Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) (6 page)

The bots worked more cheaply and efficiently than any Outzoner ever could. They were machines that never stopped to complain their work was too tedious or too dangerous, nor were tempted to sneak out some valuable electronic part stuffed inside their work pants or some part of their anatomy.

The closing of the border had been one of the governor’s most satisfying achievements. Several years ago, Haskins’ daughter had been taken hostage in Winter’s Edge. In her own inimitable way, the governor had sent in a CyCOM special ops team to get her back. While she insisted it was nothing personal, people on both sides referred to the closing of the border as “Iron Jane’s Revenge.”

At nine a.m. a loud bleep sounded at the top of the line and a green light flashed above on the wall. A stern-looking female IBP guard ushered the first departee forward after the thick steel door to the Scangate chamber slid open.

At the head of the line, a tall man turned to two women who looked to be his wife and daughter. Both were attractive, with similar sandy blonde hair. The man said something briefly in the older woman’s ear, then picked up his luggage and strode confidently across to the chamber. When he stepped inside, the gate slid closed behind him and the light above turned from green to red. A minute later, the light turned green again, the gate opened once more, and the younger of the two women stepped forward.

Brogan moved up the line, using his foot to slide his backpack ahead of him along the floor. He felt a light tap on his shoulder, and turned around to see a thickset man in his early forties staring fixedly at him.

The man had dark-brown hair, a two-day stubble on his face, and a misshapen nose twisted to one side that Brogan guessed hadn’t seen at least one punch coming. Though quite a few inches shorter than Brogan’s six foot three, he was muscular and tough-looking, with broad shoulders and a thick, powerful neck.

“Say, fellah, you hear the rumor going around here this morning?” the man said to him, a deep frown on his face. “Soon as you step into the Scangate, they got…a…a stunbolt gun or something built into the side of the wall. Same as the ones they use to slaughter cattle. Someone presses a button and
bang!
It knocks the fucking brains right out of your head.”

Brogan stared back at the man incredulously. Could he really believe that?

“There’s folk here saying the State ain’t never going to let us out alive. We know too much,” the stranger explained, maintaining the serious look on his face. Then he shook his head vigorously and broke out into a big grin. “Shit, too many people here with brain-app jitters. They ought to make them straighten out first before letting them go, don’cha think?
Know too much
…what a joke. Only thing I
know
is how the State’s kept me in the dark like a goddamn fool all these years.”

A frown now came over Brogan’s face. “But what they say is true, my friend,” he said. “Though it’s only for those still owing money to the IRS. You know how it is with those bastards. Owe them as much as a dime and they’ll never let you go, not even to the Outzone.”

The man’s brow furrowed even further a moment, then he erupted into a huge laugh that emanated from deep within his belly. “I hear you, brother. Oh man, that’s funny.” Still chuckling, he said, “Seriously though, you know what the procedure is when we go through here? So much horseshit flying around, it’s hard to know what to believe.”

“They got another waiting area on the far side of the Scangate,” Brogan told him. “A bus will swing by and take us to Winter’s Edge, though I hear the fare’s kinda pricey.”

“Really?” The man screwed up his face. “It’s not that far to the city, maybe I’ll walk it. I don’t want to waste a bunch of dough on a bus ride.”

Brogan shook his head. “Don’t risk it,” he said. “Your chances of making it on foot are slim to none.”

The man gave him a questioning look.

“There’s bandits roaming out there,” Brogan explained. “They’ll take everything you got. Strip you right down to your underwear. If you’re wearing Calvin Kline, kiss them goodbye too.”

“Well, no point on taking a chance on getting rolled, even if I don’t got no CK jocks,” the man said, looking disappointed. He looked at Brogan curiously. “You sound like a guy who knows what he’s talking about.”

“A guy I trust told me the score. Told me sometimes even the bus gets held up, so keep your weapons close by. You’re bringing a gun, right?”

“Hell yes!” the man exclaimed. “What kind of crazy person goes to the Outzone without one?”

