The Station: a seething mass of humanity. Some came with
hope in their hearts, ready to embark on the journey of a lifetime. For others,
it was the only place they had left to go. They had reached rock bottom. Day or
night, the scene was always the same: Transporters arrived and departed
constantly, full of people desperate to get away from here, from there, from
everywhere. Others wandered around the Station aimlessly. These were the
homeless, the addicts, the criminals, the thieves and deadbeats. They spent
their time begging or looking for something to steal.
And there was always tension in the air. A fight could break out at any moment
as these tired and hungry people reached their wits’ ends and lashed out at the
world.
Max and I had been waiting there two hours, which was at least one hour and
fifty-nine minutes too long but neither of us minded. I kept reaching into my
pocket to pull out the letter and stare at it.
“You’ll wear it out, buddy,” said a smiling Max after I had brought the note
out a tenth time. “Just accept it. Next stop: Easy Street.”
I pushed the letter back into my pocket. I still couldn’t believe it. I’d been
accepted. That was the good news. The bad news was I knew that this letter only
confirmed that I had been chosen for NSC training. It was incredibly difficult
to get this far, but even so, only a very few would make it to through to the
next stage—to become officers. Frankly, I had grave doubts I could make it that
far.
Max tapped me on my shoulder and pointed to a transporter that had just pulled
in to Dock 10. It had the word Seattle printed above its windshield. It was
Max’s ride. “Okay, Hogan, looks like it’s my time to go.”
I moved behind Max’s wheelchair and pushed it through the seething crowd
towards the vehicle. It was, like all public transporters nowadays, driverless.
So since there was no one to help, it was up to me to put Max’s ticket into the
scanner and to lower him into in his allotted seat. After that, I folded his
wheelchair and carried the chair to the luggage rack at the front.
As I finished storing the chair, I spotted an attractive woman in her
mid-thirties walk up to Max. I watched as she checked the seat number on her
ticket. “That is twenty-two N isn’t it?” I heard the woman say to Max as she
pointed to the vacant seat next to him.
Max smiled. “It sure is. And you have the luck to be sitting next to Max
Creeling.” He held out his hand. “Great to meet you.”
The woman smiled and sat next to him as I returned.
“Okay, Max, time to go. See if you can get someone to help you with the chair
at the other end.”
“I think I can organize that,” the woman said. “I’m Lisa.” She pushed out her
hand and I shook it.
“Pleased to meet you, Lisa. Thank you for your kind offer. Now, Max, don’t
forget when you get to Seattle to keep out of trouble.”
“Will do.”
I high-fived Max. “Bye. And behave yourself.”
“Always.”
I turned quickly and headed for the transporter’s exit door. Almost as soon as
I had stepped down from the vehicle, the door slid shut, the last passenger
just managing to squeeze on. As the transporter drove off, Max peered out of
the window and winked at me before turning to speak animatedly with Lisa. It
looked like he had struck it lucky.
I missed him already.
My transporter would be in next. Dock 20. I started to walk towards the number
20 sign, scanning the crowd for those who were waiting for the NSC Transit
transporter like me.
A tall, handsome man in his early twenties stepped in front of me, momentarily
blocking my way. I glanced across at him. I knew the type. Dangerous and
arrogant but the sort of asshole that women love. In fact, two young beautiful
girls were with him: long legs, flowing blonde hair, angelic faces. They were
obviously twins.
A commotion came from behind, and a middle-aged, scruffy, worn-down man pushed
through the crowd, a rusty shotgun in hand. “Hey, you!” he screamed at the guy
with the girls. “Those are my daughters, you son of a bitch.”
The handsome man turned, taking in the man and his gun.
“Really,” he replied. “Then I guess I owe you for raising such lovely pleasure
units.”
“They aren’t pleasure units, they’re my girls, and they’re only seventeen.”
“Oh, God…I didn’t know,” the handsome man said, looking shocked. “They swore
they were fifteen.” He grabbed one of the teenagers and starting to kiss her
passionately.
