CHAPTER 1
I loved nights like this. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The ballistic window of my Humvalero Grande was slid open a crack. A slight breeze brought in cool, refreshing air. I sat back and relaxed as I stared through the windshield at the crescent moon floating high in the heavens as if it was smiling down upon me.
The stars were twinkling brightly and the constellation Orion could clearly be seen. Spotting him was easy with the distinct three stars that made up his belt. Most people would be able to identify him if they cared these days. Sadly, most did not. Orion and I shared a common bond. We were two hunters on watch, scouting the terrain, waiting to catch our prey. The neighborhood I was staking out was peaceful and silent. The pops of gunfire and bellows of despair from earlier in the evening had finally stopped.
Quiet moments like this gave me time to reflect. The world had become a much more violent place when the calendar rolled into the twenty-second century. Regular global conflicts and ongoing worldwide depression had turned what was a somewhat productive civilization into a chaotic dystopia. Overwhelming poverty suppressed the masses. Life for most citizens was a daily struggle. Everyone carried a weapon of some sort, if not for self-defense than for self-preservation.
Such destitute conditions were the catalyst for all the fighting in the new century. Overpopulation depleted natural and national resources. Basic necessities were difficult to come by. There also weren’t enough jobs to go around for people to afford the rising costs of any supplies that were available. Governments saw other countries with valuable resources ready for the taking. They had armies of unemployed, desperate civilians willing to go get them and be spared for the greater good of the nation and their families. Recruits would be given guns and a lift to whichever country had something to lose. They would be marched in like hordes of Vikings, untrained barbarians pillaging villages and salting the earth in their wake.
Special forces teams, like I was once a member of, received supplementary training to develop such proficiencies as advanced weapons use, guerrilla warfare, progressive tactics, and covert operations. These were the customary requirements for taking out political leaders who thought they could cross our borders, come into our homeland, and take whatever they wanted.
The work was fulfilling at the time, protecting my country, seeing different parts of the world, and having a purpose. After a while, though, the killing got to me. Our missions disposed of people who were generally good-hearted and only trying to look out for the best interests of their people, to help them survive. Our leaders had the same goals and were aiming to achieve them through the same means. The killings were driven by nationalistic pride as opposed to having a strategic purpose.
I knew when it was my time to move on. Bounty hunting seemed like a natural transition given my unique skill sets. I went after the smaller bounties at first to get a feel for the process and the types of unsavory characters whose paths I would cross. These included people of interest, who were only wanted for questioning, and low-ranked criminals, who were typically involved in nonviolent offenses. They were no match for me. It wasn’t long before I moved further up the wanted list in search of more challenging and more lucrative captures.
I was quite effective. I soon gained a notable reputation in my profession and became feared by those who were on the run. The job of a bounty hunter continued to give me purpose, which I was seeking. I was still ridding society of those trying to undermine the security of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, only without the killing, or at least not as often.
I successfully brought in such infamous characters as Vinnie “The Slug” Lariano, Priestess Bianca Dubois, before she could cast a voodoo spell on me, and Delray Vega, who should have chosen to come along more quietly.
While I did my best to bring my targets in alive and not to battle to the death with every other mongrel in this dog eat dog society, my compassion had its limits. If some foolish miscreant decided to scratch up or mess with my Humvalero Grande, my beloved Priscilla, a bullet would be the last thing going through that person’s mind. It would be all out Priscilla warfare, no holds barred. Despite all her bumps and bruises, hurting Priscilla was in nobody’s best interests. A girl with perky headlights such as hers and alluring curves from bumper to bumper needed to be treated with respect.
The global conflicts and regression didn’t slow down until the powers that be realized no one had anything else worth taking and it wasn’t worth the cost for such low returns. That is when the violence intensified back home, but even that got somewhat under control years ago. Increasing deconstruction and reconstruction took place in select areas in recent times. Most smaller cities and towns in the outskirts, like the one I was parked in, still looked like bombed out war zones, either because of the fighting or rioting in the streets or just general disrepair and abandonment.
More often than not, the closest sign of there being a real civilization in one of these decrepit places was a general store or two where people could purchase some food or provisions if they had enough credits. More likely than not, customers had something to barter, such as a cherished heirloom, a recent find stumbled upon or taken from the streets, or perhaps their bodies or even their souls were available for trade in order to survive. These stores were real old-fashioned mom and pop type shops. Pop would welcome shoppers with a hello and a twelve-gauge shotgun while mom cocked the hammer of her pistol with a friendly smile or greeting. This was all small town stuff, though, typical of life in the outskirts. While suburbia was left to the wolves and scavengers, the ones who made it out on top through all the chaos were the ultra corporations.
Deregulation allowed the ultra corporations to monopolize and mass produce the basic necessities. They constructed massive cites within cities around themselves to serve their manufacturing and workforce needs. People flocked to these centers of production for employment if they had exploitable skills as an escape from the decaying outskirts. Compensation was enough to survive day to day, paycheck to paycheck. Losing that employment, and the meager credits it paid, would make living in the city unaffordable. Moving out to the perilous outer environs would be an inevitable matter of time. The ultra corporations and their elite wouldn’t permit beggars and stragglers to linger and disrupt the serenity of the societies they created.
