The Bradburies by desalvo (dark) "Corruption of the world.. Peace sells.. but nobody's buying.." - Megadeth, "Peace Sells" Chapter One "Turn here." signalled the black man, riding shotgun. The driver, already driving a good 80 miles per hour, banked hard left and raced down 4th Street, gunning the engine and pushing the car to an incredible 105 miles per hour. The diesel engine whined, being pushed past its theoretical limit. The needle crept towards 120 miles per hour. "OK, everyone," the black man said icily. "We're two minutes away. Keep y'uzis ready. Thomas, keep them grenades handy, we might meet up with some tards in body armour. Everyone ready?" Collectively, the contents of the car let out a nervously held breath. "Ready, Sir." they replied in unison. Arthur Sand settled down into the plush leather of the passenger side seat. No-one said a word. They'd all been through enough Bradburies to know not to talk just before the kill. It disturbed the Captain. "Sir, we're almost there," announced Clair, the fat rookie with the wen beside his nose. He was the designated rookie, the fall guy, the slave. The guy to pin all the bad shit onto. Every bury had to have one, it was policy. Clair's eye twitched uncontrollably. "I can see it in the distance." Good, thought Sand. We'll wait a couple seconds for the homegrowns to come out. The junkies gotta get their fill, don't they? He laughed silently to himself. "Once you see the first camera lens come out, slow down to drive-by speed. Everyone else, roll down your windows." He flipped the safety off of his assault rifle and opened up the sunroof. "Let's rock." Clair saw some heads pop out of a deserted pill box, and slowed the car sufficiently, getting it under the speed limit to 25. Some more heads sprouted from nothingness, staring out the windows of shabby Old Town slums, and some others, out of wasted 10 storey duplexes. Sand gave all the little kids the finger. The first flash went off just before the house came into view - it was a victorian ripoff bungalow with cracked plaster on its walls. Two skinny kids, not more than 9 or 10 years old, were out on the porch passing a paper bag, trying to look grown up. The taller one had a cigarette smouldering nervously in his fingers. They didn't know what hit them. "TAKE 'EM DOWN!!!" Sand cried. God this is fun, he thought, as he shot the kids on the porch. More cameras materialized out of nowhere. A second flash captured their agonized death poses. Sand grinned as the paper bag hit the sidewalk, shattering the bottle inside. He made a mental note to make sure the newsies got that on tape. The house was lost amid a torrent of camera flashes and gunfire. Bullets rained upon the cheap house, covering it in powdery bullet holes. Glass shattered and fell upon the dead bodies on the front porch, producing several new uncontrollable hemorrhages. Sand grinned as his assault rifle belched a fantastic display of yellow fire from its muzzle. His constables, Thomas and Arland, both armed with tank quality cannons, opened fire as the cruiser met the house side by side. Two white men, both armed with ancient .22 calibre revolvers, appeared behind successive broken windows, futilely trying to protect the people inside. They were mowed down instantly, sandwiched between slug after bloody slug. "Eat this, you bastards!" A skinny old man, dressed only in overalls and his beard, appeared in the driveway with a large, automatic rifle- where in the hell did he get that gun? - Sand, for a second, was taken aback. But only for a second. The old man aimed at the cruiser, managing to hit the car twice before the recoil broke his skinny arms like toothpicks. Sand trained his AK-47 at the old man and mowed him down like the grass he was lying on. Two more men broke the bullet ridden front door down and fired on the cruiser. They were both similarly gunned down in a shower of bullets. A woman ran out of the side door, yelling and screaming to some unknown God, a baby in her arms. The pink curlers in her hair fell on the sidewalk amid pools of blood. She shuffled madly away from the gunfire, her feet not receiving the messages from her brain. Sand, his rifle empty, trained his service revolver on her and blew her traitor brains out. The baby fell to on the pavement and was crushed under the weight of its fallen mother. Y'prayin' to the wrong side, bitch. "Hurry up, NOW!" Sand screamed. As he madly tried to refill his rifle magazine, a car burst out of the garage, breaking the door into chunks of rotten wooden pieces. It hit the cruiser broadside, near the rear left fender, sending it fishtailing towards the opposite side of the house. The cruiser choked once, and died. Sand was knocked back and dropped a handful bullets on the car floor. "DAMMIT! BURN THAT SONOFABITCH!!" Sand roared, pointing to the car. Its radiator had burst in the crash and the driver was trying desperately to start it again. His partner, sitting in the back, opened up the side door and came out with a submachine gun and a mile of gold coloured rounds. He sprayed a swath of bullets into the cruiser, two of them hitting Clair, one