Shopocalypse Read online

  Shopocalypse

  David Gullen

  NewCon Press

  England

  Author’s Dedication

  For my parents, who had it harder, and never complained.

  For my children: constant joy.

  First NewCon Press edition published in April 2019

  NCP186 (limited edition hardback)

  NCP187 (softback)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Shopocalypse first published by Monico, 2009

  This revised edition copyright © 2019 by David Gullen

  Cover Art copyright © 2019 by Ben Baldwin

  All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  ISBN:

  978-1-912950-11-9 (hardback)

  978-1-912950-12-6 (softback)

  Cover Art by Ben Baldwin

  Cover Design by Ian Whates

  Minor editorial interference by Ian Whates

  Book’s final interior layout by Storm Constantine

  Why give your money to The Man, when OUR man Palfinger will give you the goods for free?

  Sign on, zoom in and luck out. Chances are, FreeFinger’s Jamboree has got just what you want.

  For free.

  Let the good times roll.

  (FreeFinger is an independent over-holding

  of the CraneCorp BuisPlex.)

  - 1 -

  Josie was an hour early, unable to sleep, up before dawn. She’d cut her own hair, scissors in front of the mirror: a ragged, gamine cut and all she could afford.

  She took her time on the long road out to the desert prison, the old split-screen camper wasn’t good in the heat. She drove with the window down, the morning air hot and humid. Arizona desert stretched all around, patched in the far distance with vibrant green. Once in a while mirage-ponds resolved into real water.

  High on the prison walls auto-guns slid along recessed rails, steel singing on steel. One tracked Josie as she drove. Behind those high concrete walls were thirty-thousand inmates – a small fraction of President Snarlow’s great roundup. One of those inmates was Novik. Josie had been waiting two years.

  The ground was bare all around the prison; the new and old growth hacked down by chain gangs.

  You can try, but you can’t stop change, Josie thought. The politicians had stopped her life for a while but now it was going to start again. It was going to be good.

  Novik was two hours late. The system ran to its own schedule and changed the rules as it went. When you were this deep in all you could do was accept.

  Finally a steel gate swung open. Half a dozen men filed out onto the dusty apron and blinked uncertainly under the open sky. Two prison guards in navy pants, short sleeved shirts, and gold-framed sunglasses followed them out. One was fat, one was tall. Both chewed on matchsticks; both held shotguns.

  Up on the wall the autoguns clustered above the men. Josie climbed out of the camper. The sun on the gun barrels dazzled and she shielded her eyes. A brand-new solar-electric diesel hybrid sped by. An autogun raced along the wall after it.

  There he was.

  ‘Hey,’ Josie waved her arm. ‘Novik.’

  Novik raised his hand, a slow gesture. He swung his bag onto his shoulder and walked across the road, shoulders hunched, a downbeat silhouette. Josie studied him intently – dusty loose hair, lean hips and broad shoulders. That scar on his brow. He looked the same, he looked different.

  Two other vehicles waited: a battered pickup with a woman in late middle-age at the wheel, and a gleaming black sedan with tinted windows. One man climbed into each of the vehicles, the rest set out on the long dusty walk into town.

  Novik and Josie sat in the camper. He stared through the fly-specked windshield as she started the engine.

  Josie kissed his cheek. ‘What do you want to do, hon?’

  Novik closed his eyes. ‘Just drive, babe.’

  Josie took them out towards the interstate, away from town.

  Novik looked back at the receding prison, as if only half believing he was outside that enormous, bleak structure. An autogun perched at the corner, its black muzzle aimed towards them. Novik kissed his middle finger and held it out the window.

  The road crested a rise and dropped into a shallow dip leaving the prison was out of sight. Josie pulled onto the verge and stopped the motor.

  Once again it was just the two of them, Josie and Novik, like it always was. Like it always should be. They climbed out of the camper and looked at each other. Josie wore an old green top and flat shoes, her skirt a faded Mexican print Novik remembered from long ago.

