Front Line Defense Force

The sirens blared through the night and neon sky of the Granite City.  Late night shopper ran from the approaching horde, dodging into the safety of the nearest shop.  They would watch it all unfold in front of them whilst being link sold products they did not want or need.  This was the way it was.  This was the way it will ever be.

The soldiers arrived, clad in the military standard electric blue with neon orange, red and green accents.  Lining up in their regimented rows they faced down Union Street towards the enemy, their colour changing capes fluttering in the wind.  Commanders walked among them barking out orders, telling them to remember their training, to put their trust in the commander and in one particular case, showing a new recruit how to wear a headband properly.

Somewhere, possibly nearer than anyone realised, a room lit up red.  A solitary figure walked into the centre of the room and clicked their fingers.  A deep bass beat thrummed from below as solid light consoles appeared all around them, encasing them in technology.  Their fingers started pressing buttons, sliding sliders and spinning discs.  This was a well practiced and well choreographed procedure.  The bass beat was joined by a hi hat, keeping time with the fast fingers of the figure and then a wall of synthesisers rounded out the soundtrack.  The red room glowed and faded in unison with the music.  A large triangle button glowed luminescent green in front of the figure.  They were ready.

Two soldiers on the front line looked at each other.  This was not the first mission that they had taken part in but each time could be their last.

“Here we go again.” said the older of the two.

“See you on the other side.” replied the other.

If you had been looking from an angle that would have been considered dynamic, you would have seen that one after another, each soldier would place headphones over their ears, say the words “I consent” and their gaze go glassy.  It would have looked incredibly cool…If you had been at that specific angle of course.

The figure in the red room watched the monitors.  The enemy was getting closer.  Beasts of another dimension, hell bent on creating chaos and confusion.  Not today…they thought as they slowly reached for the green triangle.  Finally they spoke into the nearby microphone.

“This is DJ L.O.D,” then a pause for dramatic effect before adding, “Lets Play.”

The triangle was pressed.

The music surged into the night.



Dream of me

She had been staring at me for just long enough for it to have become uncomfortable.  I had tried to ignore her at first but every time I glanced, she was there.  Her eyes shining in the sunlight streaming into the train carriage.   Eventually she smiled and instinctively I smiled back.  This seemed to be a sign and she moved further up the cramped carriage, towards me.

“I dreamt of you last night”.

Where do you go with that opening line?  I smiled again and quickly looked out the window.  The reflections showed her moving away, so I turned back.

The reflections lied.

“I know it sounds weird.  Yet I dreamt of you last night and I have no idea why?”

“Well that’s dreams for you”.  She smiled and we stood in silence for a while, however the business of the train meant that she was way too close to me while we tried to ignore each other.

“We knew each other,” she whispered, not looking at me, “In the dream I mean.”

I thought about moving further down the carriage towards the doors but before I could, she had moved away.  Breathing a sigh of relief, I waited out the rest of the journey.

Later that day, whilst at work, I reached into my pocket for change and found a small slip of paper.  Written in lipstick was the words

“Dream of me”

To be honest, I have had stranger mornings.

That night, when sleep eventually started to claim me, I found myself thinking of her.  I could not remember her hair style or colour.  Not what she was wearing, nor what her face looked like.  Her eyes though, there was no way I could have forgotten them.  Burned into my memory, still shining in the daylight.

In that nights dream, I found myself standing at the mouth to a cave.  I could not recognise where I was, only that there was a lot of shadows outside.  On the horizon I could see a bright white light creeping closer.  This filled me with terror.  I could hear people behind me, inside the cave.  There was a sense of pain and fear in the air.  We were all scared by the coming light.  A great crackling fire lit the interior of the cave and I could see men in suits standing around it.  Their discussions were animated according to their movement but their words were lost in the general noise.

A voice at my side whispered.

“At least we tried.”

I tried to see who it was but the light was almost upon us.  I could only make out the eyes.  Bright and shining in the coming light but full of resignation.  Tears were forming and slowly dripping down the face.  I smiled at the person and looked back at the oncoming brightness.  It was as if there was nothing behind the light.  It was not sunlight, more an encroaching wall that seemed to bleach out anything it passed.  All I could see was white.