in the thigh, and one in the head, killing him instantly. "CLAIR?!?!?!?? DRIVE THE GODAMMED CAR NOW! MOVE IT!" Sand bellowed. He kicked him in the shoulder but Clair just fell deeper into his seat. Blood trickled into his crotch, staining the plush grey leather seat below. Sand dropped his gun and frantically kicked the driver side door open. Clair dropped out and slumped onto the road, half in, half out of the car. His head bobbed uncontrollably, like a buoy in a riptide. Sand jammed his foot on the gas pedal, but the cruiser didn't move. "GET THE REST OF THEM DAMMIT!!!!!!" Sand howled. The windshield fell in around him, showering him with safety glass. Arland, his cannon empty, cocked his shotgun and blew the submachine gun toting dissident away. His muscles were blinded and he fell to the bloody concrete, still pulling on the trigger of his gun, killing two newsies in the process. Sand jammed one leather clad boot on Clair's butt and gave it a shove. Clair tumbled out of the car, cracking his head on the pavement. The bullet hole above his temple opened further, exposing the still pulsing brain underneath. In a frenzy, Sand clamped down on the gas and the cruiser lurched forward, sickeningly. He turned the cruiser in the right direction, letting the transmission drop into 4th gear. The car sped away, gaining speed as it finally passed the sea of newsies. Thomas unhooked a grenade and pulled the pin. He lobbed it towards the car as Sand gunned the cruiser home. "Dammit, you're all getting demerits," Sand gasped, "that was the sloppiest drive-by I've ever seen in my entire 37 year on Bradburies! The cruiser got totalled dammit!" "We lost Clair, sir." Arland returned, seeing the small black dot in the distance that was Clair. "What are we going to tell his wife?" "Forget Clair," the Captain replied, the icy cool returning to his voice. He eased off of the accelerator slightly. "The rookie wanted to stay on the crack squad, dint he?" "Yessir." Arland and Thomas replied in unison. "Fine. We're going to be hit pretty hard by the newsies, so send 'bury 43 to clean up the mess." "Yessir." Again in unison. Sand smiled and lit a cigarette, the dry taste of the Dust attesting to its brand name. He dragged deeply, savouring its chalky taste. Sand smiled. Grey smoked dripped out of his nose. "On second thought," said Sand, grinning ever wider, "send a standard arrangement to Clair's wife. Black. I want it to be black." What a nice fucking day for a kill, he thought. Sand turned on the highway. Forgotten, miles away, two small children were poking at the remains that were Clair. His body would be stew by midnight. * * * It was only three thirty by the time the newsies had finished with the carnage, and six minutes later, the writers had already started up the presses. By four o'clock, fifty thousand poster boards were filtering their way through the city, posted on every available sign post and door in Annal, each telling their own story of the Bradbury. The reactions of the people were predictable. "Such efficiency!" "Who's going to pay for that cruiser?" "Mommy, mommy, that man had a beard!" "Look at those silly drivemen, you'd think they'd never done a bury in their lives!" "That woman had a baby with her! Did she really think she could get away with it?" "Slum dwellers.. typical." There were of course, the rebellious ones, who rejected any form of commercialization and tore down the signs at first sight. Twenty two were torn down by three small school children, led astray from their usual bus- stop. Witnesses said that the kindergarten aged children had shown no recognition of the signs, and for that, they were somewhat spared. They were reprimanded with stonings and each given a healthy flogging. Another thirty or so were ripped up by a gang of teenage hooligans, drunk and too happy for their own good. They had obviously been evading the law for some time, with the literacy patches on their leather jackets beckoning an age decades past. The police had caught and beat them soundly, crippling one on the spot, mostly to please the newsies, and hung the rest, on lightpoles, with their own neckties. Their court appearance was conducted posthumously. They were found guilty on all counts and were sentenced to hang. Their bodies remained on the lightpoles until the desperate slum dwellers picked them clean to the bones. Two more were destroyed by a lunatic who had escaped from the local prison. he had attempted to eat one, while defecating on the other. The witnesses had stayed back this time, until an off-duty police officer, enjoying a cup of coffee and a donut, shot him in the head. The officer was given a commendation and a copy of his own sign, complete with the authentic blood stains of the deceased. PATROLMAN STOPS LUNATIC, the sign read, with a smaller headline, underneath, in smaller letters: NEVER GOT UP FROM SEAT. The officer wore his ear to ear grin until he was killed on a Bradbury three days later. The other rebels were crushed as usual, and most of the populace read, understood, and obeyed. Chapter Two "..living just for dying.. dying just for you.." - Black