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 Targeted Age Group:: 14-34
The year is 2121. The world has changed a lot, but in ways that you’d probably expect.
I thought I put my hitman days behind me. Turns out that couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’m Benjamin Edge, mercenary for hire. Running guns, carrying out hits, I’ve done it all. When you grow up as a child soldier fighting for one city-state against another in the crumbling ruins of a fallen civilization, killing becomes second nature.
This newest job seems a breeze, though. Smuggling lab equipment from San Francisco to New Tijuana means running a harsh gauntlet, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. A few hired guns—even a reformed drug addict who let me down in the past—should be enough to blaze a trail through the Badlands.
Or at least I thought it was.
Until a corpse came back from the dead.
Sergeant Reaver, a bio-engineered super soldier I killed a decade ago, is somehow still breathing. Not only that, but he’s brought all the crime syndicates in Los Angeles under his banner. Now that he knows I’m on his turf, it’s me against an army all the way to New Tijuana.
Good thing I packed plenty of ammo.
Link To Dystopia’s Edge On Amazon Kindle Unlimited
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
My wife goes to bed about an hour before I do. Instead of playing videogames, I decided to try typing away at my keyboard instead while listening to techno music. Two years later—it appears this resulted in me completing a novel.
I suppose I arrived at this particular work because I've always loved Action-Adventure books that are quick to leisure read, with lots of action & intrigue. And Cyberpunk has always fascinated me as a genre because it can speak to how the advancement of technology doesn't necessarily tie directly into the betterment of humanity.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My characters are all workaholics who have drastically different jobs from one another. This lends them to having wildly different personalities from one another while at the same time sharing a comment feature they can bond over. A workaholic gun-for-hire is going to have different vibe from a workaholic trucker. However, they'll have a knowing respect for one another.
Book Excerpt/Sample
The year is 2121. The world has changed a lot,
but in ways that you’d probably expect.
Chapter 1
Some guy from a company—with one of those corporate names nobody can pronounce—he was looking to hire mercs for a job.
Apparently, he’d just sold an expensive piece of his company's lab equipment. Probably made a hefty commission bonus when he closed the deal. Problem was, the factories where they make stuff like that are in Silicon Valley. This particular sale was done remotely… to a customer across the border in the township of New Tijuana.
To get anything or anyone from Silicon Valley to New Tijuana… well, you’ve got two options. The first one has you driving your merchandise to the nearest port town. You can go to Union City or San Francisco. It doesn’t really matter which because you’re going to have to bribe government officials in San Francisco either way. The primary purpose of any ship going to New Tijuana is to deliver aid and supplies provided by charitable organizations. And you can’t get anything aboard a ship like that without greasing a few palms first. Gotta pay somebody in the trade department, then one of those execs from said charity organization, folks working imports/exports down at the docks will also want their cut, and then there's the ship captain…
And that’s just to get it off the docks. After you embark, you’re probably going to be accosted by a patrolling U.S. Navy Ship. They can and will stop vessels in order to inspect them for illegal contraband. Even if you’re a law-abiding citizen, they’ll take forever to adhere to their search procedures, filling out the necessary paperwork… unless you can properly persuade them to hurry it along.
Plus, when you finally get down to Mexico, hoo boy. There’s gonna be a whole new set of trade officials and boys at the docks to bribe. The whole process can really drain the entire commission pay from what was once going to be a very profitable sale of expensive lab equipment.
Which is why I wasn’t surprised that the guy who contacted me was going with option two. He intended to pack his product into a truck and just drive it down himself, transporting it through what was once backwoods territory surrounding the East California / Mexico border. Back in the 2060s, civilization there collapsed, and people started calling it “The Badlands.” My chosen profession has brought me through that place an awful lot, and I’ve got another name for it myself.
Hell.
I suppose you could make the trip down there by going directly South. Of course, that would mean passing by Los Angeles. Back in the 2060s, civilization had collapsed there too. It was re-established a decade later by a military dictatorship. Then it was partially reintegrated back into the United States another twenty years after that. However, the “mayor” of that city is still the fascist head of its oppressive regime in everything but name. Don’t get me wrong, you’ll probably get through it safely enough. But you’re going to have to pay bribes—which kind of defeats the whole purpose of transporting merchandise via truck in the first place.
Most people driving through The Badlands do so by keeping their foot firmly on the gas pedal and praying they don’t run into bandits along the way. Most people are also idiots. You’re going to run into bandits. You’re supposed to pray that the bandits aren’t carrying better guns than you.
And if you come prepared, do your homework, make the necessary investments where it counts… Well, personal experience says you can stack the odds in your favor. I’ve worked on smuggling jobs through The Badlands before. The people who call it home are tough, tenacious, and ruthless. But they’re also poor. Equipping yourself with a better gun is the one advantage you’re liable to have over them. So why not use it?
Of course, I’d heard stories. Folks in the bar who also worked in my profession talked about the people in The Badlands who could outgun you. New crime lords who’d risen to power out there, doing business in slaves and drugs. Marauding bands of nomads who’d raided dumping grounds for nuclear waste to use in biological weapons.
