right thing. The City had been good to me and I just wanted to return the favour. But when I told my parents, it was like I was admitting to killing someone. My mother went nuts; shouting and screaming that I must have been crazy, but my father; he didn’t say anything, he just give me this look that I’d never see
n before. It wasn’t disappointment or anger, more like he felt sorry for me. It was only after my first day on patrol, the day that Rogers died, that I understood what that look meant.
Despite the warmth of the midday sun, Doyle rubbed his hands together as if he was feeling the cold.
“I knew from the start that I made a mistake joining SecForce… and then there was yesterday, when you told me what happened in Canada.”
Taylor felt his mouth grow dry at the mention of it.
“If I don’t do anything about it now, it will be me giving the same order in a few years. You made me realise that.”
Taylor smiled half-heartedly, “Glad I could help.”
“You know something?” Doyle responded, looking more upbeat than he had any right to, “For once, this feels right. ”
“I’m not saying it’s right,” Taylor answered, “fuck knows what it is. It’s just something I’ve got to do, that’s all.”
Doyle shrugged, “That’s good enough… So tell me, what’s the plan?”
Taylor gave him an awkward look, “I hate to say it, but you’re not going to like the first part.”
Chapter 24
Christopher finished peering over the mound and crouched back down with the others.
“I’m telling you, there’s no fucking way this will work.”
Taylor ignored him and looked to Jacob, “Can you please tell that retard that if he keeps sticking his head up he’s going to ruin everything.”
What he really wanted to do was take another look himself, but he knew what he would see; he’d already burned the image into his memory. Barely a stone’s throw away from them sat the largest of all the production centres that surrounded Hope City; home to over five thousand of the Old-Town’s former residents. If things went as planned, they would be inside in less than five minutes.
The twenty or so men that Jacob had assembled either squatted or kneeled on the ground, their ancient weapons clutched to their bodies. One of them was pointing his rifle at the cowering, battered figure sat away from the rest of the group. Taylor crawled over and nudged Doyle with the antique shotgun he was carrying.
“It’s time,” he whispered, “and just remember, once Rudy finds out you’re back, he’ll tell them you’re part of this. You’ll have to convince them you’re not working with me.”
Doyle pointed at the massive swelling covering his left eye, “Hopefully this will do it.”
The rest of his face and body had also suffered similar treatment.
Taylor took in the damage he had done to his friend, “Seriously, you’re gonna need to be good.”
When Doyle didn’t answer, Taylor patted him on the shoulder. He turned and looked to Jacob,
“Well, here goes nothing. If it goes wrong, just get out of here as quick as you can.”
“You can do this,” Jacob replied, “I know it,”
Taylor gave him a meek smile, “At least it’ll be over quick if I don’t.”
“I mean it,” Jacob said, “I believe in you, everything will be fine.”
Taylor had quickly realised that the embryonic plan he was formulating was destined to fail. The only way it could possibly work was if they could secure more manpower. Jacob had done a good job of recruiting over two hundred men who were fit and healthy enough to help them get into the City but they desperately needed more. Hordes of women had tried to volunteer for the cause but most of them had been rejected. It was nothing to do with them not being able to do the job as both Taylor and Jacob were more than aware how tough the women in the Old-Town were. It was them who had kept the place running when their husbands were killed in the Uprisings. The problem was, it had taken years for the female population to gradually get back to somewhere approaching normal and there were still far less of them than there had been when Taylor was a child. They couldn’t risk going through that all over again.
Everyone agreed the production centres were the only place they would find the appropriate numbers to get them into the City. What nobody could agree on was how they would get in, or if they should even try at all. If it went wrong, the new uprising would be over before it began.
It would be impossible to try and lead an assault on the centres. Even the smallest ones were heavily guarded, with lookout towers packed with well-trained snipers. The men would be cut down before they even got started. If Taylor had figured it correctly, the thing that was most likely going to get them into the centres was him. If Milton wanted him as much as he thought he did, that was what would get them inside; Taylor would be the bait.
The two men walked slowly toward the iron doors. Doyle was in front with his hands held in the air, with Taylor following close behind with the shotgun pointing at his back. It was vital he stayed obscured from the snipers in the watchtowers so they couldn’t get a clean shot on him.