Sabbath, "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath" Sand backed the totalled cruiser into the police docking bay. The windshield was gone, two tires were blown, the front grille was non-existent. And there were too many bullet holes to count. "Now remember you two," Sand said to this two constables, "the mark of a good 'bury isn't in the damage to the car, the number of bullets you used, or how many people you killed. If the newsies didn't get any of it on tape, it's all worthless. Ya got me?" Thomas and Arland both nodded gravely. "Good. Now go sign yourselves up for three weeks of heavy KP duty. You're going to work 'til we get this cruiser paid for." Thomas and Arland retreated from the car. Sand followed them into the main area of the police station, watched them scurry into their work cubicles, and sat down in his office. His intercom rang. "Captain Sand, there's a new rookie here to see you, the replacement for Clair. Should I send him in?" Sand thought for a second, checked his Bradbury schedule. He had two more this afternoon, and no other rookie knew how to drive. Let's hope this one is a good shot, at least. Sand pressed his own intercom. "Send him in, and make sure he brings his gun with him." "Yessir." There was a sharp rapping on the door a few seconds later. "Come in." The door opened, and the first thing Sand noticed about the rookie was his eyes. His infinitely liquid eyes. His eyes were always moving, always seeing, resonating with a constant ferocity you only found in water. Sand, for the second time today, was taken aback. "Sit down, sit down. Now what was your name again?" The rookie obliged and sat down. He cleared his throat. "Orwell, sir. Rookie Warrant Orwell." Haven't I heard that name before? Sand thought. "Do you know why you're here, Warrant?" Sand rose from his chair and brutally mashed out his cigarette. "Have you any idea why you're here? Any clue?" The new warrant seemed unflustered. "To work on Bradburies, sir." His eye twitched as if Orwell was thinking of something particularly difficult. "To be clear, precise, and to kill without remorse nor foul intent." Straight from the textbook, Sand thought. So what else do you know besides the propaganda bullshit in the good book, eh? "I didn't ask you what you would do here, Warrant." Sand eyed the rookie. What he saw was a clear reflection of himself in Orwell's eyes - a shimmering, icy blue reflection that was devoid of any emotion. And he didn't particularly like it. "I asked you why you were here. Do you know who Corpus Malthus was?" Orwell adjusted a button on his shirt. "No sir." Sand smiled. "Well then, howabout if I tell you?" He sat down and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. It was empty. Orwell saw his opportunity. "Cigarette, sir?" asked Orwell, offering Sand one out of his own pack. Sand did not flinch. "I'll have one, warrant." He pulled the chalky tube from its wrapper and lit the cigarette with his desk lighter. "Now, where were we? Ah yes, I was going to tell you who Corpus Malthus was. "Corpus Malthus was the man responsible for the Bradburies, warrant." Sand dragged deeply on his cigarette. "He was the man who came up with the idea of Bradburies. Before him, do you know what they did with people before they died?" Orwell knew he wasn't supposed to answer. He didn't. Sand continued. "They had people under lock and key. People were told what to eat, what to wear, how to do this, how to do that. Oh no, they weren't told directly, no, that would be brainwashing, but they were told nonetheless, through their own misguided ways. They were told that if they didn't look like this, or that, or someone in a magazine, they would be outcasts. They were told that if they ate this, or smoked that, or used this car, or this spray can, they would be outcasts. The powerful ones in that bygone society even had their own correction medium, do you know what I'm talking about warrant?" "Political correction, sir?" said Orwell meekly. What a smart boy, Sand thought. I'll have to let him have some fun before I let him get killed. "That's right, warrant. Political correction. They destroyed everything. Everything was censored. Everything was either black or white, there was no grey. At one point, they even said abortion was wrong, they said it was just plain murder, that you were killing a living human being. Can you believe that, warrant?" "No sir, I can't believe that." Sand crushed his cigarette. "Well boy, believe it. That's what the Bradburies are for. Our society has no outcasts. We have nothing called censorship. We live peacefully. We have no correction medium. In our society, you're allowed to read your magazine, see the skinny model, and not feel like a pile of shit. Shit compared to the stereotypical, misguided wench in the magazine, right? But, not being an outcast has its limits, warrant. I bet you're wondering when you're going to die, correct?" Orwell could not refuse to answer anything but in the affirmative. "I know what you're thinking warrant, and I know you're scared. But be confident in the fact that your death is contributing to the livelihood, the