Houston, 2030 Read online

  Houston, 2030.

  Mike McKay

  Text copyright © Mike McKay 2006-2014

  Cover illustration copyright © Mike McKay 2013

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  The right of Mike McKay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Some scenes contain strong language, drug references, and violence. They may not be appropriate for younger readers.

  This novel is both a classic police detective and a social science fiction. Or you may call it a dystopian warning. As the name suggests, the action happens in not-so-distant future. The detective part is thrilling: an FBI Special Agent follows a serial killer case. In the science fiction part, readers will not find any robots, or flying cars, or super-computers. The end of our world does not come from zombies raised from their graves (although one ‘zombie’ is positively present.) There are no viruses that kill a person in under thirty seconds (although, there are viruses that positively can kill.) There are no continent-size volcanoes, asteroid showers and aliens from the outer space, and no Noah's Flood (although one flood is positively present, but very local.) Does not sound too scary to be a good read? Well, the global catastrophe described in the book is presently ongoing! The world created by the author's imagination is remarkably similar and at the same time – remarkably dissimilar to our own, and yet – believable.

  Preface

  In the middle of 2006, I was ‘between projects,’ which meant sitting at home and sending my resumes to potential employers. The distant echoes of the Peak Oil appeared in print and on the Internet and made me ponder the future of the United States and the humanity as whole. I started imagining how different the American Way of Life might become upon the planet's resources depletion. The imagination led me to the computer keyboard. After several weeks, a sketch named Houston, 2030 came out. At that time, I had just discovered A.Solzhenitsyn, a Russian writer, whose One Day From the Life of Ivan Denisovich I read in translation. (This story describes everyday life in the GULAG camp of the Stalin period Soviet Russia.) The early version of my sketch resembled the One Day: depicting a typical day of a typical American family after the global financial catastrophe I had envisaged. By the way, in the original text there were three consecutive financial crises, and the name of the first one was ‘WFC,’ or the ‘World Financial Crisis.’ Not too far from the real thing! I had never written prose, so the sketch turned out quite boring.

  A new project came into my view, and I left my literature experiments for a while. In just two years, arrived the Global Financial Crisis, GFC. In my sketch, I was not a total visionary. The real GFC happened in the late 2007 and through 2008, while in my imagination the WFC had been in 2011, good three years later. Soon enough the other horrible things from my sketch started popping up in our reality, even besides the GFC. I sat at the computer again, and reworked my text. The main character, Mark, turned into an FBI Special Agent and the sketch became a full-blown science fiction novel I would like to present to the kind reader.

  Being an oilman, I have always supported the Republicans, but this does not mean my book is a criticism of the Obama's administration. I believe the Republicans, or the Greens, or any other political party are equally capable to screw the planet in the same way, and in about the same time frame. Deep inside, I still hope that my predictions will not come true. Only the future may tell.

  The book's characters are all fictional, except for Mike Pendergrass – that's me! Mentioned in the text real political figures, of course, are copied from the real ones to a degree. The geography is consistent with the actual Houston, vintage of 2008. Everything else, from the beginning to the end, – is a product of my wild imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places and events is an accident. Take it easy.

  Some early readers also tell me they do not like slang and ‘broken English’ in the dialogs. For that – I can't do nothing! How are my double negatives? I do not expect the year-2030 landfill rag-pickers to talk as Victorian ladies, and so should not the readers. If you cannot stomach a double negative or two – beware and drop this book now. Thank you. What a sissy!

  I must express my deep gratitude to my family and friends, who read the text, in different versions, many times over, spotted the logical flaws and pointed grammatical bloopers and typos. Without every one of you, guys, this novel could not happen.

  Mike McKay

  Houston (TX), Brisbane (Queensland, Australia)

  2006-2009

  Chapter 1

  Mark's mobile phone on his desk started in a high-pitched tone: an urgent Police call. The caller ID indicated one of the small local Police stations, or ‘beats,’ as they called them in Houston, at the north-eastern boundary of their district. This could be either good news, or bad news. However, if such a call came mid-afternoon or early morning, the good news was unlikely.

  The FBI Special Agent-in-Charge touched the accept button. “Mark Pendergrass.”

  “Sir, Deputy Kim here. The Garret Road Slum. We've got another case!”

  “The Butcher?”

  “Yes, looks like. Two vics, youngsters, in the woods. And the girl… You will see it for yourself. I thought I should call you right away instead of going through the Dispatch…” the phone crackled. Then, after a short pause: “Sorry…”

  Not good news, after all.

  “Location?” Mark was trying to stay calm. The two-year chase made him weary.

  “North of the Sheldon Reservoir Park. Corner of the Pineland and the Garret. Some local kids found… I mean – the bodies. Tan and I are already at the scene. Looks very fresh…”

  “OK, Deputy, we are coming. Please make sure everything is intact…”

  “Sure, sir.”

  Mark disconnected the call and marched to the Station Chief's office across the hallway. Major Benito Ferelli, a stocky man in his early sixties, was updating some spreadsheet. Two dozen freshly printed personnel records piled on the desk.