  Novik had the same clothes he’d worn in court two years ago: brown boots, blue jeans, a collarless white shirt, a black leather jacket. Now he also wore the black metal hoop of his parole tag clamped round his neck like a dog collar.

  Novik buried his face in her hair and breathed in.

  Josie did the same, her face against his old jacket. It still smelled good.

  ‘Hey,’ Josie said after a while.

  For the first time in a long while Novik’s smile reached his eyes.

  The cut on Novik’s scalp that had bled so much was now a ragged scar. Josie brushed back sandy hair that could never decide if it was in a parting or a fringe. He’d always been lanky. Now, like her, he was several meals on the wrong side of thin.

  They discovered a shallow pond, reed-flanked, the water skimmed by iridescent damselflies. A frog croaked, wild yellow iris bloomed. The trunk of a rotting saguaro cactus lay collapsed in the shallows. A year ago the pond had not existed. Now it rained most weeks.

  All around, the desert was blooming out of season. It was strange, beautiful, and unsettling.

  Five miles down the highway they passed a huge area of new construction. Pristine tarmac and skeletal steel frames covered a hundred acres of desert scoured washboard flat. Billboards announced three cubic miles of self-store warehousing. Occupancy was already at 80%. Avoid disappointment, reserve your foot-cubes now.

  Josie looked across at Novik. He shook his head. ‘No more, Josie. Not me. Never again.’ He looked down at his hands, broken fingers never set quite straight. ‘I’m through with protest. Look where it got me.’

  Look where it got us both, Josie thought.

  He’d given her the right answer, the same one he’d used on visiting days. Until today, until he was out, Josie had never been sure. She pressed down on the gas and the half-finished warehouses sped by.

  They passed by more construction, a new mall with walls of pink granite and gold glass. A small group of activists stood between a stand of mature desert ironwood and the bulldozers. Novik turned his head away.

  See no evil.

  Exhausted by the stress of the prison release he closed his eyes and slept.

  When Novik woke they were on the interstate. He felt refreshed, reborn, made anew. Cool air blew through the dashboard vents, the sun shone in a blue sky. Josie was beside him. The blacktop ran ahead for miles.

  ‘Want to eat?’ Josie said.

  Novik settled back into his seat. ‘Sure.’

  Up ahead was a diner, a single car in the parking lot. Josie pulled in. Novik walked over to inspect the other vehicle: a drop-head Cadillac AFC-16 lobsterback in charcoal grey, a model he had never before seen. The design was radical, near Mil-Spec in its muscularity, sleek and powerful, the folding roof segmented like a carapace. It was an awesome car. Novik gave a low whistle of approval. He’d missed out on a lot in two years.

  Then he saw the fibre-glass Viking longboat on the roof of the diner, manned by three turnip-headed warriors with horned helmets.

  He gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Cheese-a-Swede,’ Josie gave Novik a hug. ‘We can still get a
burger.’

  He looked up at the garish sign. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  He always trusted her. It was why she’d waited.

  There were three other customers in the diner: older men, clean-shaven, smart, dark suits, their grey overcoats neatly folded across the backs of empty chairs. Their conversation was sparse, their gestures careful. One of them glanced up as Novik and Josie came in.

  Novik saw a pale, heavy face under oiled and combed back black hair. The men didn’t look made but neither did they look like businessmen. He wanted to turn around and walk out but he’d learned not to make such simple mistakes. Instead, he turned up his collar and kept on coming,

  The waitress was a stocky Mexican girl. She wore a plastic Viking helmet with built-in blonde pigtails. She poured them coffee and her eyes moved over Novik’s parole collar like spit sliding off glass.

  Even so, the coffee was good. When Novik went to the counter for a refill the man who’d watched them come in left his table and came over. Close up, he was younger than at first impression: early middle-age, deep-chested, muscular if a little overweight. His forefingers beat a fast rhythm on the counter top, he bared his teeth in imitation of a smile. ‘Howdy.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Novik did not meet his eye.

