by T. K. Malone
Sitting back in his chair, Charm slowly clapped. “Well, my oh my, the DJ paid attention to his schooling. Aren’t you a rare one? Two weeks, yes, two weeks until we can bowl up the ladder, turn the big wheely thing and go back out into the new world. Two weeks, Clay, and the radiation is a thousandth of its peak. Two weeks and the sun can shine on us again,” and then that laugh came again. He turned to the guards in the doorway. “Would either of you just pop out and revel in the outside world? Dance on its crust under a bright blue sky?”
They both shook their heads. Charm turned back to Connor. “No, no they wouldn’t, and do you know why, Connor?”
“No,” he whispered, devoid of any emotion. “No, I don’t.”
“No,” Charm said, softly. “You see, they know,” and he pointed at the guards. “They know that Ivan The Bastard learned what you learned. When Connor The DJ pokes his head out of the hatchway, Ivan The Bastard will drop another nuke on his head. Know why? I’ll tell you. Ivan The Bastard learned something very important at the Russian school of how-to-kill-stupid-bastard-DJs-who-survived-the-apocalypse, and that was…?”
“I don’t know,” Connor whimpered, tears now dripping from his eyes. He didn’t want to say anything else—he didn’t know enough.
“Ivan The Bastard learned what you learned and will wait for you to pop your head out, then Ivan The Bastard will finish off the game. But, Connor, you don’t have to know any of this. You just have to keep this little powder keg of a compound on an even keel until I deem it fit for us to leave. That, Connor, that is all I ask of you. Do what you do, keep the mundane at bay, and stop people from going mad.”
Connor let out a huge whimper. It all made some kind of insane sense. Why he had been chosen to survive, he the voice of The Free World, of Black City. But how did he know any of this was true? Was it just the crazy words of this madman before him? Were they that compelling? Or those of Molly Hunter, an imposter—a liar? How could he be sure that his brother was indeed dead?
It was a moment of clarity, and Connor grasped its import with both hands, hope coursing through him. Surely all he knew for certain was that he had been abducted, taken to this compound—underground or not—and then subjected to this psychological torture. He had no grounds upon which to believe all he’d been told. Had it all been staged, just a rehearsal?
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” he finally asked.
For a fleeting moment, Charm actually looked surprised. “Denial, Connor? Are you now in denial?” He swept his arm around. “All this? Them? Me?” Huffing, his shoulders sagged. “Who ruled the Black City?”
“Oster Prime,” Connor answered.
“Bah,” Charm spat. “You’re more brainwashed than your brother said you were. Bah. I, Clay, I ran Black City in the face of Oster Prime, and I am here, and that should tell you everything you need to know.”
“But I don’t know anything about you!” Connor shouted through gritted teeth.
Charm leaned nearer, until his lips were just inches from Connor’s ear. “But you do know me, you just don’t remember. I know everything, Clay, including when to turn the big wheely thing, including what your brother thought, and including what happened last night. And note, note for when you emerge from that soup of denial you’re currently wallowing in, for when the fires of anger rage in your belly, that I said ‘thought’, past tense.”
Connor thumped the wall beside him. “No!” he shouted. “No,” he protested. “No,” he finally whimpered.
But Charm said nothing, merely closed his eyes as though drawing in some unseen power, the silence heavy about him. It unnerved Connor, and for some strange reason he then accepted that everything Charm had said was true, and that faint flicker of hope he’d had was extinguished by the avalanche that was Doctor Josiah Charm, extinguished this time by the man’s simple silence.
In his mind’s eye, Connor saw his brother’s face, bloated and ruddy but smiling. Zac mouthed Connor a “hello”. But his brother said nothing more, only slid him a drink but without a glass, then he offered him some smokes but the packet was empty. It was as though his brother were there, just above him, but this time he didn’t vaporize. It was like watching him on a screen, on the TV or the ITS, through some invisible barrier. He watched the hunched drunk fall off his stool, watched Billy Flynn pick him up and throw him outside, out into the gutter.