Brogan studied the man carefully. From his demeanor, and the cheap practical clothes he wore, he appeared like a typical Strata-Oner. From his earlier comment, it seemed like the promise of living the “New American Dream” had long since soured on him.

“So I hear these days, Winter’s Edge is not as rough as it used to be. It’s outside the city that’s bad,” the man continued. “You hear that too?”

“The city’s been cleaned up some, especially the Barrio T, but it’s still the wild west in there,” Brogan replied. “There’s plenty of people like those two across the way looking to clean you out, so you’ll need to watch it.”

Brogan pointed across the hall to where four men sat at a steel table outside one of the IBP offices. Two were uniformed officers. The other two were in civilian clothing, both in their early twenties. They had pale faces and closely cropped hair.

The man stared over at them. “IBP guards, so what?”

“Look closer. Check out their hands.”

The man peered across the hall again. “Shit, I see what you mean.”

The right wrist of each young man was manacled to a guard’s hand. Instead of serving out their prison sentences, the two convicts were in the process of being transported to the Outzone, part of a social cleansing program the State had recently introduced. A convenient way of getting rid of unwanted citizens.

“Why put a stunbolt into someone’s head when it’s as easy to send them to the Outzone, right?” Brogan said. “No mess to clean up either.”

The two had been shuffling along the line as they talked. Now Brogan had reached the bright yellow strip at the top. The IBP lady motioned over to him. It was his turn to pass through the Scangate.

“See you on the other side,” he said to his newfound friend. He picked up his pack and strode over to the thick blast-resistant nanosteel chamber.

Once he’d stepped inside, the pneumatically-operated gate closed silently behind him. A set of flashing yellow arrows appeared on the dull metal floor and guided him into the middle of the room, where a sign requested for him to return his CRO identity card into a waist-high reader by his side.

He slotted the card in. As it disappeared into the machine, a biometric scanner lowered quickly from the ceiling. Brogan stared straight ahead at a flashing green sign on its display screen that said
Look Here
.

A single loud beep sounded, and a new set of arrows appeared on the floor in front of him. They took him to an exit gate at the far side of the chamber, which had begun to slide open.

It took him into a second chamber, where he was instructed to place his luggage into a rectangular-shaped Qylatron box scanner. The lid to the device closed over and he could hear a low hum as its multi-view X-Ray, radiation, and chemical sensors scrutinized the contents of his pack.

While the machine’s sophisticated detection engines did their work, the lights to the full-body scanner unit in front of him came on. He stepped into it, stopping when the machine told him to, and after passing through it, picked up his backpack, now processed by the box scanner.

Brogan knew none of these measures were necessary. In its heyday, the Scangate security system processed hundreds of people an hour who filed through in quick procession. The system had been designed to prevent Outzoners from smuggling illicit contraband into New Haven, or stopping some religious nut from blowing himself up outside City Hall, not for handling expatriating citizens of the State, anxious to start up new lives in the Outzone.

John Cole had told Brogan that Governor Haskins had insisted the apparatus remain in place. That anybody would actually
choose
to live in the Outzone was unfathomable to her, and the governor wanted to make sure that those electing to leave the State were made to feel as wanted as a troublesome feral animal being released into the wild.

The arrows next took Brogan to the sidewall of the chamber, where a metal hatch slid open and a brown cardboard package plopped out onto a metal rack below.

The package was narrow and about four foot long. Inside was a HK419 marksman semi-automatic rifle, two nine-millimeter Glock 17 Gen 6 models, a tritium-illuminated 8x day night scope, several magazines clips, and numerous rounds of ammunition.

In the Strata State, citizens had no right to bear arms; that was reserved only for the military and law enforcement officers. Since resigning from New Haven’s Special Reaction Force, Brogan had to go through the same procedure as every other departee to procure his weapons, arranging for them to be delivered to the Scangate terminal for collection.

In front of him, a third and final gate slid across. Slinging his pack across one shoulder, Brogan picked up his gun case and strode toward the daylight.