peaceful sanity, the worldly good of billions of people. And be confident in the fact that you're killing the people who are trying to rob your of your opportunity. Everyone has to die, warrant. What good is it to be born? You just pop into the world, at great pain and expense to one's parents, to be fed, clothed, and perhaps put more people into the world. That's why we look upon death as the culmination of life, warrant. To die is the happiest thing in this sickening world. Why else do you think everyone wears black and sends flowers when a baby is born? If it were a happy occasion, wouldn't they send gifts and chocolates? But they don't! When do they have their parties and celebrate and have fun? At the funeral! "That's where the secret is, warrant. Those people who hide, those insolent, selfish pigs who don't care about the rest of the world, they are the ones who think death isn't the greatest adventure. They think that being killed isn't the celebration it's supposed to be. They avoid the ovens like the plague at first, thinking, 'i'll go tomorrow, for sure,' while the hoard food and tell their children to steal textbooks and burn all the condoms the school gives them. They're the ones who dig underground shelters in the basements to avoid the Death Squad, they're the ones who think that they should live just because that's their God given right. So what do we do with those people warrant? We hunt them down and kill them. We blow them away. We cut them up and fry them, we do whatever we please with them. Because we are on Bradburies. We aren't the ones who do harm, warrant. We are reaffirming their place in the world. Because if they're dead, other people will be dying too. If they live, they suck, and suck, and suck, they bleed us dry, eating our food, breathing our air. So we kill them." Orwell's throat was dry. He offered the Captain another cigarette. "So the purpose of Bradburies is to hunt and kill those who avoid the ovens and the Death Squads, correct?" asked Orwell. "And to kill those who want to be killed before their time. For a small fee, of course." Sand took the cigarette and lit it. "That's very good warrant. So you have been listening. I bet you're just, pardon the pun, dying to know when your turn in the oven is, aren't you?" "Yessir." "Well, you're a young lad. If you don't mind me asking, how much do you have in your premature death fund? Speak up, I won't tell." Sand smiled thinly. Orwell cleared his throat. "A little over ten thousand, sir. Still five million to go." "I knew it. So you really want this 'bury eh? I bet you don't have any diseases or anything like that. It'll take a while, then." Sand inhaled deeply. "The paid ones die first, you know. Then the old ones. And you haven't got the credits." Sand chucked. "They're killing younger and younger these days, you know. We do abortions, of course, but why would you want to have an abortion and not see your child whine and cry before being killed? So most of the time today, we just kill them as soon as they're born. If it were cheaper, I know more people would do it. But ten million credits is a little steep, isn't it warrant?" cackled Sand hoarsely. Orwell smiled a thin smile. His smile widened into a grin as the Captain's cackle exploded into peals of laughter. "Get out of my sight, warrant," said Sand in between fits, "get your ass into the sign writing squad on the double. You'll stay there before I'll let you drive." Sand punched his intercom. "Sally, tell Arland to find that other rookie, Green, I think his name was. Tell him he's driving this afternoon." Faint sounds of a pen scratching on paper could be heard in the speaker. "Excuse me sir, but Green doesn't know how to drive. Should I tell Arland he's driving on the 3 o'clock?" Sand was almost growling. "You tell Arland to teach that sonofabitch Green to drive for all I care. Just make sure Green is behind the wheel for the 3 o'clock, or I'm putting you into the cryosleep chamber for a thousand years. Got it?" "Yessir." Sand snapped off the intercom and stared at Orwell. After a lengthy pause, he moved his hand up to his forehead. "Salute." Orwell did the same. "Salute." We'll write the liquid out of him, Sand thought to himself. He'll be a butt licking, shit eating lackey before long. Chapter Three The sign writing squad was the basic proving ground for new rookies and the working class, not new warrants. The smell of burning oil in and waste paper hung rank in the air. Ream after ream of paper lay stacked in one corner of the decrepit warehouse, along with crates of writing pens in the other. A low hum rose from the internal generator that powered the Newsieboxes. Orwell had no idea why he was here. "Orwell, status Classified Warrant, reporting for duty, sir." The foreman eyed him cautiously. The skinny man could only clamp down harder on his cigar and grit his teeth. He didn't like Orwell. He could smell the burning, wanton need for life in this warrant. He could sense the power in his eyes. "Sand sentcha, dint he?" said the foreman cautiously. "What was your name again?" "Orwell, status Classified Warrant Orwell." A