He felt Josiah’s hand on his leg, squeezing, patting, but felt no comfort from it. He was empty, his tears mingling with his day-old stubble. A vast vat of nothingness now filled his soul, an emptiness like nothing he’d ever felt before, a searing pain that somehow left him numb. A thousand images then cascaded through his mind. Images of the golden lettering of The Free World adorning the signage of a thousand identical shops; Free World Burgers, Free World Bar And Grill, The Free World Bank—Free World Radio. “Free World” everywhere, yet he now knew that that logo hadn’t saved him, that that flag hadn’t saved him—hadn’t saved any of them, hadn’t saved his brother.
Everything was gone.
“Who did it?” his words dribbled out.
“Does it matter?”
“It does.”
“The Russians blinked first,” Josiah whispered.
But it didn’t matter, not in the end. It didn’t make a blind bit of difference. Not now, not when he’d just found out. Deep down, he felt some measure of paltry pride that it hadn’t been him—hadn’t been his own Free World. That they’d been somehow vindicated in their belief. The Free World wouldn’t have done it, not his Free World, not in his name, for they were, he knew, the righteous.
“Does everyone know?”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone here.”
“Know what? That The Free World as we know it has been annihilated? That all their friends and colleagues have been slaughtered? Yes, they know, but unlike you they haven’t had the luxury of a day to come to terms with it.”
“They were just told? Just like that?”
“Yes.”
“Why me? Why do I get all this special treatment?”
Charm jumped up and paced the room. “Why you? I thought I’d explained that, yet you still don’t know. It’s up to you, Connor Clay, up to you to get your grieving done, to get out there and do what you do. ‘The voice of a nation’. You can give them hope. You can give them a little bit of normal. Only you.”
So that was it, Connor thought, that was why he’d been plucked off the streets. This was Charm’s great plan. Before the world was reduced to a burning wasteland, stick a load of people in a bunker and get a DJ to put some records on. He decided it was laughable. But deep down, deep in his gut, he knew he could help. Deep down, he knew it would help those who remained. His voice—the voice of The Free World—reaching out would help, rising like a defiant phoenix, a familiar lilt in a foreboding place, where souls had been ripped asunder.
“You keep them sane…” Josiah said, but then let it hang.
Connor started to nod, slowly at first but then with a measure of conviction. He’d do it, but he’d do it for his brother, for Billy Flynn who’d been a brother in everything but blood. And he’d do it for the hunched drunk—he’d do it for all of them. But he wouldn’t do it for The Free World, not for them, not any more.
He sat up straight and grabbed the packet of cigarettes, pinching one and lighting it. Taking a great lungful of its soothing smoke, he eyed Doctor Josiah Charm, and for an instant he swore he saw the man hesitate under his stare.
“If you can tell me…” Connor said, his voice now even, devoid of negotiation, full of ultimatum. “If you can tell me how this could happen, then I’ll do it.”
Josiah looked up at the ceiling and sighed as he mouthed some unspoken words, as if preparing some lament or seeking advice from his god—almost a prayer. And then he held out his hands in supplication, but the eyes that fell to Connor were filled with raw anger, and his voice boomed around the room when his words finally spat from his mouth, hot
like searing bullets.
“Who knows, who truly knows what sparks the trail of gunpowder? What word ignites the passion of panic? But when a man lets the mayhem of war loose in his mind and its chaos infects the thoughts of others, those of reason and thought can be found beaten and bloody, prostrate in the gutter of hope.” He dropped his head for a moment, soon looking up, but with compassion filling his eyes, not hate. “We passed that point last night. Now there is no reason, no thought, no gutter.”
“So, there’s just war?”
“Not even war, Connor.”
“Is there anything, anything at all?”
“Only hope, Connor. There’s always hope.”
14
Connor’s story
Strike time: unknown
Location: unknown
Charm had left directly after he’d confirmed Connor’s worst fears, and Connor had just wept and slept as the dawn of realization quickly rose within him and he hunted out his dark shadows of acceptance. Alone, grief had gained free reign to play dire havoc with his mind, prying hope from his clawing fingers. What hope? Charm had mentioned it, but could there really be anything to be hoped for. What kind of world was left?