It could have all been stories. Chances are, they were. But still…
Like I said, you can stack the odds in your favor. But with an endeavor like this, there’s always a chance things could go wrong. You never really know what fate will throw your way in no-man's-land. It all depends on how much one is willing to risk in the name of saving some money.
This guy was looking to save some money. That’s why he wanted to hire mercs for a job.
I saw it listed on one of the usual backroom message boards. The pay looked good, so I emailed him my resume. It listed my skills and proper accreditation to back them up. GoPro footage from my last time on the gun range, letters of reference from a mercenary firm I used to work for, and other stuff like that. It can be a competitive market, and I do what I can to stay ahead.
This guy on the other end, liked what he saw and emailed me back immediately. Started asking if I had any GoPro footage of me in the field, doing my job.
I said that I did but didn’t feel comfortable sending sensitive footage like that via email.
He responded with a message that read, “TOTALLY. Completely understandable. Providing it wouldn’t be required to secure this job opportunity btw. Your accreditations speak for themselves. To be frank, I just thought I’d have a blast watching some footage of you in action. Are you free Tuesday morning for an on-site interview?”
So I woke up early that Tuesday, showered, shaved, and tried my best to dress appropriately. My corporate attire won’t make the cover of GQ anytime soon, but I do have a couple suits in my closet. One is a black number with a little style for a night on the town—it only has two secret pockets to conceal firearms. The other, a brown thing I own for stuff like this, has more. And the tailoring on them isn’t discreet, either.
Most people who hire for a job like this want you to show up to the interview armed to the teeth. Security will make you check it all at the door, of course. But in this line of work, it’s like showing off the tools of your trade! I feel a bit of pride when I tuck my guns, grenades, and knives into my side pockets, back pockets, and pant legs.
I’m still rusty on how to tie a tie though. The extra minutes I spend remembering how to get a simple half-Windsor knot just right are a reminder of how rarely I need to dress to impress.
But when you stroll into a meeting packing three or four firearms, people aren't exactly looking at your tie.
After arriving at the Silicon Valley address that guy gave me, I parked my motorcycle and strolled into the main lobby of some standard-looking corporate building in the middle of an industrial park. Security stopped me, verified my identity, and asked if I had any firearms on my person. I said yes, of course. They took them, of course. But they also gave me a ticket before politely informing me that I could retrieve them from their coat checks’ safe on my way out. I thanked them and made my way to the receptionist’s desk.
“Hi there,” I said. “Benjamin Edge here for an interview with Mr. Rollins.”
The receptionist smiled. She’d had some work done, so it was hard to tell exactly how old she was. It was good work, though. She’d been outfitted with one of those cybernetic jaws that came equipped with a perfect set of teeth. The synthetic skin covering it up was almost imperceptible from the real thing. I’d noticed a circuit on the back of her neck when she’d looked up at me too. Her smile was just the right kind to put a visitor at ease. I suspected she was running some kind of program that allowed perfect use of the muscles in her face. The ones that controlled microexpressions to assist in rapport-building.
“Hello, Mr. Edge,” she said. “Mr. Rollins is waiting for you. You can head right up via one of the elevators to my left.”
I smiled back. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Chapter 2
A speaker inside the elevator was playing a track of sterile yet grating smooth jazz. Thankfully, the trip up was quick. When the door opened up with a polite “ding,” Mr. Rollins was waiting for me on the other side.
I hadn’t learned what he looked like from our email exchanges, but when I saw him peer up from a datapad he’d been scrolling through to politely smile at me, I extended a hand. “I’m guessing you’re the man I’m here to see?”
He took my hand and shook it. His grip was cordial but formal. Aside from his jet-black hair being a little on the long side, everything about the guy just screamed, ‘I make my money in sales.’ From his gray suit, Swiss watch, and the modulated tone of his voice as he said, “Mr. Benjamin Edge! A pleasure. Really nice to meet you. Please, walk this way.”
We made our way down the hall to an empty conference room. Walking in, I was greeted by the site of Silicon Valley stretching out into the distance. The buildings were stacked high and glowed bright, with the occasional car or sky cab floating by. I don’t mind admitting that I found the view a little pretty. The lights that outfit these industrial park offices don’t have as much neon glow as the more commercial high rises in big cities. They shine white, almost like starlight.
“Nice view, isn’t it?” Mr. Rollins asked. The conference room also had a coffee maker. He was pouring himself a cup. “My cubicle isn’t near any windows, so I don’t get to enjoy it as often as you might think. Hopefully, one day, I’ll have a corner office! By the way, you want a cup?”
“Sure,” I responded. “Black, please.”
“You got it.” He passed me a mug, and I took a sip. I couldn’t tell ya if it was expensive coffee, but it didn’t taste cheap. I also saw that his company's name was printed on the side.
OTAGO
“You mind if I ask how to pronounce that?” I asked.
“Awt-tay-go,” he replied. “Not that it matters. We just got bought by The Cadenza Corp. and that name will be changed as soon as we get the new stationery in.”
“Cadenza Corp. Impressive.” I said. That’s a big name. I was pretty sure my microwave had their logo printed on its side. “Must be doing some good work around here to get bought by them.”