faint glimmer of recognition passed over the old man's face. "Well, get your ass into fifth chair, and grab that big pen over there. You'll be writing for the 3 o'clock today." Orwell nodded and sat down. He looked at his watch. It was two fifty nine. He could feel the sweat building on his forehead, channelling grooves amid the layers of mud and dust that caked around his neck and head. "Alright people," bellowed the foreman, "one minute to go till 3 o'clock. We have to have the signs out, read, and ready to be replaced by four. So be happy and work your asses off. And if you start to feel tired, just think of the bonus you might get to put towards your paid killing. Ready.." Orwell picked up his pen. "GO!" Pens furiously scratched onto paper. In front of him, Orwell could see the newsies version of the Bradbury on the Newsiebox - it was a simple drive-by fire bombing, nothing out of the ordinary. The newsies had wanted to add a nuclear explosion to the blast, but it was deemed too powerful to kill only 3 people. Orwell wrote his caption, pasted on a picture of an exploding house, a skull, and dripped on some fake blood. He rolled it up and sent it to the packing machine. Why am I doing this? Why were these people killed? He could see their faces, their burned, scarred, battered and broken faces. The newsies were responsible for transmitting the news to the poster writers - and a damn fine job they did of it too. Orwell could see every line, every cut, every powder burn and bullet hole - Did they die because of me? Because I still need six million credits towards my premature death fund? "Fifth chair! Stop fucking around and write for chrissakes!" Orwell scratched his pen on the paper. His second sign was about the same Bradbury, but he was to add the killing of three newsies to the sign, to incite public riots. Orwell made his sign and sent it to the packer. Why were they willing to give up the single most important even in one's life, the funeral, to be killed like a slum dweller on a Bradbury? WHY? Orwell could only grip his pen tigher and scribble helplessly. The work continued. One hour later, the sign writing squad had completed ten thousand signs. Eight hundred and two of them were Orwell's. Orwell rubbed his hand uselessly. The four o'clock whistle blew. "Great job today," said the foreman, "and remember to come in early tomorrow. There's a gang war scheduled for tomorrow. Won't want to miss that." War, Bradbury, killing, death, Orwell thought. There must be another way. There must be another way. Chapter Four Sand was sitting in his office when the gang war started. A petty gangwar wasn't important enough to send a Bradbury Captain, so he had sent Arland to moderate it. It wasn't pretty. Even with his 10 man crew, three tanks, and nuclear warhead, the war still managed to go on for a good fifteen minutes. Arland had exploded the bomb prematurely, killing three of his crew in the blast. His moderation left alot to be desired, but in the end, Arland had managed to come out unscathed. And he was standing in front of Sand. "Now tell me this again Constable," said Sand cooly, "you're telling me that we lost a five million credit nuclear warhead, three constables worth six million each, and the designated rookie Green. Am I right?" "Yessir." "YESSIR?" Sand pounded his desk with his fist. His shot glass fell off the desk and shattered. "IS THAT ALL YOU CAN SAY? I'LL KICK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF YOU BEFORE I LET YOU SAY YESSIR AGAIN, YOU FUCKING TRAITOR!" Sand pulled out his revolver. Arland could only cower in fear as his head was filled with .45 caliber bullets. "Come on, tell me what I want to hear, Constable," Sand heaved, "I'll throw you to the slum dwellers myself." Sand kicked Arland's lifeless body and punched his intercom. "We've got a little mess in here, Sally," said Sand, not realizing any form of emotion. "Get 'bury 43 in here, on the double. I want it cleaned in ten minutes." "I will, sir." Sand holstered his gun. The pig's probably got seven million outstanding on him, Sand thought. Now who the hell is going to pay for that? After a moment of thought, Sand started to smile. "One more thing Sally. I want you to put Arland's wife in the cryosleep for a thousand years," he said. "No, make that two thousand years. I'll be damned if she thinks her fucking husband is going to get away with seven million credits." "Yessir." "One more thing, did he get to sending that standard arrangement to Clair's funeral?" "No sir, the funeral is today. Should I send it through the packers?" Sand thought for a second. Who else could he send? Orwell. "Send the new warrant. Send Orwell. I want him to be there to see what happens to dead people. I want to make sure he knows. Get him out of that sweatshop, and make sure he isn't late." There was a pause. "Yessir." We'll make sure he knows what the Bradburies are. * * * "Orwell, I've got a little job for you." Orwell could only fidget with the buttons on his shirt. "Thank you sir." Sand reached into his desk drawer. "Here, take this with you, warrant." He handed Orwell a large, western style