Ironically, the centre they had chosen was probably the most secure of them all. The reason they had chosen it was that it housed nearly twice as many inmates as any of the other centres and hopefully, would be the place least expecting an attack. Unlike many, which were either purpose built or had once been factories that had been updated to accommodate the new arrivals, this place had been a prison. Such drastic actions had been necessary when Milton decided that immigrants and prisoners did not provide him with a big enough workforce. In the final stages of Triage, the people of the Old-Town were rounded up and made to work in the centres in order for the City’s demands to be met.
As they got closer, Taylor thought it was hard not to be intimidated by the centre’s presence. Behind the high stone wall that encircled it was an even taller building constructed of giant slabs of dull grey stone. He knew nothing of architecture but marvelled at the way they had managed to build something that perfectly symbolised its use. Everything about the building, from its foreboding walls to the pointed towers that sat on each of its four corners, screamed out that it was a place of punishment. Two large iron doors had been built into the prison’s outer wall, and it was to the two confused-looking sentries who stood guard over them, that Taylor guided the remaining member of his team.
One of the most important tests in the hiring of guards to work at the production centres was the intelligence exam. Anyone with too high an IQ was instantly dismissed. The ideal candidate for the job was a person who lacked the ability to question their orders; the powers of reasoning were a sackable offence. For them, there would be no grey areas, only black and white. Another essential trait for the job, along with unquestioning stupidity, was a love of brutality. The guards were poorly trained thugs who revelled in the opportunity of having the producers cower to their wills. Other SecForce employees treated them with contempt, and as they lived in residential accommodation only marginally better than the inmates, their status was far from enviable. The guards were all too aware of this, and were happy to take their frustrations out on anyone within striking distance of them.
When they were twenty feet away, the tetchy-looking guards aimed their rifles and shouted their first warning at the unexpected visitors.
“Stay where you are,” yelled one, “if you come any closer we will fire!”
Careful to avoid the sniper’s scopes, Taylor grabbed Doyle by the hair and thrust the shotgun under his chin. He looked out from behind his hostage so the sentries could see his face.
“Do you know who I am?”
He’d always wanted to say those words but had assumed the situation would have been more glamorous.
One of the guards nodded, “You’re Taylor, you killed Freddie Milton’s wife. You’re fucked dude.”
The guard looked to his compatriot, “It’s fucking Taylor bro.”
“That’s right, I’m Taylor and I’m not in the mood to fuck around. I want whoever is in charge of this place out here in the next two minutes or I’m going to blow this motherfucker’s brains out.”
The other guard, who up to that point hadn’t said a word, decided to break his silence.
“Big dea
l,” he shrugged, “I don’t even know who the fuck he is.”
This was the answer that Taylor had been dreading.
After considering his words, the guard spoke again, “Who the fuck is he?”
Taylor released the breath he had been holding in, “He used to be part of my team, he’s a SecForce employee just like you.”
The guards looked at him with blank stares; they were clearly not impressed.
“You swore an oath to protect your colleagues when you joined up,” he told them, trying not to sound too desperate.
After a long silence, the first guard shook his head, “You’re going to kill your own man… Shit, that’s brutal.”
He slowly took his radio from his belt and spoke into it, “This is the main doors, we’re going to need Mr Richardson out here. We’ve got trouble.”
“Tell him he’s got ninety seconds,” Taylor added.
It was more like five minutes before Richardson finally appeared from behind the doors, yet considering it had worked at all, Taylor was more than happy to overlook his poor time-keeping. He wore a smart, grey suit and had a thick mane of white, slicked back hair. He was good looking for his age and despite the slight paunch, was in good shape for a man that must have been close to sixty. He came through the doors unescorted, and without a hint of fear, walked straight up to Taylor and held out his hand.
“Good morning to you,” he said confidently with a cheery note to his voice, “I’m Mr Richardson, the manager of this centre, and you must be Taylor. Tell me, how can I help you?”
When no hand was forthcoming, Richardson quickly lowered his own without looking the slightest bit ruffled. Taylor could see he was going to play things cool.
“Listen carefully to me,” he said, “because I’m not going to repeat myself. I have been framed for the murder of Freddie Milton’s wife. I’ve been out in this shit-hole for the past two days trying my best not to get killed… If those fucking animals catch me, I swear they’ll rip me apart.”
