Chapter 4

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Being manhandled seemed to be an integral part of Kira's new life. She had been dragged from the room and taken down several concrete corridors to what could only be described as a large loading bay. It appeared that this was the industrial area of the Hall of Justice. Why spend money on the worthless? No doubt De Puteron had been whisked away along hallways carpeted in the finest piles and adorned with rich tapestries of import battles Princips Ltd had won. He had probably even been handed glasses of champagne whilst being followed by servants holding silver trays full of canapes with ingredients most people could not even pronounce.

The next step in Kira's journey involved depositing her in a cell in the back of a white van; from the outside it appear to be the latest in modern luxury but inside it was nothing more than a glorified cell. Her hands were cuffed to the cage and then the door slide closed, blacked out windows removing all light from the small space. The next time the door opened was some hours later. Kira had somehow been sleeping and the introduction of sunlight assaulted her senses. A burly man said harshly, "do you need the toilet?" He spoke in broken Afrikaans and looked neither like a native African or western settler. His skin was a dark tan and tattoos covered muscular arms that appeared to be trying to escape his tight shirt. If his tattoos had meaning Kira was unable to work out what these were. His closely cropped hair and chiseled jaw gave him a rugged attractiveness. Kira lost herself in his eyes for a few seconds before realising where she was. She nodded, not because she needed to urinate but because she wanted to get out the van, stretch her legs and, who knows, something might develop outside, some sort of escape plan.

The man climbed in, looking like a hulk within the van's converted back-end. He needed to huddle over like an old man then edge his way the few steps to Kira. No key was produced, he simply placed his thumb on the centre of the handcuffs and they clicked open. The man maneuvered out like a lorry doing a three point turn on a small country lane, once in the open he beckoned Kira to follow him. She joined him and scanned the scene. It was a wasteland. Mustard coloured dust spread out in every direction with only a tarmacked road cutting through it. The horizon wobbled as heat escaped from the Earth's surface. Kira took a step, "you want me to do it here?"

The man looked thoughtful, then went to reply. He stopped, finally talking in English, his confidence in Afrikaans letting him down. "You can do it in pants if you like."

Kira shook her head, not out of confusion but out of despair. She understood English, everyone did, it was the language of the world. Even in the slums they knew learning English was important. She considered her next move; there was nowhere to run and no need to stall for time. The two stood there for a few seconds before he uttered, "well, are you going?"

Just as she was about to reply an opportunity presented itself. A large motor roared down the road, one of the old petrol engines now only used as generators in the slums. The battered vehicle did not fly past them but instead, on seeing a prized van at the side of the road that might contain good quality loot, it skidded to a halt sending dust billowing into the sky to form a cloud that almost obscured the car. Within the mist, what rays of sunlight broke through glinted off metallic objects. These sliced through the wall of dust, cutting open a doorway to allow their wielders to step through. There were two, both dressed in poorly fitting jeans and t-shirts. Strapped to these a breastplate, arm pads and knee guards. One even used sports shin pads as a form of defence. In most post-apocalyptic landscapes these people would sport outrageous spiked hair in many colours but these had dull lank locks that had not been washed in some time. The same could also be said for their clothes.

"Don't come any closer," the tattooed man warned them in English.

The reply came in Afrikaans, "we won't hurt you. As long as you comply." This one let out a little laugh which was picked up by his comrade. They had no intention of stopping no matter how big or tough the person in front of the them looked. That mistake would prove costly. Kira, frozen to the spot, watched on as from somewhere hidden on his personage the tattooed man pulled out a small gun and pulled the trigger. It was not one of the archaic guns they had in the slums, there was no gunpowder, no bullet. It released what appeared to be a stream of electricity. Hitting one man square on the chest, the blue bolt shot across his body, crackling off his skin. A second after the impact he dropped to the floor and started to spasm, knife still clutched in his hand.

Kira did not wait to see what would happen next, there may have been nothing for miles but this was her chance to escape. As she charged away from the fracas, she heard the tattooed man shout, "stop, stop, don't run." She ignored him, pushing all the energy she had into her legs, desperate to get away. Then she felt it, like a pin prick at first. It spread around her body, every muscle tighten and she could run no more. Pain flared as she dropped to the dust, her face scraping against the hard floor. Her body shook, her hands clench, then everything went black

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