pistol. "You might need this along the way. We have four 'buries this afternoon, so you might have to shoot a couple of people to save time. Got it?" Orwell nodded. "Good. Sally will give you the assorted details. Now get out of my sight." Orwell cocked his hand to his forehead. "Salute." Sand eyed him carefully. "I said get out of my sight." Orwell left the room. Chapter Five "..save me.. from this season's dead air take me blind, naked, scared.." - Black Crowes, "Gone" The rain dripped off of umbrellas and settled in the soft pockets of the Earth. Steady and relentless, the water poured down from the heavens. It had been raining for almost 3 days now, without comment. The freshly dug grave was like a gaping mouth, inhaling the colourless liquid to form its own swimming pool underneath. The black glass coffin sat above the grave on steady rockers, waiting for the signal to be lowered into the depths below. Orwell was scared. He had been scared ever since the Captain's secretary had summoned him to his office, he had been scared ever since the Captain had given him that monster of a pistol, he had been scared ever since the Captain had refused his salute. Orwell could do little but shiver slowly. His fright extended past the realm of concious apathy and into the dark legions of fear - he had been scared ever since the Captain's secretary had handed him a black mass of charred candies, he had been scared ever since the Captain's secretary gave him his own cruiser to drive to the funeral. He was scared. Uncompromising silence permeated into the skin of everything around the grave. A single, hollow cough. "Ahem." Heads turned. "We're ready to start the ceremony, if you'll all take your seats," said the priest dully. His eyes reflected the mood of the funeral perfectly - darting, happy, pervasive. Or maybe it was his clothes; there was something about him that wasn't quite right in any respect, any way you looked at it. "We are here today to look upon the life of one Clair. Clair the rookie who worked on Bradburies. He was happily killed in the line of duty, on the Bradbury featured on sign 10891479817. "If you'd all like to pay your last respects, and your token sums of money, to be put towards Clair's premature death fund. Thank you. The party will commence in three minutes." The priest drifted into the candy coloured masses. The first thing Orwell noticed was that all the people were wearing garish colours. The second thing he noticed was the transportable stereo being moved towards the gravesite. "Hey buddy, are you going to drop them candies, or do you want me to eat them for him?" It was Clair's wife. Orwell recognized her from the signs. Orwell dropped the candy onto the coffin. Ashes tumbled over the side and blackened the dirty water below. "Why is Clair being buried, and not burned?" asked Orwell. Clair's wife slapped him clean across the face. "HE HAD A JOB DAMMIT! HE WAS A WORKING MAN! HE PAID HIS DEATH FUND! HE WAS A POLICE OFFICER, NOT A FUCKING SLUM DWELLER!!!!!" Instinctively, Orwell drew out his gun. People stared from around the tables of cakes, candies, and creams. He pulled back the hammer. "GO AHEAD, KILL ME! KILL ME, YOU DIRTY PILE OF SHIT! I'LL BE HAPPY! KILL ME, FOR ALL I CARE!" screamed Clair's wife. No, Orwell thought. "I'm sorry," said Orwell. Her face brightened. Orwell pulled the trigger. click. The gun was empty. "I'm sorry too," said Clair's wife, grinning. "Now get the hell out of here, we want to start the party." Orwell stood aside as the grotesque Mrs. Clair roughly brushed him aside. She stalked towards the minibar, grabbed two shots of MoneyScotch, and downed them like water. Orwell dropped his pistol in shock and disgust. He had to find a washroom before he threw up all over the coffin. * * * Orwell never made it. The party started two minutes later, and ended nine hours after that. During that time, Clair's coffin was stolen by desperate slum dwellers and cooked as stew. Orwell saw the coffin being taken away, and helplessly, he did nothing. He went home empty that day. Chapter Six "ORWELL! WARRANT CLASS INDIVIDUAL ORWELL! OPEN YOUR EYES! YOU HAVE A TELEMESSAGE ON LINE ONE NOW!" belched the announcer. It was standard to build one into every home since the 'buries had started. The announcer was the machine that notified you when your coffee was ready, when you had messages, when your heart stopped beating. Orwell picked up the telephone. "Warrant Orwell." It was Sand. "Get yourself to my office now. Both of my new rookies were killed, and so was Arland. I'm thinking of promoting you to Rank Constable - if it weren't for that silly rookie on every 'bury policy. Two minutes, Orwell. Two minutes." click. Orwell hung up the phone nervously. He couldn't breathe. It was as if a vise, clamped around his mouth and throat, was slowly being closed shut by some unknown, unseen, all powerful source. From cattle prodded rookie to Rank Constable in a week? Orwell thought. It's too good to be true. It's got to be. Orwell raced out of his house to find out, not waiting for his other message to come in. It printed itself on his fax machine: STAY