One of the first ultra corporations, Nauticell Industries, revolutionized transportation by perfecting an electrolytic carburetor that converted water into fuel for their engines. The company got the world off its reliance on oil and electricity, both of which were increasingly difficult to come by. My girl Priscilla had a top of the line V16 engine thanks to them.
Two ultra corporations that supplied food products to the nation merged a little over a decade ago. They proclaimed that the synergies from the combination would reduce costs and those savings would be passed down to the consumers, making food more affordable to the lower masses. Many activists protested the arrangement. They argued that the top executives were only looking to line their pockets with more credits and that such a mega-merger would create an ultra corporation that would be so big that, if it failed, the impact would be catastrophic. The protesters were right on both accounts, except their voices weren’t loud enough to prevent the combination. The executives cashed in on the deal and then, when the newly formed company declared bankruptcy, the nation fell into a state of severe food shortage. Riots ensued along with distrust in the government’s dedication to the people as opposed to big business.
While the distrust in the government lingered to this day, the anarchy was short lived. Dr. Benzo’s Food Company emerged as a savior as it started manufacturing what essentially amounted to gruel in a pouch to feed the nation. One could hardly call it food. The slurry was nothing but chemicals infused with synthetic nutrients. With all the artificial flavorings, the taste was tolerable. The chocolate flavored version was an insult to real cocoa, though. The food substitute was advertised as something people could survive on from the time they were babies to the day they died. It was nicknamed Gloop since people thought it had the consistency of glue and poop, to put it bluntly. It was not the most appetizing depiction, but the name stuck.
While relatively small in number, there were enough ultra corporations to manufacture most of the country’s essential, everyday needs. Their goods could still be hard to come by depending on where the ultra corporation set up its production center and its means of shipping its products. Items did not necessarily make it from coast to coast or, if they did, their price might be outrageous, even for simple luxuries like a bar of soap or underwear.
Getting my hands on essentials usually wasn’t too difficult. I traveled around quite a bit when chasing down bounties so I often had plenty of opportunities to pick up items only offered locally, but I didn’t mind going commando for a while if prices were too high. Parametric Firearms made all the guns along with other miscellaneous means of offense and defense. These had no trouble making their way across the nation and no one had any problem getting their hands on them.
The government was relatively powerless when it came to regulating these corporations. It had little funds and borrowing power left to provide the services it once did. During emergencies, leaders of our free world begged the ultra corporations for loans. In exchange, the corporations received special treatment via the usual backroom type of negotiations. Laws were changed to allow the corporations more liberties to do business as they saw fit. Contracts were given out or withheld to make certain any competition faded away.
A critical change in power occurred when ultra corporations were given the authority to establish their own armed forces in order to protect their facilities. They justified the approval after a string of civilian raids on their manufacturing plants interrupted the means of production. Local law enforcement was unable to stop the attacks and the government had no soldiers to spare to guard the facilities. Ultra corporations created their own little worlds for themselves and for their own benefit. Now they had the military capability to preserve the society they built within their ultra city.
After the global warfare slowed down and local defense was entrusted to the ultra corporations, the government shifted its primary efforts to ensuring the survival of the people, the security of the borders, and the preservation of the notion that the government continued to have a purpose.
That was the reason that brought me to this rundown neck of the outskirts. Nothing disrupted faith in the government like the bombings of federal buildings and other such violent forms of civil insurrection. Claxton Sinclair held a grudge against the government. He felt too many of his friends and family members were lost in what he considered pointless pursuits of resources by incompetent leaders and a feeble administration. Soon enough, he blew a circuit and made it his life’s mission to undermine the government, to be the enemy within.
He was ranked number seventy-eight on the government’s most wanted list. While I generally preferred bigger game, Claxton was worth one hundred thousand credits if brought in. I got a credible tip he squatted in one of the buildings on this street.
Every bounty hunter who attempted to bring Claxton in so far had failed. Claxton Sinclair was a very large man. He broke the arm of one of my predecessors merely by squeezing it tightly with one of his meaty paws. He picked up another by the neck and threw her through a wall. He flattened the face of some poor rookie with a single punch. Worst of all, rumor had it that Claxton once stuck a grenade down the pants of one bounty hunter and then shoved him out the window. He apparently was in a particularly sour mood that day and wanted to blow up the unfortunate guy’s crotch before he splattered on the ground. Claxton was a very dangerous man for people in my line of business. He was an occupational hazard of the worst kind.
Most people of sound mind would have kept on watching the sky, hoping to avoid a person like Claxton Sinclair, but, no, I had to look down to see what was approaching from the other end of the street. The hulking mass was getting bigger with every step closer.
He passed by a metal drum with a small fire smoldering in it. The light revealed his face. Sure enough, it was Claxton. I hoped I did not end up asking myself later why I didn’t just keep looking up at the stars.
Claxton disappeared into the building right across the street from where I was parked. There were no indications that he noticed me in the darkness amongst the wreckage and trash strewn along the street. After a few minutes, a light on the top floor of the five-story building turned on. It was time to go to work.