Mr. Rollins's smile remained unchanged, courteously giving away none of his feelings on the matter. “They’re after the Gen5 Lab Synthesizer we just developed. It’s going to be big. It’ll hit the markets in a way most people aren't expecting.”
“That’s the piece of equipment you sold, right? The one you want to drive to New Tijuana?”
Mr. Rollin’s smile widened a little bit at this. He was happy with the sale and couldn’t help himself. “The boys down in the lab have really created a revolutionary piece of equipment. You plug this baby in and stock it with a handful of specific synthetic compounds, and it can produce nearly any pharmaceutical drug on the open market. There’s really a need for specialty medication down there, and somebody representing a hospital in that township was more than willing to buy.”
I decided to get down to brass tacks. “Well, Mr. Rollins, that’s all well and good. But if I can be frank, I don’t really care what your machine will be doing when it gets there. What concerns me is the logistics of driving it down there safely and how you want to approach that.”
Mr. Rollins said nothing for a while. Then he took a sip of his coffee. After finishing it, he said, “Please, Benjamin. I’m younger than you. Call me Roy. And by all means, have a seat.”
I sat down in one of the office chairs. Even though it looked cushy, I found it hard to get comfortable.
Roy Rollins sat down as well and asked, “What about the logistics of this operation concerns you?”
I told him that I completely understood his decision to drive the merchandise through The Badlands. If he chose to ship it through conventional means, any profit he’d have seen from his sale would disappear in a glut of bribes and related shipping costs. No, driving through The Badlands was a smart move financially. But the dumbest thing people do when they travel through that desert is looking for even more ways to cut costs.
“Hmmmmmm,” he said, pressing a finger to his lips. “Please, elaborate.”
“Well, look… You’re already saving a ton of money deciding to drive it. But the people who die out there doing stuff like this are also the ones who decide to travel in a cheap truck. Those desert sands are littered with junkers people took, thinking some antique could make the trip. Those all break down at the worst possible times. The desert is also littered with the bones of folks who wish they’d driven something better. Bring something that’s fast, all-terrain, but can also be easily serviced. And it should be a hybrid that can run on both solar and gas in case things get cloudy.”
He nodded politely and took another sip of his coffee.
“You’ll also want to hire a mechanic. A good one. Even the best trucks can have mechanical issues. You don’t want to be sitting still too long in The Badlands. If something goes wrong, you want it to be repaired and on the road again ASAP.” I paused for a second and added. “You’ll also want to make sure they can handle driving it. I mean, REALLY handle it. The terrain can get rough out there, and A.I. programs won’t cut it if a sandstorm picks up and turns some dunes into 30-foot cliffs. Using manual controls is usually inevitable at some point.”
Roy Rollins paused, seemingly unconcerned by my thoughts on the job. Either my opinions weren’t welcome, and he was really good at not showing it… or he was genuinely interested in what I had to say. An uncomfortable period of time passed before he asked, “Anything else?”
“Hire some more guns,” I said. “I’ve got experience and come with a lot of firepower. But I’m only one guy. Most bandits out there run in groups of five or six… but it’s not unheard of to get jumped by two-dozen or so maniacs on motorcycles. I’ve got a few semi-automatics and know how to use ‘em. But if we’re surrounded, I can’t shoot two places at once.”
“Yes…” He said, pulling out his datapad and starting to scroll through it again. “I think security had you check one of those semi-automatics at the door. A scan of it showed it was a Class C Death Rattler?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered with a bit of pride. “It’s from their limited edition Concealed Angel line of products, where you can quickly disassemble and fold it up to keep it on your person at all times. With enough practice, it’s possible to reassemble at a moment's notice. Get it ready for any situation. That is one of my personal favorites.”
Roy Rollins remained silent at this statement, idly swirling the coffee in his cup. I like to think that, for a man in my line of work, the way I approach a job is more professional than most. But I’m under no illusions that the way I act rubs some people the wrong way. There are some folks who can’t handle my frank opinions on how to do a job. Or the way I like to stay armed at all times. Or just the general vibe I give off, really. I was beginning to think Mr. Rollins was that kind of person, which is why I felt relieved when he set his coffee cup down and visibly relaxed as he said, “That’s pretty cool, man.”
I stifled a chuckle and relaxed a little myself, leaning back into the chair. “ The rest of the stuff I brought today is pretty standard. S&W handguns, a couple flashbangs, some knives… The kind of things you’d probably find on any merc. But they’re popular for a reason. They get the job done.”
“I bet.” He replied, bringing up another screen on his datapad. He started typing, entering some information in text that looked encrypted. At least, I think it was encrypted, but it was moving by so quickly that I really couldn’t tell. The dude typed FAST. “Do you have any cybernetic enhancements as well?”
At this, I reflexively grabbed my left forearm. “Yeah. Over here, it’s mostly metal and synthetic polymers from the elbow down. It doesn’t have a grappling hook or anything flashy like that. Just the functional strength of my normal hand along with a secret compartment that can smuggle a small gun past most scanners.”
Roy Rollins kept typing, but his eyes widened just a bit as he looked over towards me. “Did you smuggle a gun past security today?”
