Epilogue To Suburbia



  EPILOGUE TO SUBURBIA

  by

  Jon Collins

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Epilogue to Suburbia

  Copyright © 2010 by Jon Collins

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  EPILOGUE TO SUBURBIA

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  They wear the suits. It would be stupid not to, whatever the boffins might say; the techs have been wrong before and the plans offer little scope for error. They don each item of the layered costume following an unspoken routine, checking the seams and smoothing the seals before moving on to the next. Finally they check each other, working through the same, subconscious tick list. It is so like the dry runs, the training exercises: they must have repeated each step hundreds, if not thousands of times. This would be just another test drive… but for one, unique factor.

  The smell.

  The smell is all around them. It is the smell of disuse, of things long since rotted, of dust settled years ago, of the remnants of pollution left by decades of rain. It is the smell of past death, of where fear used to be, and it permeates even into the sterile, filtered environment of the converted MPV. The smell gets under the skin and into the bones, causing them to shudder involuntarily as they complete the equipment checks. Silence follows: on exercise there would be a remark, a gesture, a grunt to say everything is in order, but here there is nothing. The cloying atmosphere allows for nothing: even breathing feels like an indulgence.

  It is time. They reach for their helmets and put them on, raising their arms over their heads as they do so, like lunar explorers. Microphones activate as the helmets lock into position, filling the ears of each person with the sudden noise of breathing, shockingly loud in the stillness. Involuntarily they look at one another, a slight widening of eyes and pause of breath being replaced almost immediately by the shared fragment of a smile. Exhalations follow, tinged with relief.

  “Shit.” A’s shoulders, a moment ago tense, sag slightly. Her voice is metallic and echoey, both clear and distant due to the dual-transmission headsets, communicating locally and via a longer range backup. “Nervous?”

  “Aye.” B nods, the movement barely perceptible though the heavy suit.

  “You ready?”

  “Guess. You?”

  “Course.” This is A’s show. Born ready, she thinks.

  They shuffle towards the side doors, past racks of redundant weaponry: so they have been informed, there is nothing alive to pose a threat. As navigator, B picks up the black box, a squat briefcase with a single appendage that looks like a sound recorder, or a Geiger counter: it is both, and more. Following a final series of checks, A presses a button next to the door and the cabin air mixes slowly with that of outside. This precaution is unnecessary, but unavoidable: the MPV is well outside any quarantine boundary, but it is pre-programmed to operate this way. Above the door, a light glows an unerring red. Watching it is like waiting for someone to die: the hiss of air gradually drops in volume, until both are straining to hear the quietest of sounds, scarcely detectable under the noise of their own, steady breathing. And then, a click. The light switches off.

  A momentary pause, fractionally hesitant, speaks volumes. In twenty years, nobody has passed through the portal, and nobody has the first idea what might lie the other side. Who wouldn’t be apprehensive, thinks A to herself. It was a coup to get the job, she knows, even if she did get lumbered with laughing girl here. She reaches towards the handle, closing her fingers around it before pulling backwards and to the left. The door does the rest, sliding open even as a set of steps in pre-drilled aluminium emerge from under the chassis. The clanking and rolling subsides, and all is still again.

  “Shall we?” B motions forwards with her hand, out of confirmation rather than respect.

  “Yeah. Control, you there?” A’s tone cannot hide her exasperation.

  “Alive and kicking.” Brooke’s voice is distant, crackling. “Where did you think I’d be?”

  They move down the steps, alighting on a layer of dried mud over tarmac and looking around them, glad of the broad visibility offered by the helmets. Once, this had been a high street, the main thoroughfare of a market town. The MPV is parked in the centre of the road, tracks stretching away behind it like the first footprints in virgin snow. The control centre is established half a mile back and well inside the clear zone, it is a standard model used for health scares and public order management. Meanwhile, in front of them there is nothing but decay. The sides of the dead end are lined with makeshift barriers of corrugated metal, concrete and old doors, the occasional fragment of brickwork betraying that these were buildings, once. Each side is coated with graffiti, lewd remarks (“we want to fuck your children”) side by side with the dare game trophies of death-cheating youths: “I got here,” “Mick rools!” and the unnervingly incomplete “Aberystwy…”

  Purposefully yet uncomfortably (there is no easy way to move in the protective suits), they walk down the street. In some places the walls are no more than ten feet tall; in others, they reach a couple of storeys, complete with window frames that give a clear view of the sky. It is like walking through a ghost town: no dogs bark, and the birds learned long ago there was nothing to gain by filling this place with song. The only sounds are their own, each footfall crunching an echo that is amplified out of proportion by the oversensitive body mikes. Step by step they move closer to the archway, which looms ahead of them like a temple. Several decades ago and long before the Secession, this structure marked the entrance to a shopping centre: pedestrianised and gleaming, it had been a small-town cathedral to the religion of the time. Walker’s Gate it was called, in honour of some long dead dignitary. Today, a combination of tarnished and spray painted characters reveal its rebranded identity:

  WAnKeRS GaT

  To the officials it’s labelled the North Portal, but Wankers’ Gate is the name everybody knows. The name change came early on, with news pictures delighting in its shock value. The name is now the stuff of anecdote and the occasional cautionary remark. “Like the devil out of Wankers’,” says A, who has been around long enough to know both meanings. And a few more things besides, she thinks, remembering the last time she walked this route. All will unfold, says a voice in her mind. Yeah, right.

  The orange-clad pair have little time for the history. They know they have a job to do, but they don’t really care about that either. There’s no point, caring: care has been temporarily shelved, and will only regain its status once – indeed if – they find themselves back on this street, walking the other way, job done. The risks are low, say the science techs. So, thinks A, why are they relying on a specialist unit to check out the place? Just your average, low risk, contaminated wasteland, take a peep and check whether we can bring the kids in. We know why. Nobody else is up for the job, and if we fuck up, nobody need ever know.

  “It’s shit creek, and we’re going right up it,” says A, realising as she speaks that she is talking out loud. Damn, I meant to think that, she chides herself. What’s wrong with me today.

  “Yeah,” agrees B, unperturbed and monosyllabic.

  They trudge on, towards the pillared entrance. Unconsciously they fall into step, matching the footfalls to breathing. Trudge, trudge, trudge, the rhythm is hypnotic. They recede from the vantage point of the MPV, every movement followed by the remote-operated camera mounted on its roof. It feeds pictures to whoever is authorised, as do the dual, independently powered headcams and the various other monitoring devices. “Inspector Gadget, eat your heart out,” as Brooke would say.

  Whatever that means, thinks A. Trudge, trudge.

  The portal looms up and over them as they approach, plaster cracking off its faux-Roman pillars and revealing its true, pre
fabricated self. A pair of reinforced steel doors dominate the dark space between the pillars, at their centre a burnished metal lock with no noticeable way of inserting a key, card or anything else.

  “Control?”

  “Hello A, you took your time.” Brooke is still being jovial.

  Smart-arse, love to see him here. “Just open the fucking door.”

  “Sesame,” he says. Nothing happens. “Oh hang on – there.”

  Click.

  The doors swing open, their hydraulics operating with surprising smoothness despite the two decades that have passed since they were installed. Beyond lies darkness, a broken chair and various smaller items visible in the light from the doorway.

  “See you inside,” says Brooke, a faint tone of hesitation in his voice. “I – er, rather you than me.”

  “Thanks for that.” A’s tone is unforgiving.

  “Shit, sorry. I mean…”

  “Just get off the fucking radio.”

  “Yeah, see you inside.”

  “Whatever.”

  They reach up simultaneously to flick on the helmet-mounted torches, and enter.