With time a seemingly forgotten dimension in this olive-green world, at some point—whether it be morning, afternoon, day or night—Connor had swung his legs over the edge of his austere, metal-framed bed and got up. He stretched his legs and tried to force his shoulders up from their weighty slump. Ridding himself of his boots and sweat-soaked jumpsuit, he headed into the shower room. Cool water soon flowed over his body, and for the first time in a while, he looked at his arm. Below the crook of his elbow pulsed a speck of mauve light. About the size of a small mole, it was a constant reminder of his state of health, or at this particular moment, his ill-health.
Mauve? Why mauve? Sable? Where was she? She should have been in his mind, berating him, cleaning his system. Mauve was bad; it meant there was poison in his body. Yet he hadn’t eaten anything unhealthy, hadn’t drunk any alcohol, taken any off-grid drugs, or smoked anything but Charm’s own smokes. So, how come it was mauve? Where was Sable?
Just a day or so ago, she’d have been frantically doing just that— cleaning his systems, during which time he’d made sure to wear a long-sleeved dark shirt. Mauve was bad, resulting in a reprimand at best, incarceration at worse. A pure body, one with no intoxicants, was the only way one could serve The Free World effectively. The Free World cared for its citizens, wanted them to live longer and so serve longer. Connor got out of the shower, grabbed the only towel from its hook on the back of the bathroom door, and wrapped it around his waist.
He crept out of the little shower room and over to the kitchenette, somehow fearful of making a noise, of disturbing the guards he fully expected to be stationed outside his door. The kitchenette was no more than a jutting worktop and a few empty cupboards, a stovetop and a switched-off fridge. Dismal, but it made Connor look around and come to one conclusion: this room was never supposed to have been used.
He noticed Charm’s cigarettes on the table, his lighter placed neatly beside them. Connor slumped into the chair and grabbed one. Mauve or not, the health monitor would have to pulse to its own beat, he thought as he lit one. He took a long drag.
If the room wasn’t ready, then surely that meant that all hadn’t quite gone to Charm’s plan—whatever that plan had been. Connor grunted in muted satisfaction. Fuck him, he thought. Zac would have been looking for an angle, some way to use Doctor Josiah Charm for his own good. Or he would have done in his heyday, back when he’d near enough ruled the city outside the grid, when he and his gang had flaunted their lawlessness for all to see; stiffs, gridders, everyone. Back when he’d met up with Teah—a stiff herself, but one who’d fallen under his roguish spell. But Teah had gone, vanished, and Zac had appeared to fold his cards, step away from the table, and then live his life in the bottom of a bottle. The new Zac would have sought out another drink; the old would have fought to the ends of the earth. Which one, Connor wondered, would he himself turn out to be?
The truth was, he knew he had to comply; comply or remain a prisoner. Still, he wondered why Charm had chosen to isolate him down here. Had he shown any measure of defiance in the original holding cell? He didn’t think so. And then there was the accusation that he’d met Charm before. He wondered about that, about whether it was before…before the accident, before Sable. Throwing his cigarette down, and without any other option presenting itself, he got up and put the jumpsuit back on, pulled the boots up, and stared at the door. He edged to it and tested the handle. The door opened easily, no sign of any guards outside, just an empty corridor. A test, he decided. Charm was testing him, seeing if he could be trusted. Connor searched out the cameras but could see none.
Backing into the room, he dithered. The trap was set, of that he was sure. If he took the bait and left the room, would that be right or wrong? Surely, he mused, just to stay put would show the doctor that he was nothing more than a mouse? He grabbed the packet of cigarettes and the lighter, and pushed the door fully open.
Connor walked away from the loading bay, down the apparently endless corridor, although its oppressive green made it hard to pick out any features and so be sure. He soon came to an intersection, another monotonous corridor crossing his own and again seemingly disappearing into infinity in both directions. No sound but his breathing and footsteps accompanied him, as though he were the last man alive on some abandoned spaceship hurtling through space to some unknown destination. He crept on.