“No,” I said, rolling up my sleeve and pressing an imperceptibly small button that was disguised as a vein, helping it mimic the appearance of human flesh. The compartment opened with a small click, revealing the empty pocket inside. “Your boys down at security didn’t find this. However, even if I did have a gun inside, I don’t think lying about it to sneak a weapon past them is good business. I would have checked it with my others.”
“Probably a good move.” His eyes went back to the datapad as he continued to plow through the questions. “Do you use it often? Do you have any other cybernetic attachments?”
“No, I don’t use it often. The kind of jobs I take these days aren't as shady as some work I did in my younger years.” I clicked the button, and the compartment closed again with a thunk. “ I have an enhancement in my heels too, propulsion pads. They aren't jet boots or anything like that. They can be used once to get me 30 feet into the air. The idea is, if I’m outmatched in a firefight, I can get to a vantage point on some higher ground for a quick upper hand.”
“Awesome.” Roy boy said.
I reflexively moved my hand to the base of my skull. “I also have a chip back here, hidden underneath the hair. It runs two programs, one for pool and the other for knife fights.”
“Oh, really?” He said. “They make you any good?”
I almost snorted a little at that. “A.I. skills transferred to your brain through a computer program can never be as good as somebody who learned to do it themselves, even if they’re top of the line. They just make you better than somebody who’s unskilled. In my leisure time, I frequent places where recreational betting on pool can be a common occurrence. I’m able to spot a sucker from a mile away. If they want to play, I’m not above letting the A.I. program win me some cash.”
“Nice. What about the knife fights?”
“In jobs like this, guns are what will come in handy. I’m a crack shot with those. You use ‘em right, and you’ll never have to be in a knife fight in the first place. But I also believe that a man should be prepared. My practice time is best spent on the shooting range, but I got this for if I ever find myself in close quarters with a hostile. God forbid.”
“Understandable.” Mr. Rollins closed his datapad, put it away, and swiveled his chair to face me directly. “Well, let’s not beat around it. I’m impressed. You got the job. We’ll punch up whatever paperwork you need for the contract. Or we won’t if you prefer it that way. Pay is 30,000 credits. We take off two weeks from today. You in?”
I tried to stifle my look of surprise. Firstly, that was good pay. Secondly, I wasn’t expecting an offer so quick from a suit type like him. Thirdly, that was a VERY aggressive timeline.
“How many other people have you hired?” I asked
Mr. Rollins smiled. “So far? Just you. But don’t worry. If I got the gist of this discussion right, you’d be happy to take this job if we brought along a good truck, somebody who was able to drive it manually, some more hired guns, and a mechanic?”
“Yeah, but… in two weeks? Can you get all that together in two weeks?”
“Mr. Edge, please. You have your skillset. I have mine. Have faith. In two weeks, if my preparations don’t meet your rigorous standards… you can walk away. No hard feelings about it. Now, what do you say?”
I considered things for a moment before arriving at what I thought to be the appropriate response. “I’ll do it for 40,000 credits.”
Mr. Rollins remained facing me, smiling. But he leaned back in his chair a bit. “Benjamin, please. I did research on standard compensation in your industry in preparation for this meeting. 30,000 credits is more than generous.”
“Consider the extra 10,000 a consultation fee… with regards to what you’re going to need to do this job right.”
He stretched his arms wide and placed them behind his head. Then he leaned back into his chair just a smidge further. “Fair, but I can also just withdraw my job offer. Then the consultation will be free! And I’ll just hire a different mercenary afterward. Let’s face it, there’s a large talent pool out there for people who do work like yours.”
I hate to admit it… but he could do just that. Luckily, I had something for this situation. Reaching into my pocket, I said, “Earlier, you asked if you could see some GoPro footage of me… doing my work in the field?”
He cocked his head to one side, “I did. You said you weren’t comfortable showing me something like that?”
I withdrew a datapad of my own. “Not exactly. I said I wasn’t willing to share sensitive footage like that online. Here though, when we’re face to face? I think I can give you a little peak.”
Mr. Rollins leaned forward. “Oh, really?
I set the datapad in front of him and queued up the footage. “Watch this. When it’s done, you tell me if my skills are only worth 30,000 credits.”
Chapter 3
I forgot what I recorded the footage on. Chances are, it was an old pair of sunglasses with dual camera lenses that I had lying around for these sorts of things. But I also have videos of me in the field recorded via mounted protective headgear, fake cigars, and foil-like polymer circuits that wrap around my head to resemble face tattoos.
The job was simple enough. One gang with territory near The Badlands hired me to infiltrate a nightclub owned by another crew who was moving in on their turf. The video footage started just as I was approaching a bouncer standing outside.
“Woah, dude,” he said, holding out his hand to deliver a light shove. His other fingers were hovering over a holstered pistol. “This is a private club. You got business?”
“I’m here to see the guy called Sergeant Reaver.” A younger me said over the video. I couldn’t help but wince a little. Nobody likes hearing the sound of their own voice. “I’m here on behalf of a Tony Fats from downtown. He wants to make a deal.”
“One second.” The hand he’d used to shove me moved to press a button on some kind of walkie-talkie that was mounted into his ear. His shooting hand stayed where it was. “Hey boss, some guy is outside. He says Tony sent him to talk things out.”