Reaching for the persons hand, I gripped it tight.  It was warm and soft and some of my fear dissipated just with that human contact.

When I spoke, my voice did not waver.

“Don’t cry.  We will remember.  Just say goodbye”

Then the light hit us.


In the mists of memory

I was just a child when the world almost ended.  My recall of the events is fuzzy to say the least.  As the years pass, I find my memory wandering even more and I am not sure of what was real anymore.  So I am writing this down, somewhere private and hidden, so that if I start to forget, I can remind myself of how things are and of how they used to be.

In the early days, my parents had joined the streams of people heading south to the capital.  It was safe there, we had been told.  I remember very little of the journey other than a hunger that was never satisfied.  We ate at night, whatever we had carried with us, all the while surrounded by large groups of people for safety.  In the morning, some of those people were no longer there and we knew they had been taken.  My father told me that we should always be grateful that it happened to someone else and not us.  My mother stayed silent but I knew that she was horrified.

Arriving at the gates to the capital, the newly erected walls stretched to the sky, sealing the people off from the horror outside.  Days we queued to get inside.  Each and every person was checked for signs of infection before they were allowed inside.  Always a small group at a time, as if there was no rush.  I saw people go mad in that queue.  Fighting for scraps of food or position.  My father kept us safe though, his build giving the impression that he could handle himself.  Luckily nobody tested that theory.

Inside the city was in stark contrast to outside.  There was light everywhere, glinting off the shiny buildings and making everything feel familiar and safe.  I waited for my parents to get through the checkpoint, sitting in a waiting area with other children.  Friendships were made and lost as eventually we were re-united one by one with our families. I was one of the lucky ones, my parents got in.

Then we were allocated living quarters in the newly constructed part of the city.  My mother kept saying that the government must have known the disaster was coming.  How else would they have had all this ready, she whispered to my father.  The wall, the houses and the screening.  He just told her to accept it.  This was not the time for questions.  Conditions were basic but this was surely temporary.

It wasn’t.

As the years passed, I was moved to a more child friendly part of the city.  My parents were sad but strangely I felt excitement.  This was an adventure of the kind I used to read about while my parents went out to work.  I boarded the train, telling them that I would return soon with tales of my travels.  I waved once and then did not look back as the train pulled away.

I never saw them again.

My daily routine was established back then.  Rise from my bunk, eat the allocated food in a canteen with others of my age while the large Television showed what life was like outside the walls.  Packs of mutated beings, scavenging for scraps.  Killing any and everything they came across.  Occasionally our army would rescue survivors and we got to watch the whole operation live as we ate.

It never occurred to me then that the camera placement was a little bit too convenient.  You don’t.  It is far easier to believe what you see and hear.  The plague had made the rest of the country a wasteland and we were safe here.  Conditions were harsh in the city but the alternative was worse.

Of course I know different now.

Routine goes on and on

The pills keep the world in black and white. That is what they were designed to do and they are really good at their job.

For most people anyway.

However, there are times when the colours slip through for a moment and I can see the world the way it is supposed to be. There is clarity and beauty and it makes me remember.

This is not allowed anymore and so I do not mention it to anyone.

The same goes for the people in the glass. They are still there, staring at us, judging us. Every time I take the train, I can see them. Everyone must be able to but nobody talks about them either. It is easier that way.

I get up each morning at the allotted time. Prepare for the day ahead and take my pill. Years of taking them has made me almost immune to the nausea now. I go and stand with the other commuters and wait for a train that is never on time but is also never late. It can’t be late because that would indicate that things are not working properly. That just does not happen anymore.

Inevitably I end up standing as the train trundles towards the job sector, seats already full by the time I get on. Everyone looks down, either at their phones or the daily newspaper. I mostly do the same but I cannot help myself at times and I have to check. My eyes flick towards the windows and I wait for the light outside to show them to me. Exact duplicates of the people on the train but in colour and angry. So, so angry.

Others must see them too but it only takes a suspicion and you are taken away for therapy. Those that do come back are never the same. See that happen enough times and you quickly learn to shut yourself off from the world. Give the impression that you are in your own little world. They never check those people. We are quiet, we do not question and we are pliant. That is how you get on today.

