This Machine Kills (13 page)

   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.’

  
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 on 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.

   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?”