He was then silent for a moment. I’d seen tech like his before. It was streaming audio directly into his brain, so I wouldn’t hear what the person speaking on the other end was telling him. I waited patiently, but my eyes were locked on that guy's holstered pistol.
“All right.” The bouncer said. “He’s expecting ya. But I’ve got to search you for weapons first.”
I said nothing as he patted me down. I’m sure the guy thought he was thorough… but he was wrong. First of all, he didn’t notice the camera (If he did, I’d have said it because Tony had wanted proof that we’d made a deal. A lie, of course. Tony actually wanted proof that this Sergeant Reaver guy was dead.) More importantly, he didn’t realize I had a cybernetic arm with a pistol of my own inside.
“All right. Looks like you’re good.” The bouncer stepped aside and gave me a wry smile. “We’ve got a dozen, full-armed guys in there. All of ‘em will have their eye on you, so play nice.”
“You bet.” I said, stepping past him, crossing into the nightclub.
As I walked down a long, dark hallway, the distant sound of thundering techno music got louder and louder. There also seemed to be the noise of some death metal vocalist singing (or screaming, rather) along with it. As I approached the door on the other side, I saw that the next room was filled with strobing red lights. Stepping through, the music was so loud that every bass note made my camera vibrate with their intensity.
The club was decorated like a cross between a dance floor and a butcher shop. Carcasses of meat hung from the ceiling (probably cow). Strobe lights were shoved into their empty chest cavities, turning them into twisted chandeliers. The seats by the bar were made to look like giant knives that had been furiously shoved into the floor. There was a dance floor past the bar painted with dark, uneven coats of paint in varying shades of red. Beyond that, there was a stage where a DJ / “singer” mixed his beats and screamed while dressed like some slasher villain, the kind of costume you’d find in those horror movies from a century ago. The ones some nerds still love for whatever reason.
Honestly, the whole thing was just tacky. As I watched the footage, I remember hoping to get my work done quickly and leave.
A different security guy strolled towards me from across the dance floor. Apparently, he didn’t care much for the music either, judging by the earplugs he was wearing.
“We do business with most of our dealers and tough guys by the bar.” He shouted over the music. “But The Sergeant wants to take this meeting in his office. UPSTAIRS. Follow me.”
Maybe The Sergeant didn’t care for his own music? As I followed his security guy back across the sparsely populated dance floor, some teenage punk rushed towards me. His movements were erratic, herky-jerky. He was probably high on a few things that weren’t mixing well with the violent music. Maybe he wanted to do that “mosh pit” dancing I’d heard about? The kind where strangers slam into each other for fun? Either way, I couldn’t be bothered to deal with idiots at the time. I sidestepped his charge and held out my foot eeeever so slightly, to give him a little trip.
The poor kid bought it hook, line, and sinker—with a loud THUNK—face-planted onto the hard floor. As the security guy turned around to see what had happened, I expected him to get angry. Instead, he just laughed. Apparently, he wasn’t a fan of the clientele here either. We kept walking. The kid got to his knees, groggily nursing a bloody nose. Everyone else on the floor kept dancing as if nothing had happened.
We reached a small door to the left of the stage. He opened it, revealing a narrow, wooden staircase leading upstairs. He motioned for me to continue up… without him. As I walked past the guy and through the doorway, he smiled.
“Play nice,” he said. Then he slammed the door behind me.
The sound of the music dulled. The stairway seemed quiet, except for the gentle hum of an iridescent light bulb. Sergeant Reaver was waiting for me upstairs.
“You bet,” I said to no one in particular. Then I kept walking.
As I ascended the stairway, each step creaked loudly underneath my feet. The guy at the front door said this facility had a dozen armed security staff. Only one guy was watching the club downstairs. Did that mean the other eleven were all guarding Sergeant Reaver? That could be troublesome.
Of course, he could've just been lying.
I reached a doorway at the top of the stairs. Another security guy opened it, this one carrying a semi-automatic rifle and sporting some kind of cybernetic enhancement that turned his teeth into a stainless steel buzz-saw. He gave me a grunt and stepped aside, revealing a studio loft behind him.
The apartment had a different vibe than the club downstairs. It was more practical and lived in. There were couches, a TV playing the local sports channel, and a table covered with half-empty dishes of Chinese take-out. It had all the hallmarks of a gangster den. The place hadn’t been cleaned in a while, a corner had been stacked with plastic bags of white powder, and whoever set up the furniture had obviously thought about using it for cover in case they got raided.
“That white stuff in the bags over there is called ThunderCore.” A voice boomed from a dark corner of the room. It sounded unnaturally deep, like a lion had learned to use its vocal cords to mimic human speech. “There’s a chair right next to it. Why don’t you take a seat?”
I walked over to it, scanning the room as I went. Six armed guards were pointing their guns at me, their eyes daring me to do something stupid so they’d have an excuse to shoot. There was that one guy standing by the door I’d come in through, a rifleman standing on a balcony above me, some dude sitting on the couch, and two more armed gunmen by that dark corner where the deep voice had come from.