I get off with the crowds of people and make my way to my job. The one that was allocated to me and the one that will decide when I am no longer wanted. I wonder if the glass people are still there, trapped in the train windows or if they are walking along beside us. Still watching, still judging.

Still angry.

Confessions of an IT fixer

“My husband says that we have been infected by one of those Russian virus things.”

Svetlanas rough accent cut through the silence that hung as we watched her computer screen fill up with porn pop ups.  We both knew she was lying but I am a professional.  I was not even going to ask her if her name was really Svetlana.  There are not many Aberdonians with such exotic sounding names and of those that exist, I am pretty sure that she was not one of them.

“He spends so much time on this bloody thing, checking football results and international politics, that I sometimes thing he should have married it.”  Her laugh sounded nervous.

I smiled at her and moved the mouse to start the cleaning process.  She politely asked if I wanted a cup of tea, her eyes glinting in that strange middle aged way.

So I set about dithering in ham (technical term) and realigning the TDS Flange (Old School Technical term), she busied herself in the kitchen.  It was a normal day for a freelance IT fixer.

Or at least that was how it started out.

“Ooh how clumsy,” her broken glass words brought me out of the Working focus I was in.  Looking up her white half cotton, half something else blouse was now soaking and see through.  “I somehow managed to spill all this warm soapy water all over myself,” she added.

Gallantly I stood up and went to her assistance, much like the knights of old did.  As I helped her unbutton her garment I became aware that she was not wearing any underwear, which struck me as strange as her house was not particularly warm.

At this point dear reader, I must admit that I am a man and as such, there are things that I have almost no control over.

(Although I have more control over these than most)

“So any chance of that cup of tea?”  Her sighs of delight filled the room.

Later as I licked the cream off of my fingers, I felt I had to compliment Svetlana on her excellent choice of cake.  Not Marksies sadly but it was tasty nonetheless.  I made a mental note to check the box before I left.

Svetlana sat in front of her now working computer, her face a strange mixture of relief and confusion.  I could see by the tears forming in her eyes, that I had got her out of a jam.  Part of the job is what I would have told her.  Had she asked.

“So that is everything working for you now.  I would tell your husband that the Russians wont be attacking him again.”  I started packing my bag and folded the payment she had left me, into my high quality leather wallet.  As I turned to go, she spoke a phrase that would change my life forever.

“So do you fancy a shag?”

I paused and looked at my very exclusive and not cheap watch.  I charged by the hour and she had at least 20 minutes of my time that she had already paid for.

“Yeah Alright.”

That was my first mistake.

The stupidity of idiots

It wasn’t the fact that he was browsing a website of brown, slip on boat shoes at 8.30 in the morning.

It was not even the way he looked at his watch with such a flourish of noise and movement, purely because he wanted people to see what brand was on his wrist.

Nor the fact that he had dressed himself in clothes that had come straight from the pages of whatever style magazine he had been told he should read. Sitting with his legs crossed, all the time looking to see who was looking at him.

No, none of those reasons was why I hated him.

It was the casual way he finished his takeaway coffee and dropped it on the floor of the train carraige for someone else to clean away that did that.

The moment has been prepared for

“It’s Time.”

I turned from the screen and looked at the speaker.  A man, much like myself, but far more mysterious looking. He was stood in the shadows but I could still see the white light that flared off of his body.

Looking back to my screen, I realise that I will never finish this.  Halfheartedly I ask for more time but I know that will not happen.

There was so much I wanted to do.  So many places I wanted to go.  Yet time, for all its man made construction, just ran out for me.

Smiling, I look at the text on the screen and the unfinished sentence that will be my last act.  My finger hovers over the full stop key.

“You have to go,” he speaks again, “You have to join the others.”

Sighing, I remove my hand from the keyboard and stand up.  Let what is on screen be my legacy.  The man approaches me and surrounds me in his brilliant White light.

As my consciousness merges with the others, I can already hear the clicking of the keys as someone else starts to type.  All is as it should be.

It feels warm.

It feels like home.