Scangate Terminal, New Haven-Outzone Border

Stepping out of the Scangate, Brogan felt the chill of a stiff breeze flapping around his coat and quickly buttoned it up. Looking around, he saw he was in a large open yard, partially covered by a corrugated plastic roof. This was the holding area where soon a bus would come to pick up the new arrivals. Once they left the enclosure, the State would relinquish all responsibility for their safety.

At the far side of the yard, a steel gate guarded the entranceway to the Outzone. A thirty-foot watchtower stood next to it, with metal steps that led up to a security cabin at the top. Outside the cabin, leaning over the rail, a guard stared out into the distance.

Brogan took a look around at his fellow Outzoners. A few families sat huddled together on metal benches. Others, loners like himself, stood with their shoulders hunched against the sharp wind that whipped around them. All kept their belongings close by, and the mood was tense. Brogan had the uncomfortable sensation a refugee of old might feel before being shipped off to some distant and unfamiliar destination.

He counted the IBP guards, all armed with semi-automatic M9 carbines. Two nearby underneath the roof; two by the gate wearing raincoats with their hoods up against the rain, plus the one in the tower made five. All looked bored. This was just another day for them.

Brogan dropped his gear by the wall and walked over to the nearest pair, both slouching with their hands in the pockets of their shabby dull-blue uniforms. Inland Border Patrol guards were on the lowest rung of the Strata State’s security apparatus. They watched him with disinterested expressions as he approached.

“Hey, friend, you got any idea how long we got to wait here?” Brogan asked the older of the two, a man of about fifty. He had thick gray hair that could have done with a haircut, and Brogan could make out a large paunch underneath his uniform.

“Bus should be here in a few minutes,” the guard replied. “Ready to haul away another fresh set of victims,” he added with a smirk.

“Good riddance too,” said the younger one, eying Brogan coldly. “Who needs these losers? No use to anybody.”

“Says the jerk paid shit-fifty an hour to watch them,” Brogan sneered right back at him.

As he walked away, he spotted his new friend, who had just cleared the Scangate. He had dropped his gear not far from Brogan’s, and was leaning against the wall getting his bearings. Brogan strolled over to him.

“Is this all they got protecting us, four lousy border guards?” the man asked Brogan.

“One more up top makes five,” Brogan said, pointing up at the watchtower. “Don’t worry, they won’t open the gate unless it’s clear outside. And there’s plenty more on call if needed.”

The two men both took their gear over to a bench and opened their weapons cases to make sure everything was in order. Around the yard, others were doing likewise. After they had sat down, the two introduced themselves.

Brogan’s new friend was Dan Staunton. He had come to New Haven after the war, and had been a metal worker in the Eastern Industrial Zone, scraping by month to month, getting nowhere a little faster each year.

“You know what, Frank? I voted for Haskins first time she came into office,” Staunton told Brogan, looking at him intently. “Believed all her promises about her inclusive society bullshit, hook, line and sinker. What a fool I was. There is no New American Dream, only the same fat cats taking all the cream, playing us for suckers again.”

Staunton’s face was becoming increasingly animated as he talked. “After four years, I finally got a promotion and applied to move into a S-2 neighborhood. Wife had been pestering me about it forever. Didn’t take long to figure out all I’d done was swap one shitty little shoebox for another. Paid a lot of money to change zonecode, that’s all.”

“I hear you, brother,” Brogan said. He had listened to similar stories many times before, and they never made him feel good. Moving up from S-1 to S-2 was about as far as most people got. There just weren’t enough real jobs out there to get any further.

A long time ago, Brogan had figured out that the Strata State had no intention of granting the lower stratas true social mobility. They needed them in the manufacturing and service industries, doing the jobs the bots still hadn’t figured out how to do yet. For a police officer like Brogan, especially one in the elite New Haven SRF unit, he had fared better. His Strata-3 status had certainly granted him a more comfortable existence than Staunton’s. But even he had become sick of it all.

“How about your family?” Brogan asked him. “They decide to stay?”

The muscles in Staunton’s cheeks twitched. “Never got to ask. My wife moved out three years ago. Took my four-year-old son with her. All I got left with were the bills and the alimony payments. Had to save every penny I earned for two years to give her enough so she’d sign off my expatriation papers. You know how it is.”