I also spotted one last gang member at the table, bent over all the scattered plates of Chinese take-out. He was lazily pointing his gun in my general direction while eating his dinner.
Six guards. Not a walk in the park by any means… but manageable. Less than a dozen, so at least the guy in front had been lying.
I sat down in the chair next to the drugs.
“So… Tony Fats wants to stop the little territory dispute we’ve been having, eh?” Bellowed the voice in the dark corner. At this point, I assumed it belonged to Sergeant Reaver. The guy evidently had a taste for theatrics. “I don’t blame him. Our crews ran into each other last week, looking to take collection money from the same pawn shop. I don’t know if he told you this, but the resulting shootout killed three of his guys. Two of them were blasted through the heart and died quickly. The third one, I killed myself, slowly… Cleaved him in half at the waist with my knife. His guts spilled out onto the floor. Heh. Ya know, before that one died, he was desperately trying to shove them all back inside himself again.”
I tried my best to get a good look at him, but that corner of the room was too dark. All I could make out was the black outline of an oversized piece of furniture. Did he have a jacuzzi over there? Or maybe some car he was working on?
“Still…” He continued, “we lost one of those guys in that encounter too. He caught a bullet in the side and bled out. So I’m not above playing nice if Tony Fats plays ball. When I first came to this god-forsaken town. The first thing I did was kill the leader of this nightclub to take it over. George, that guy over there eating the pork lo mein….”
The guy holding the handgun while eating Chinese food waved at me nonchalantly.
“…He was the number two here at the time. He didn’t want any trouble, so he got in line and started taking my orders instead. The rest of his crew did the same after that, and we’ve been a happy little family ever since.”
That’s when the large piece of oversized furniture in the corner began to move. Slowly, it stood upright to a height of about 9 or 10 feet. Then the thing stepped into the light, towards me.
Sergeant Reaver was not only tall but also profoundly muscled. Like, some bodybuilder on a strict diet of raw meat and steroids muscled. His arms, shoulders, and chest looked like cancerous masses of corded steel. The proportions of his bone structure were also abhorrent. His legs were jacked but stubby, so he used his knuckles to support his weight as he walked like a gorilla. His face was covered in a beard of wiry, grey hair, and it looked like his eyes were too small for his head. Upon his back, he’d holstered a gun that looked like a dual-function automatic machine gun / bazooka. At his side, he carried a butcher knife that ordinary people would need two hands to lift. Atop his head, he wore an antique military helmet that had the insignia of the Los Angeles military police force.
He grinned, and I saw a row of crooked, yellow teeth. “I used to live out in the heart of The Badlands. There are monsters out there, sure. But it’s also home to people who live by their own code of honor. Tribes of nomads who hold duels to the death… using only their blades to see who’s the strongest amongst them. When a victor emerges, and his opponents are dead, the survivors fall in line behind ‘em. No questions asked. Then they raid, pillage, and destroy together as a family, like nothing ever happened.”
As I watched the video footage alongside Mr. Rollins, I remembered the feeling of horror that swept over me in that instant. I hadn’t known that Sergeant Reaver was one of these things.
After civilization in Los Angeles collapsed back in the 2060s… after a military dictatorship built it back up again, that government started experimenting with genetics to create a super-soldier program.
What came out of it were people like Sergeant Reaver. Big, monstrous killing machines. But they had problems. To one degree or another, they were all prone to disease, distorted anatomy, and unpredictable gene mutations. The L.A. scientists had decided to skip animal testing, so unpredictable problems had popped up pretty early during their human trials.
They were also smart but still needed about a decade or so of fast-tracked education until they became fully functional adults. The problem was that they also had to first be “born” from vats as physically full-formed adults (even though they were technically children at the time). Couple that with the fact that they already had shorter life spans due to their increased size. It meant they didn’t live that long compared to normal people like you or me.
When the Los Angeles Military Dictatorship had been established for a couple decades and wanted to engage in trade with other, more democratic civilizations, they had to ditch that project and only employ “normal” soldiers. Ya know… people armed with steroids and cybernetics. They weren’t happy about it, of course. So they decided to make whatever prototype soldiers they’d already created roam free outside their City Walls. The things promptly scattered into the darker corners in the earth to become gangsters, mercenaries, and (for a lucky few) security for private corporations. Some of them went into The Badlands. Most of them died by getting into too many firefights. It was extremely rare to find one alive these days.
But here he was.
Sergeant Reaver sat down on the floor in front of me. Even though I was in a chair, his beady eyes were still looking down on me.
“So I guess what I’m saying is….” He rubbed his chin. His massive thumb running through that beard sounded like somebody violently massaging an industrial-sized wire brush. “…is that if Tony Fats is willing to recognize that I’m stronger, that if he realized that the best thing he can do for himself is to follow my orders because I’m stronger… then I’d be willing to act like those tribes. We can raid, pillage, and destroy together as a family… like nothing ever happened.”
I had a couple options in this situation.
I could tell the crazy monster in front of me that he was right. I could lie and say that Tony Fats realized that going to war with a mob run by a genetically engineered super-soldier was probably a bad idea. I could say that the small-time gangster Tony Fats (who had told me this job was going to be easy, by the way) was ready to get in line and worship whatever ground Sergeant Reaver walked on. I could then leave, get on my motorcycle parked in an alleyway around the corner, and drive out of this god-forsaken town. Then I could find an easier job than this.