“You bastard,” the older man said, and raised the shotgun, ready to fire. The
handsome man pushed away the girl he was kissing, spun around, and yanked the
weapon from the father’s hands in one motion. In an instant, the father was
looking down the barrel of his own gun.
“The only reason I don’t shoot you right now is ’cause I’m afraid this rusty
piece of shit might blow up in my face.” The younger man cracked the gun open
and dumped the shells onto the floor. Then he pulled a gleaming handgun from
his trousers and leveled it directly at the father’s head. “This, on the other
hand, is in perfect working order. Care to test it?”
The father lunged forward, but I grabbed him, pulling him back. “That’s
enough.”
The handsome man stared at me. “Well, thank you,” he said, stuffing his pistol
back into his pants. “You should thank him too, Dad,” he said to the girls’
father, “you could have got yourself hurt.” He turned away to look at the
girls. “Ladies—it’s been a pleasure. I’m sure you won’t forget your time with
Jake Teerman.”
“Bye, Jake,” one of them shouted as she consoled her teary-eyed sister.
The man, Jake, quickly headed towards the transporter that had just pulled up
at Dock 20.
“I guess some girls like that kind of thing,” a voice behind me said.
I turned. The woman who’d just spoken was strikingly attractive, with long dark
hair, piercing blue eyes, and a button nose. She was dressed in form-fitting
jeans and a blue blouse that hugged her shapely body. She carried an antique
leather holdall.
She held out her hand. “Ruby Mason.”
“Hogan Duran. Pleased to meet you” I said, shaking her hand and pointing at the
NSC Transporter. “You getting on board?”
Ruby smiled proudly. “Yep. And you?”
I nodded and glanced at Jake Teerman, who was climbing up the transporter’s
stairs.
“He’s going as well. I thought the NSC was more selective.”
“I guess not,” Ruby said.
***
About a hundred of us were cramped on board. Most were in
their late teens and early twenties, mainly young men but with a sprinkling of
women. I knew I was an old man by their standards. It was a pretty big
handicap, and since Max’s shooting, my confidence had never really returned.
Was I up to this? The transporter had been pretty quiet from the start, with
only a few talking to one another. That was the sensible thing to do. We didn’t
know exactly what our training would involve, and to give too much away about
yourself at this stage was not a smart strategy.
Ruby and I hadn’t spoken much, either. I’d told her about me being an ex-cop.
She’d told me that she was a waitress who had just been fired from her job. The
news of NSC acceptance had been the lifeline she’d needed. To keep the
conversation going but avoiding any more personal talk, I pointed at the
transporter driver. “Haven’t seen one of those for years.”
“Me neither,” Ruby said.
It was a surprise to both of us. Nowadays, cars and trucks were almost all
driverless. When they were first introduced, people had willingly given up
their vehicles and relied on driverless taxis to get around. Before long, all
trucks had been made driverless, too, and as demand for ‘driven’ cars fell, the
industry collapsed: factories closed and workers were made redundant, joining
the thousands of professional drivers in the ranks of the unemployed.
The NSC was one of the few employers who kept their drivers on, not trusting
the security of driverless vehicles. Onboard computers could be hacked, they
reasoned. It was difficult to accomplish, of course, but it was a risk the
organization wasn’t prepared to take.
The view from the vehicle was a revelation to me, too, even though as a cop, I
had traveled all over the city. In the four years since resigning from the
force, the landscape had changed dramatically. I could see the wealthy zones
with their well-lit stores, malls, and schools. These were surrounded by rows
of affluent suburban homes, some of which had glistening swimming pools in
their back yards. Cars shunted along the wide, clean boulevards, and children
played happily in the lush green parks. The zones were protected by high
steel-mesh fences hung with huge searchlights. Gun-toting guards, walking with
vicious-looking dogs on leashes, manned checkpoints along the border.
In contrast, most of the city’s other zones looked like they’d been bombed out.
There were no green spaces: the schools were huge, gray, factory-like
buildings; the few stores were tiny, temporary structures; and hardly any cars
traveled the crumbling roads that often looked impassable anyway. Homes were,
for the most part, a mixture of temporary-looking Nissan huts or constructions
built out of old wood and corrugated metal sheets.