  ‘Name’s Black.’ The man finished his beat with a drum-roll flourish, ‘Happy birthday.’

  Novik stood very still.

  Black leaned on the counter, ‘Don’t tell me you walk around with that fucked-up expression on your face all day?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Novik said carefully. ‘And thank you, it is my birthday.’

  Black flicked Novik’s parole tag with his finger then called back to his own table. ‘Hey boys, it’s this gentleman’s birthday.’

  The two men at the table were older than Black. One was slim, bald, his skull elongated, his jaw narrow. The other had dyed hair, bad skin, a pock-marked lump for a nose. He gestured to an empty chair:

  ‘Be so kind as to join us.’

  Helplessly, Novik looked down the room to Josie.

  ‘You too, ma’am,’ the pock-faced man said.

  ‘He didn’t do anything,’ Josie said. It came out shrill, louder than she meant. Nobody appeared to hear her. The three men stood until she was seated.

  ‘Novik,’ Novik held out his hand. ‘Thanks for asking us over.’

  ‘I’m Josie,’ Josie said.

  ‘Names are masks,’ said the man with bad skin. ‘We’re the Old-fashioned Boys. That’s who we really are.’

  Novik put his hand away.

  ‘Jimmy, I already told them my name,’ Black said.

  Pock-faced Jimmy swore vilely under his breath and massaged the bridge of his lumpy nose for a long, cold moment. ‘Fuck it then.’

  The narrow-headed man slowly inclined his head. ‘Morgan.’

  ‘Please to meet you,’ Novik said into the following silence.

  ‘We need drinks,’ Black blurted out. ‘A man needs a drink on his birthday.’

  ‘If I’m going to drink, I need to eat.’ Jimmy snapped his fingers at the waitress, ‘We’re going to eat.’

  ‘I’ll get the drinks,’ Black said.

  ‘You’ll get it all,’ Jimmy said.

  Black patted the seat of his pants. ‘Wallet’s in the car.’ He hurried out the diner.

  ‘Fucking young punk.’ Jimmy gave Novik an apologetic nod, ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  Jimmy pointed at Novik’s hairline, ‘You get that from the Feds?’

  ‘The Weekenders.’

  ‘God bless the National Guard.’

  They ordered burgers and fries, whisky and beer. Black paid the waitress in cash. Novik carefully sipped his first drink in two years.

  Morgan traced a line through the condensation on his bottle with a well-manicured finger. ‘Tell me something, Novik. When did you stop ass-raping your cell-mate?’

  Despite the beer Novik’s mouth was dry as dust. ‘I didn’t–’

  Morgan looked around the table. ‘He says didn’t stop.’

  Novik knew where this was going.

  ‘Forget it,’ Jimmy said. ‘It’s just a joke.’

  Jimmy told them a good story, Black told a better one, funny, nasty, illegal. When you thought about it, it wasn’t funny at all. Novik and Josie laughed with the rest of them.

  The waitress laid out another round.

  ‘My glass is dusty,’ Morgan said.

  Jimmy gave a loud sigh. ‘How’s the burger?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘It’s a great burger,’ Josie said.

  Jimmy shook his head, ‘It’s not a great burger, it’s a good burger. You’re a pretty woman but you should always tell the truth.’

  ‘It’s a good burger for five bucks,’ Black said.

  ‘My aunt used to give me five bucks to fuck her,’ Jimmy said.

  ‘Which side?’ Black said.

  ‘What difference does that make?’ Jimmy said.

  ‘You fuck your mother’s sister, that’s disrespectful.’

  ‘She only had brothers,’ Jimmy said.

  ‘She had a mother too.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’ Jimmy jabbed a finger at Black, ‘You know what, you’re disgusting.’ He sat angrily in his seat. ‘I did not fuck my grandmother.’

  Josie shifted uncomfortably, a rabbit in the headlights.

  Jimmy made a conciliatory gesture. ‘Back then, five bucks got you more than a burger.’

  ‘No shit,’ Black laughed.