Or I could do what I came there to do. Kill Sergeant Reaver, get out, and get paid.
Most people in my business would pick the first option, and I don’t think there’d be any shame in it. But I was showing the GoPro footage of this to Mr. Rollins in order to get a pay bump… so you can probably guess which one I went with.
I needed to assess my surroundings and decide how I wanted to go about it.
Sergeant Reaver kept talking. Something about bringing in Tony’s crew, having them demonstrate their loyalty, and what percent of the take he wanted from all activity in their territory. He also wanted them to buy a car he could fit in, money for his own personal cybernetic surgeon, yada yada yada. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was talking, which gave me the chance to think of something.
The first thing to consider was my position in the room. I was trapped in a corner, which was bad. But (technically), I was behind cover. Sergeant Reaver was such a massive figure in front of me that he was making it impossible for any of the gunmen in the room to line up a clean shot. So that was good.
Secondly, I had to plan my escape. Going out through the door I’d come in from wouldn’t work. I’d have to run all the way back across the room, taking fire from all six gunmen as I went. If I wasn’t Swiss cheese by the time I’d gotten over there, then I’d still have to go down the stairs and through the nightclub before leaving out the front entrance. I’d probably be chased to where my motorcycle was parked in an alleyway around the corner. That whole plan left me too vulnerable for too long. Not to mention the gunman on the balcony above me… he seemed to be near a window overlooking that front entrance I’d come through. So he’d probably take a couple potshots at me when I left the building as well.
And that’s when I had an idea.
“Sergeant Reaver, sir.” I piped in. “You said this drug was called ThunderCore?”
“Yesss…” Sergeant Reaver said. The tone of his voice sounded like truck tires hissing to a sudden stop on a gravel road. “I don’t like being interrupted. Why do you ask?”
“I grew up on the streets of Los Angeles. We had a drug there with the same name. It was a white powder that soldiers carried around. Igniting a small handful of it would create a non-lethal explosion accompanied by a deafening sonic boom. It was great for dispersing unruly crowds of people, but snorting it could also get you high. That’s what all my friends used it for, naturally. I’m curious… is this the same stuff?”
Sergeant Reaver’s tiny eyes grew a little wider in surprise. “Yes. Yes! It is the same ThunderCore you speak of. How shrewd of you to notice.”
That’s all I needed to know. In one quick motion, I pressed the button on my left arm, the door to its secret compartment opened with a small click. As I removed the pistol hidden inside, I couldn’t resist making a joke. “I like the sound of that.”
It was clear that nobody in the room had expected me to do this. The six guards had relaxed somewhat when Sergeant Reaver had sat down in front of me. Maybe they’d never thought I’d try something this stupid. Now, they were desperately raising their guns to try and get me in their crosshairs again. Their line of sight was blocked (of course) by Sergeant Reaver. His eyes were growing wider still as he balled his hands into fists, his face contorting into unbridled fury as he lunged forward to charge. I remember thinking that somebody that big shouldn’t be able to move as fast as he did.
None of them were fast enough. There was enough ThunderCore piled up next to me that I didn’t even need to glance sideways when I aimed. I fired my gun into the bags and bags of white powder before flinging myself off my chair in the opposite direction, clamping my hands over my ears as tightly as I could.
I had my eyes closed when the explosion occurred, but the GoPro footage showed Sergeant Reaver’s gnarled teeth were centimeters from my face at the time. I remember his breath smelled like cheap, rotting hamburgers.
When I describe the ThunderCore’s explosion as “non-lethal,” that’s really a matter of perspective. A flashbang’s explosion is considered non-lethal too… but it will still blow off your fingers if you clutch it in a fist. What I really mean by that is how it creates a sound that’s especially loud when you consider how small its blast radius is in comparison. When deployed by the military in Los Angeles, a bag of it creates an explosion the size of a firecracker but booms with a sound akin to a jumbo jet passing by right next to you.
A pile of bags exploding at once… the effect is much more dramatic.
Ears covered, eyes closed, and I still felt it. The explosion was big enough to launch me halfway across the room, slamming me into a nearby wall. It was also still hot enough to singe the hair off my eyebrows.
That sound, though. That sound was something else. It was the kind of sound that you just don’t feel in your ears. The sort of booming volume that you can only experience by standing next to a giant speaker with the bass on full blast. It reminded me of shooting a 50 caliber bullet and how the resulting bang made the water in my blood vessels quiver. Just watching the footage again, I remembered how my bones were ringing like a tuning fork for hours.
The explosion also damaged my recording device a little. The video quality lowered in resolution to adjust for the damage to its circuitry. Its microphone also took damage, unsurprisingly. The audio was fading in and out, coming through garbled.
But the resulting chaos the explosion had caused was unmistakable.
All of the gunmen in the room had been knocked off their feet. They hadn't taken proper precautions like me, so the noise had upset the equilibrium in their inner ears and given them vertigo. They probably only used the stuff to sell or get high, so I imagine this was a new experience for them.