Curiosity slowly got the better of his hesitation and he tried a door, letting it swing open before poking his head through. Though dark, the room beyond looked identical to his own. He tried the door opposite and found exactly the same. Though Charm had said it himself, a deserted floor made little sense. Surely the plan should have been to pack the place to overflowing?
Looking back down the corridor, he wondered if he’d be able to find his way back, but then scoffed at himself; as if it really mattered. He passed more intersections, maybe six but was losing count, but then saw the end of the corridor ahead: a blank, olive-green wall. At least he now knew the level had an end. It turned out to be a “T” junction with a wider corridor, large double doors set in the opposite wall, glazed with mesh-embedded glass. He edged nearer one and nudged it open with his foot, far enough to let the light of the corridor filter into its darkness.
One by one, lights blinked into life, revealing a dormitory containing ranks of unmade beds down either side, some thirty or so each.
“Shit,” he muttered as it dawned on him it was probably another sixty or so folk who hadn’t made it. How many had died trying to get here? He backed out into the corridor, watching as the lights blinked off, one by one. But the corridor didn’t feel the same anymore. He felt like he was being watched.
Sweat broke out on his brow when he turned to see a man standing in the center of the corridor a short way off. He made to walk toward Connor, made to gesture, looking as though he was about to say something, but then he darted to one side and disappeared from view. His head reappeared briefly, but snapped back as if tethered with elastic. For a moment, Connor stood rooted before hurrying toward him. “Hello?” he shouted. No answer. “Hey, you there,” and Connor began to jog until he reached the spot where the man had stood. A door hung ajar, and so Connor pushed it open but remained in the corridor. “Hey?”
“Who are you?” came a voice from inside.
The room was in semidarkness, lit only by the light from the corridor. Connor moved out of its way and realized he was looking into some kind of canteen, the feeble light picking out a couple of stainless steel work surfaces. “Connor,” he called in.
“Are you a soldier?” The words came from the shadows beyond the work surfaces.
“No, I’m a…” but DJ didn’t sound right, just didn’t fit, somehow ridiculous. “I’m a…a civilian,” and he edged into the room, the lights here also blinking on in ra
pid succession.
“How did you do that?”
Connor squinted against the glare. “Do what?”
“Switch the lights on?”
“Where are you?”
It was more a kitchen than a canteen. The oversized balding head of a plainly timid man emerged from behind a large double door fridge. Gray eyebrows overshadowed small, round spectacles that sat on his thin and protruding nose. “How did you do it? There’s no switch, I checked. VPA?”
Though Sable had been absent, Connor knew she was inside his head somewhere. Their symbiosis demanded it, her program inextricably embedded within him.
“I guess so,” he said.
“Haven’t got one myself,” said the man, his head appearing to extend beyond his still hidden body. He tapped his temple. “Don’t want anyone messing with the old brainbox.” The rest of him appeared from behind the fridge and caught up with his neck. “I was trying to find some food,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Tuttle’s the name, Byron Tuttle,” and he held out a bony hand, which Connor took. “What did you say you did?” Byron asked.
“I didn’t—I’m a DJ,” and once out, it did indeed sound as ridiculous as he thought it might.
“Well, I never. Connor Clay,” Byron said. “If I were to have guessed the three hundred that Charm would save, I’d have had you at the head of my own list. Not as daft as you think, that one—got his head screwed on. You going to do it?”
“Do what?”
“Help him out?”
It was a question to which Connor still didn’t know the answer, though he was fairly sure he’d not have any choice in the matter. “I’m not…”
Byron Tuttle drew closer to Connor, the man’s eyes enquiring and firmly fixed on him; his stooped body witness to the countless hours he must have spent pawing over books and tomes. “Not sure? Hmm… Come with me,” and as he edged past, Connor caught the faintest of whiffs. Byron Tuttle smelled like a library, a dusty library full of history. Connor shrugged and followed him.