  The drink had gone to Novik’s head. ‘You’re from Alabama?’

  ‘How the fuck did you know that?’

  Novik thought about it. ‘I don’t know how, but I do.’ Something wasn’t quite right.

  ‘My father used to touch me,’ Morgan said. There was a sibilance behind his voice, the skittering of cockroach legs.

  Sometime during the third round Black jumped up on the counter and made like he was surfing. Josie and Jimmy were in a deep conversation about karma and predestination. Morgan ordered pie and held the first spoonful at eye-level for minutes on end.

  It wasn’t the drink. Something was in the drink. Novik lurched across the diner, went behind the counter and grabbed two bottles of coke. In the kitchen the Mexican girl was sharpening knives.

  When Novik looked up at Black, surfing on the counter, he saw the waves break and heard the Beach Boys. When he listened to Josie and Jimmy their words held a wisdom so far beyond the ken of mortal man their auras glowed. Josie’s shone rose gold, Jimmy’s pulsed old blood and meconium. It was as if an angel debated with a demon.

  Novik drank a bottle of coke and felt a little better. Then he saw Morgan and Black had auras that dripped filth and grew very frightened. He took Josie’s hand and led her outside. Behind them Jimmy sat weeping.

  Inside the camper, Josie collapsed on the passenger seat. Novik didn’t know where he wanted to be but it wasn’t here. The van wouldn’t co-operate. It went forwards, then it went back. There was a bang, a jolt, the engine struggled. Novik slipped the clutch, revved the engine and finally the old vehicle gained some traction. Out on the interstate they finally began to accelerate.

  With the windows down and the passage of time and miles Novik’s head began to clear. After an hour Josie stirred. Novik opened the second bottle of coke, took a mouthful, and offered her the rest. She gulped it down and stared bleakly out the window.

  ‘That was very wrong, very bad,’ Novik said.

  ‘Where are we?’ Josie slurred.

  ‘An hour away. Fifty, sixty miles.’

  Josie looked back down the road. She screamed and cowered in her seat. ‘They’re here! Oh, God, Novik, they followed us.’

  Novik checked the mirror. In cold horror he saw she was right. The big charcoal grey Cadillac was right behind them, so close against the rear fender he couldn’t see the hood. His guts turned to water. How could he have not noticed? The road had been empty. Had h
e looked? Perhaps he had never looked. What did they want? Novik knew the answer: they wanted to kill them, murder them for kicks and feed the dark auras of their wicked souls.

  The Cadillac matched their speed perfectly, nose to tail. ‘What’re they waiting for?’ Novik muttered. ‘They got the power, the speed; they can force us off the road any time.’

  ‘Don’t stop,’ Josie begged. ‘Never stop.’

  A mile went by, and another. Novik studied the Cadillac in the mirror. What he saw was crazy. He looked and looked until he was sure. Then he took his foot off the gas and changed down into third, into second.

  ‘What are you doing,’ Josie shrieked. ‘Keep going!’

  He pulled onto the shoulder. ‘They’re not here. The car’s empty.’

  - 2 -

  Southern States Littoral – Still part of the USA!!!

  ‘Of course it is,’ Vice President Oscar ‘OMG’ Gordano told us on the steps of his official residence at the DC Naval Observatory. ‘And you can quote me.’

  Gordano dismissed suggestions that the coastal regions of Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana – colloquially known as the Southern Littoral – were effectively outside the law.

  ‘There are some local difficulties,’ Gordano admitted. ‘This administration is committed to returning the rule of law to every square foot of our territories.’

  He also dismissed claims that organised crime, specifically Mitchell Gould, had established self-governing enclaves along the Littoral.

  ‘Hurricane Larry knocks down conventional structures and it’s uneconomic to build hardened facilities. Frankly, who’d want to live there anyway?’

  The Vice President was on his way to the Presidential ball. Semi-official on the political calendar, it is described as a low-key, intimate affair for the President and four thousand of her closest friends.

  – Syndicated feed, KUWjones.org