Sergeant Reaver was trying to get up, swinging his cleaver around while his face contorted into a feral rage that still gives me chills. He was deaf and disoriented, but he was still trying to force himself to his knees and go down fighting.
This was the best chance I was going to get. If you get pepper-sprayed or tasered enough times, you can learn how to operate effectively enough because you get used to the experience. Growing up in L.A., I’d acquired a similar relationship with ThunderCore.
I wobbled myself up to my feet and lurched myself closer to Sergeant Reaver. He was seeing double from vertigo and couldn’t tell exactly where I was just yet. The wild strikes of his cleaver were powerful enough to cut me in half, but they were also erratic and going nowhere in particular.
I waited for one of those sloppy swings to move his cleaver a comfortable distance away from me. Then I walked through his striking zone, pressed my gun up into his gut, aimed the shot so it would go up through his ribcage, and fired directly into his heart…
Then I fired my gun four more times for good measure.
By the time Sergeant Reaver had wheezed and died in front of me, I already had my escape planned. The guards were still down but starting to get up. Some of them even seemed to be orienting themselves enough to grab their guns.
I started running as fast as I could under the circumstances towards the balcony. The guard up there saw me coming and did his best to line up his rifle for a shot.
He fired a round-off. However, by the time he did, I’d already used the propulsion pads in my heels to launch myself 12 feet into the air towards him. As I hit the balcony, I slammed my elbow into his neck. It made a satisfying crunching noise, and he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. I grabbed his rifle for good measure, looked at all the other guards aiming at me…
…So I ran towards the window above the nightclub's main entrance, covered my face with my arms, and jumped through the glass.
Coming out the other side, I was about two or three stories off the ground. I thought I’d have to dust off some of my old parkour classes and roll with the fall. Luckily, fate had something better planned for me. I landed directly on top of the same bouncer who’d patted me down on the way in.
When he broke my fall and collapsed onto the ground with me on top of him, the camera’s audio returned just in time to catch the sound of several of his bones cracking from the impact. I just couldn’t resist the urge to tell a joke. It was the second time that night.
“Sorry,” I said, standing up. “I didn’t play nice.”
He just groaned at me, wide-eyed. Then he reached for his gun.
I pulled out the rifle I’d stolen upstairs and unloaded a round into the guy’s head.
Then I was dashing off, running madly to the alleyway where I’d hidden the motorcycle earlier. The footage cuts off just as I mounted the bike, revved my engine, and sped off.
Chapter 4
“Well, fuck me.” Mr. Rollins said while grinning ear to ear. “You win. 40,000 credits it is. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that you get what you pay for.”
“Happy to hear it, sir.” I closed my datapad, grabbed my cup of coffee, and drained what was left of it. By now, it had gotten cold. But the sudden jolt of caffeine felt amazing.
My Rollins didn’t finish his. Instead, he took a quick look at his Swiss wristwatch. His Cheshire grin suddenly turned into a perfunctory frown as he turned to me and said, “Mr. Edge, it’s been a lot of fun and I look forward to working with you. But our interview has gone into overtime. If I’m to get a truck and a crew together in the next two weeks, I really have to hold myself to some hard deadlines. So…”
“Say no more, boss.” I set the coffee cup down. “I’ll see myself out.”
He did the same. “I’ll walk you to the elevator at least. You probably remember where it is but company policy. You get it.”
“Sure.”
And that was that it seemed. If the guy was true to his word and could hire a good mechanic, a good truck, and some more guns in two weeks, we were in business for a cargo trip across The Badlands. A trip through hell itself, planned over coffee in a corporate board room.
We reached the elevator, and Mr. Rollins pressed a button to bring it up to our floor. “Just pick up your tools from security on the way out. Once I have all the resources we need, I’ll reach out and let you know where we’re going to meet next. Like I said, that’ll be in two weeks. Enjoy yourself until then. I imagine we’ll all be dealing with some pretty intense working conditions after we hit the road.”
“Sure thing. Again, nice to meet you.” The elevator car arrived with the sound of a polite ding. I shook his hand again before turning to step inside.
When I pushed the button for the ground floor, I realized the implication of what he’d just said.
“Mr. Rollins… You just said, ‘after we hit the road.’ Do you intend to come on this trip as well?”
He grinned politely. “Of course! It’s my product you’re transporting, after all. To ensure the protection of my bottom line, I’ll be on-site for this job to make sure it arrives to the customer successfully.”
Before I had a chance to object, the elevator door began to close. Before they shut completely, he waved goodbye.
“See you soon!” He hollered. Then the lift headed back down towards the lobby.
Sergeant Reaver, a bio-engineered super soldier I killed a decade ago, is somehow still breathing. Not only that, but he’s brought all the crime syndicates in Los Angeles under his banner. Now that he knows I’m on his turf, it’s me against an army all the way to New Tijuana.
Good thing I packed plenty of ammo.
Author Bio:
Ian Rollins Price was born in New York, growing up there before moving to Massachusetts in order to attend Harvard University’s prestigious weekend bartending course. He’s glad to have written a novel during the COVID-19 pandemic. He looks forward to his next project, raising a newborn daughter alongside his wonderful wife.
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