HOME Chapter Seven Sand paced around his office. He had a problem on his hands. A problem named Orwell. "I heard about your little incident with Clair's wife, warrant. Don't think I don't know, because I do. What the hell were you thinking?' Orwell could only manage a faint whisper. "I wasn't really thinking sir, at first, it wasn't as if I was going to kill her, I only asked one question, about why Clair wasn't burned -" Sand looked exasperated. "You didn't think I'd give you a loaded gun did you? What do think I am, stupid? "Of course we're not going to burn a damned police officer! He worked on buries for a week before he got killed!" Sand pulled out his copy of The Bradbury Handbook. "Did you know Clair still had six million credits on his head? Did you?" "No." "I didn't think so. Do you see this book? Do you know what it means?" "I have an idea sir." "Well why don't you tell me then." Orwell straightened his posture. "We kill only the traitors or the paid." "NO!" Sand bellowed. "This book is the Bradbury Squad. This book gives us the power to rip apart the traitors and eat them whole, if we see fit. This book is the very embodiment of our society as a whole. Without it, we are nothing. The traitors would be able to live without dying, they would be able to deceive the Death Squads, they would be able to take, and take, and take, all they wanted. There would be no order. There would be chaos. "Don't you see what we're doing, Orwell? Some wise person said there were only two things sure in life - death and taxes. What we're doing is bringing death to the next level. We've eliminated taxes. We've been able to eliminate hunger, poverty, all those things, except in the cases of the slum dwellers. But they don't really count, do they?" Orwell shook his head. "But why do we kill?" asked Orwell. "We already have a grip on the past, warrant." Sand sat down at his desk. "But to have a grip on the future, we must be able to control the present. Now tell me, what would be the use in keeping people alive beyong their usefulness? So do you know what we do? We make death the one turning point in one's life. We make death the greatest part in the time a person spends on this planet - with a small catch, of course. We can't have people tripping all over themselves to kill each other, can we? So we put a price on each head. Ten million credits. Seven million credits. If you want to die before your time is up, you'll have to pay. So we make them work, and work, and work, and through their work, they are able to achieve their lifetime dream - "To be able to die." Orwell was barely able to speak. "I understand now, sir. Thank you." Sand was cautious. "No need. You're going to work and pay yourself. Report to training room D. You've got two weeks ahead of you." Orwell, quite literally, ran from the room. * * * The training was murder. Orwell knew it would be bad - but he didn't think it would be this bad. Hundred kilometer runs in subzero temperatures. Endless climbing, breaking, cutting, jumping, pulling. The initial introductory exercise was a torturous device where one had to pull oneself out of a Chinese Water Torture by sheer force alone. The only thing that kept Orwell from going insane was the payment he would be forced to hand over if he was killed: ten million credits. And all through the two weeks, the insatiable, uncontrollable signs, everywhere, pounding into the skull of anyone not on their guard: BURN THE DEAD KILLING IS PLEASURE DEATH IS THE GREATEST ADVENTURE By the end of the two week session, Orwell could barely lift his arms. And Sand was watching all the time. He knew Orwell was exhausted. He knew Orwell was a broken and battered man. And that was just the way he liked it. * * * "Get that warrant on today's 'bury, Sally. And make sure he knows how to drive. Get Thomas to teach him." "Yessir." Sand grinned into his intercom. Chapter Eight The day had finally come. Orwell sat behind the wheel of the police cruiser. Sand was riding shotgun. "Alright now. I want to get the cruiser down to drive by speed before the newsies come out." said Sand. He was grinning fiercely. "I want to make sure they get the new cruiser on the posters." "Yessir." The two constables, Thomas and Wesley, answered in unison. Orwell said nothing. Sand lit a cigarette. "Today is a momentous day, everyone," beamed Sand with false pride. "Today is Orwell's first Bradbury. He's been with us almost three weeks now, and he's just brimming with wicked energy. I want you guys to treat him right. So pin all the shit on him, OK?" Sand cackled with laughter. Nobody else said a word. "Start the damned car, warrant. You've got two minutes to make it to fifth and main. Better gun it." Orwell started the car, stepped on the clutch, and shifted into first gear. The car slid smoothly forward, its diesel engine humming smoothly. He let the car warm for a few seconds, then let his foot off the brake and drifted into the speed lane. Orwell jammed his foot on the accelerator. As if on command, the cruiser seemed to take on a life of its own. It gained speed at an incredible rate, zooming past building after building, tree after tree. Orwell checked the speedometer. 