Fork In The Road

Early March 2044.

East of Trawsfynydd, Wales.

The agreement was to get as far as they could on the charge that they had, without committing to a single direction.

“We’ll just get out of Wales at least,” was Mike’s pragmatic idea, and the city snob in Gemma had a hard time arguing with it. As they bopped down the road in pitch darkness, Mike in the driver’s seat and Gemma with her feet on the dashboard to his left, it had gotten oddly quiet. Neither wanted to bring up how they’d simply driven away, abandoned Cian and Bertie, even Shruti, and the countless others Gemma had met and worked with over the past few years. Compounded by the fact that their escape vehicle was literally a passenger van, it felt terrible.

They’d very briefly discussed it, but Mike had pointed out how urgent their benefactor had made things sound, and how unlikely it would be for them to make it back to the bunks, convince everyone to follow them, then make it all the way back to the vehicle. So that was that. They were on their own now — Gemma, Mike, a guitar, no food or water, and maybe 100 miles of charge.

The thought of Bertie being with them as they crashed the van through the gate amused them both tremendously, though neither had said it to the other. He would’ve insisted they pay Magenta for the damages.

Gemma also decided to just “forget” that there was, in fact, a series of automated defence turrets just outside the gate, being as it was to one of the country’s highly-secure nuclear facilities. She assumed Mike hadn’t gotten the luxury of experiencing this, as he’d come in on the staff train. Why trouble his mind with such thoughts? Gemma had looked out the window as they broke through, and there it was, same as it had been several years ago. The red light, however, wasn’t lit. Likewise, the screens on the gate were off. She’d smiled and yelled “Hey, the gun wasn’t on!,” and then spent the next fifteen minutes calming Mike down.

Now though, they’d managed to get out of Snowdonia. The weather had eased up a bit, and the sun was starting to come up. The road was narrow, boxed in on both sides by hedge rows, with huge swathes of grazing land just on the other side. Gemma watched with measured curiosity as a horse stood alone in the middle of a field, nibbling on some grass.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve done this drive in this hoodie,” she offered up in hopes of not riding in complete silence forever. “I was wearing it when I first got there.”

“You don’t have the most diverse wardrobe, to be fair.”

“Oi fucker, it’s a special memory.”

“You drove? Not the train?”

“It’s a long story. I might tell you someday.”

“Hey, look.” Mike pointed out the windscreen and gestured to Gemma. She took her feet down and leaned forward. Sticking out of the bushes, overgrown and barely visible, was a small white sign that read “Welcome to England.”

“Great,” Gemma said. “We’re in Shropshire. Shropshire is where we make our stand.”

“I honestly could not name more than maybe four counties.”

“London isn’t a county.”

“So, three maybe.”

She peered over the centre console and saw they had about 50 miles of charge left. That meant they were gonna need to find somewhere to top up in the next town. Even though they still appeared to be in the middle of nowhere.

“We’re going to need to charge up soon,” added Mike, uselessly.

“I’m aware.”

“Not much out here.”

“Can you at least slow the fuck down? It uses more battery to go this fast. Use your head, mate.” She’d never driven in her life, but was almost positive that was true.

She stared out the window, feeling her blood sugar crashing and her irritation levels spiking. Mike had slowed the van to a sarcastic crawl, which would’ve set her off, had she not been able to spot a crumbling wooden sign just off the side of the road.

“Hell, there’s a castle here.” The sign was badly faded, but she could barely make out “Something, something castle, your dream wedding awaits.” “A mate from work got married in this bloody thing. Felt cursed. They divorced two years later, so, you know. Think about that.”

“Should we stop?”

“God no, Victorian ghosts will kill us. But there’s a town nearby. Yeah, the bride had us all staying at some bloody Holiday Inn Express on the other side of Shrewsbury. All us commoners, while her and the bridal party were in the bloody castle.”

“Unbelievable.” Mike courteously indulged her.

“Right?! It was unbelievable. But right, yes, just keep driving. Go on, step on it then.”

Though Mike had never been there at all, and Gemma claimed to have never been there sober, it was clear as they entered town that Shrewsbury had seen better days. As they approached the land around the town was mostly massive wind turbines, the bases of some uncomfortably close to the road. A collection of empty lots, rubble piles and half-ruined walls seemed to show an area where housing used to be, which they’d started to raze at some point, then gave up. Construction signs and orange netting were everywhere, along with a few abandoned work sites. Gemma pressed her face against the window, a feeling of dread setting in.