As the transporter sped on and darkness fell, the signs of decay and
dereliction increased. Tents replaced houses and roads became fewer and fewer.
When the vehicle finally left what remained of the town and descended from the
freeway down onto the open road, the lights inside were dimmed. People slumped
back in their chairs, trying to get as comfortable as possible to sleep.
“Night,” said Ruby, shutting her eyes.
“Night,” I said, and did the same.
***
I awoke hours later, my legs aching, my back in pain. I
really was getting old.
I stared out and saw that the sun had just started to peek over the horizon.
Soon it would be high in the sky, streaming through the transporter’s tinted
windows. If I was to die and somehow found myself in purgatory, it would
probably look like this: dirty brown wasteland stretching out as far as the eye
could see. On the horizon was a mountain range. But these boasted no romantic,
snow-covered summits glistening in the sun: just steep, hostile, rocky
escarpments layered with brown dust.
Ruby opened her eyes. “Hi,” she said, stretching and pulling herself up.
“Morning.”
Ruby turned to look out the window. She shivered. “Is this Hell?” she asked.
“Sure looks like it.”
“Three more hours,” Ruby said, yawning.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, peering at the small clock positioned high over the
driver’s head. I reached into my pocket for my old flip phone, and then
remembered we’d had to leave all electronic gear with the driver. The NSC
expressly forbade anyone to carry anything that could be used to reveal where
we were going. I doubted if the clock really showed the correct time. It would
be too easy to work out where you were from the time traveled.
Ruby gave a start. “Oh my God.” She was staring out the window. I followed her
gaze. In the distance, a band of bikers were riding through the wasteland,
heading towards the transporter. I recognized them. “Krails,” I said. “I’ve
never seen them up close.”
Others on the transporter had seen the Krails, too. They watched fascinated as
the gang approached. As they came closer, I could make out the lined, tough
faces of the riders. Although all were dressed in the same tight black
leathers, some wore black bandanas or had long scarves covering their necks and
faces. Many had grown their hair out, letting it fall down to their waist,
while others had it shaved off completely. It was hard to tell the women from
the men. All looked equally tough, with lined faces browned in the sun.
More than anything else, Krails were proud of their bikes. Despite the dust,
each machine had been meticulously cleaned so their chrome and steel handle
bars shone. Some riders had bows slung over their shoulders, quivers of arrows
hanging from their belts. Others carried long hunting knives stuck into ornate
belts, and handguns stuffed into leather holsters. The man on the lead bike
looked huge and terrifying. He was bald, and his face was crisscrossed with
long scars.
Ruby made a face. “Disgusting. How can anyone live like that?”
“Maybe they ask the same thing about us,” I said as the transporter accelerated
away.
Staring back, I saw the big bald man, the Krail leader, raise his hand and
indicate the rocky outcrops on the horizon. Pulling his bike around, he started
to ride in the direction he’d indicated. The others followed in V-formation.
Clive Fleury is an award-winning writer of books and
screenplays and has worked all over the world as a Film/TV director, writer and
producer. He has written six books, most recently All Or None, the second
novel in the Detective Ryan Murder Mystery series.
All Or None sees Detective Ryan back in the thick of
things. His latest investigation into a mysterious death couldn’t come at a
worse time. He discovers his mother is hiding a troubling secret and is further
sidetracked by a new romance. Fans of whodunnits, crime thrillers, and cop
and detective stories will love this novel.
Clive's other books include Off Season - book one in the
Detective Ryan Murder Mystery series; Kill Code - a dystopian science fiction
novel set in a world facing climate change; Scary Lizzy - a novel about an
eight-year-old girl, who befriends an African child ghost; and the teen action adventure book; The Boy
Next Door - a story of what happens
when a teenage girl has a crush on her next door neighbor, who isn’t all he
seems. He also co-wrote Art Pengriffin
and The Curse of The Four - a young adult fantasy adventure about a teenage
boy who discovers his father was Merlin the Magician.
Website * Facebook * X (Twitter)
Instagram * BookBub * Amazon * Goodreads