95 mph. He raced down Carlton, steadily gaining speed as Thomas and Wesley both loaded their cannons. Sand quietly primed his assault rifle. "Turn here," Sand said. Orwell turned on Carlton, heading up on fifth. Taking the turn at 100 miles per hour, the cruiser screeched unmercifully as its right side tires left the ground. Orwell could feel his teeth rattle as the cruiser met the ground once again. "Get ready. We're coming up to Main." Orwell could see the newsies popping out of pillboxes in the distance. Flashes blinded him as the car raced past an amateur photographic bank. Burned into his retinas, Orwell could see their white smiles. They'll all be dead soon, he thought. Automatically, Orwell slowed the car down to drive by speed. The newsies had come out in full force by now, armed to the teeth with their cameras. Orwell could see the target in the distance - a small, gray brick bungalow. Sand cocked his rifle. "FIRE!!!!!" he cried. The first bullets rained upon a little girl skipping stones on the front lawn. Bullet after bullet dug into her soft flesh, ripping open skin and bone along the way. By the timeSand had finished laughing, her body was a bloody mass of pulp on the lawn, fertilizing the grass underneath. "KILL THE MOTHER!!!" Sand cried. Orwell downshifted and turned the car broadside, its headlights painting wide white circles onto the gray house. A woman appeared in the bullet ridden front door, toting an ancient assault cannon. She managed three shots, all missing, before Thomas blew the entire front of the house into little more than plaster bits. The woman was a left in pieces along with her daughter. Silence. Orwell revved the engine. "Where the hell are they?" he asked. Sand didn't hear him. He was deep in thought. There were supposed to be ten more in that house, and all we can find are the mother and her silly little daughter? Where could they have gone? Sand thought. They couldn't have escaped. The newsies would have caught them. On tape even. The cameras were still rolling. Twenty newsies were focused on Sand's face alone. He could feel the tension. Sand could feel the lenses boring deep holes into his eyes, into his chest, into his face. Worse, he could feel the lenses slowly pouring salt into those holes. "WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?!?!!!!" Orwell didn't like the situation either. He pulled out his own pistol and pulled the hammer. "There doesn't seem to be anybody here, sir." said Orwell evenly. "I CAN SEE THAT WARRANT!" Sand cried. "THERE'S SUPPOSED TO BE TEN MORE! WHERE ARE THEY!!!!" The thick smell of blood seeped into Orwell's nostrils. He could smell the sweat, the fire, the gas. The perfume left from the bloody pulp on the lawn. He could smell everything. Everything, but the bomb that exploded. It took the entire roof of the house with it, showering the cruiser with shards of glassy debris. Sand's eyes widened. "NO!" "They killed themselves," said Orwell. "They killed themselves, rather than die at the hands of a bury." "NO!" Sand screamed. His face was a contorted mess of twisted muscle and sweat. Orwell, sitting in the driver's side seat, could hear his teeth grinding into fine powder. "NO! IT'S IMPOSSIBLE! IT CAN'T BE!!!!" Orwell got out of the car. Sand followed him. "I'm afraid so sir," Orwell said, "there's nobody else here. Nobody else left to kill." "Nobody else left to kill?" howled Sand, grabbing Orwell by the collar. "Nobody else left to kill? Well then, I guess I'll have to kill.. HIM THEN!" Sand pulled out his revolver and shot Thomas in the head. The car window was his only protection, and that shattered inwards, cutting thomas in the process. The freshly made wound gushed blood onto Wesley, who could only stay rigid as a pole. Orwell stared in blank horror. "Or maybe I should kill HIM?!" Sand shot Wesley between the eyes. An eye blew up in the succeeding chain reaction, dripping white fluid onto Thomas. The two constables bled their last drops upon each other. "STOP IT!" Orwell screamed. Sand turned and faced his designated rookie. "And you're going to stop me?" Orwell took a step back. Slowly, menacingly, he raised his pistol towards Sand's exposed head. "Go ahead, warrant. You and I both know that gun is empty," Sand said, icily, "so go ahead and pull the trigger." Sand crossed his arms defiantly. Unbelievably, Sand lit a cigarette. And six million credits goes up in smoke with you, right? thought Orwell. "Well warrant? What's it going to be?" Sand grinned his demonic grin. Orwell pulled the trigger. * * * The transition to the new chief of Bradburies was done without fanfare nor comment. With the new chief came new jobs, new people, new opportunities. And new doors. The name plate that read Arthur Sand was quickly replaced a day after the slum dwellers had finished eating his flesh and cooking his bones for broth. They never found anything but his skull, which was placed in the cryosleep chamber beside someone named Clair. The nameplate was changed to a single word. Orwell. SAUCE00The Bradburies Desalvo Dark Illustrated 19950210]·P