Mike tried to head toward something he recognised. They went round a small roundabout and came upon a massive multi-story grey-brick building which loomed over the area, the Magenta logo emblazoned on one side. An enormous car park surrounding it, filled with low-end vehicles.

“Surely we can find a spare charger here,” he said.

“We’re in a stolen Magenta van, so yes, let’s drive on in.”

“It might be our best shot. At a glance we look legitimate.”

“Fine.”

Mike pulled into the car park and circled round, looking for a free spot with a charger, and finally finding one in a less conspicuous location a decent distance away from the building. Gemma jumped out as they came to a stop and ran around to the side, keen to get it on charge immediately. As soon as she tried to pick up the charge socket, she frowned. It didn’t budge. The screen displayed a frowning face.

“What the fuck does that mean,” she yelled. “Why are you sad?!”

Mike circled from the other side and laughed. “You have to pay. Oh.” He had quickly stopped laughing. “It probably needs a Magenta employee to tap.”

“Great.”

“Work your magic, I suppose.”

She stared at him and tried to remind herself that her extremely low mood was because she was starving. “My magic?”

“You know, like with Romesh.”

“Romesh is just a chill fucking dude from Brixton. I didn’t work any magic on him.”

“Well and, you know, everyone. You have a whole cult of personality thing going on for you.”

Gemma took a deep breath. “What are you asking for, Mike?”

“Just talk someone into helping us?”

Mike gestured toward the building, which was the standard windowless variant of Magenta facilities. Next to an unassuming steel door, a couple of people stood smoking. Both looked older, which made sense given the laws around it. Both had the tell-tale bright blue badges dangling from lanyards around their necks.

“We just need one of their badges,” Mike said.

“Oh! Okay! Thanks for clarifying!”

“Look, we can try elsewhere in town.”

“No, no, I’m going.” She shook her head, her stomach continuing to eat itself, every little thing irritating her. She’d talked her way into probably a hundred gigs for free back in her prime, so this should be pretty straightforward.

It was all about charm, she thought, as she covered the length of the car park toward the unsuspecting pair. Charm and nonchalance. And confidence. You had to be confident. You had to believe you were meant to be there, and then they, too would believe it. And you had to be someone they’d want to help, shortly before you presented them with your problem, a problem they were uniquely suited to help with. And their help would be easy for them to provide, but a real life-saver for you. Yeah. She cranked up her smile and gave her hair a toss.

“Hello! Quick question, my⁠—”

“Aren’t you one of the escaped connies from Wales F?”

“Fuck.”

One of the blue badges held up their Ring, revealing Gemma and Mike’s faces. “Gemma Thomson? Wow, and you’ve just come walking straight up.” They smiled and waved, looking past Gemma to Mike, who also smiled and waved back from next to the van. “And that’s the van. You two aren’t exactly master criminals here.”

Gemma sputtered out a weird laugh. “Right, no, but listen.”

“Surprised you stopped,” interrupted the other blue badge. “You’re over half way there. Run out of battery?”

“Not quite, but sorry? Half way where?” The two of them looked at each other, one flicking her spent cigarette away. Gemma made eyes at it as it flew past, then smiled. “Bum a fag?” One nodded and produced a pack of pre-rolled from their pocket, and helped Gemma light up. Gemma took a slow drag and smiled. “Christ, that’s good,” she said.

“So you’re not on your way to the usual spot? Everyone’s talking about it internally. Connies all around here just bailing on work and heading there, like word is spreading virally or something.”

“It was, briefly,” said the other. “On Understairs, but I know they’re quick to delete those posts now.”

“What are you talking about,” Gemma butted in, the cigarette barely tamping down her irritation. “We’re trying to get to London. I think. We’re trying to have the option. Mike’s wife is down there. He’s like a dog with a bone, that one.”

“London? Oh. Bit far. Good luck with that.”

“Where did you think we were trying to get?”

They looked at each other again, and the one who loaned Gemma the cigarette shrugged. The other shrugged back.

“Walsall.”