  “Tell me the good news, man,” the Station Chief raised his eyes from the computer screen.

  Mark shook his head, indicating that no good news would follow. “Just got a call, Ben. Deputy Kim, from the GRS. He's got two more victims for me. North of the Sheldon-Res.”

  “Shit… Shit! When is it going to end?” Benito took a car key from a hook on the wall and passed it to Mark, “go catch the Bear. He should be at his desk. And Miss Gardener from the lab. Do you need a deputy – as well?”

  “Thanks, Ben. Three of us can manage…”

  Despite Mark's position was called ‘Special Agent-in-Charge,’ he no longer had any other agents under him, and he was the only FBI agent in this part of Houston, taking care of two Police districts: a total of about 130 square miles and 400,000 population. After the recent staff reductions in the FBI, they had to rely on the Sheriff's Office for practically anything. It was good that, unlike in some other jurisdictions, the Harris County Police had been cooperative and never refused to help the federal agencies. Fifteen minutes later, Mark and two Police officers were preparing one of the two remaining response vehicles. Sergeant Investigator Alex Zuiko was filling diesel from orange two-gallon jerrycan, while Natalie Gardener, who already changed to a scene coverall, was checking the contents of her CSI kit.

  Mark ha
d worked with both of them before. Alex Zuiko, in his mid-fifties, was an immigrant from Russia. Being in the States for nearly twenty years, he spoke literate English, but with a strange mixture of Texan and Slavic accents. In the local Police beats he was affectionately known as the Russian Bear. The rumors were such that before coming to America, Alex was involved with either the Russian mafia or the Russian Police force, as everyone suspected, both using pretty much the same interrogation methods. Alex did not want to argue against the rumors. He was a master of intimidation and made even hardened criminals talk, just by mentioning few of these methods, not quite applying them.

  Natalie Gardener, the CSI, was twenty-six and new to the district, but already proved herself useful. Cheerful and humorous, she could stomach even the most gruesome scenes, and was respected for her inventiveness and ability to work, if necessary, for several days with no sleep. All together, they surely made a strong team. Not as it would help a lot in this particular case, Mark thought sadly. This serial killer was not easy to catch. If this killing was done by the same person, this would the sixteenth dual murder in twenty-two months! It was not that violent deaths were uncommon in Houston, but in the vast majority of cases a murderer would be caught quickly and dealt with. Not this one…

  Sarge started the engine in his usual careful manner. A short turn of the starter, twenty-second wait – to make sure the engine oil had a chance to spread evenly though the surfaces and bearings, then the determined key turn till the diesel engine caught up. He allowed another thirty seconds for the truck to warm up before driving off. Alex was a great driver. He frequently complained that now he could only drive on the sad occasions of homicides or other major crimes. The Police cars were not much in use for any other, less pressing cases: the fuel was prohibitively expensive, and budgets – limited.

  On the C.E.King Parkway, Alex switched on the truck's blinking lights and a siren, but Mark told him to kill the show. This time of the day, the traffic was not busy. Few push-bikes and tricycles at the right-side line did not interfere with the Police vehicle, and there was no need to alert people unnecessary. After all, the dead were dead. Carefully avoiding multiple potholes, Sarge navigated to the Garret Road. Few minutes later, they were at the corner of the Garret and the Pineland. The upstream part of the Sheldon Reservoir, or the Sheldon-Res, as the locals abbreviated it, was to their left, and from here looked more like a sedge swamp than a lake. A small patch of woods extended to their right. The local deputy was waiting for them at the head of a dirt trail in the woods under rusted and barely visible sign: ‘Exclusion area of critical public water supply. By the Governor orders: NO SQUATTING, NO CAMPING, NO OPEN FIRE. Violators may and will be prosecuted.’

  They got out of their truck, and Mark briefly introduced Natalie to Deputy Kim. He and Alex knew this man from one of their previous cases – of the same serial killer's chain. Upon the greetings and introductions, the team followed the young policeman along the dirt trail. Another hundred and fifty yards on foot, and they found themselves at the crime scene. A little secluded clearing in the woods would be a pretty spot, if not for the yellow-and-black Police tape stretched between the trees. A group of bystanders, mainly teenagers, stood behind the tape. The second local cop, Deputy Tan, diligently guarded the scene.

  The first victim, a man in his early twenties, was lying face-up on a blood-soaked picnic pad. On the grass next to the pad, there was a pair of heavy Army boots, and one of the boots was accompanied by standard, government-issued, leg prosthesis. Mark immediately felt sympathy to the victims – his older son, William, was also an Army veteran. He caught a brief glance of Alex, who gave Mark a short nod. Despite the difference in their ages and ranks, Mark and Alex had a lot in common. They were not close friends, but drank enough beers together to be aware of each others' family affairs. One of the Alex's sons was wounded in the Army and lost a leg. Three months earlier, investigating similar crime scene, Mark and Alex made a secret agreement that if they would find the killer and would have an indisputable proof, there would be no arrest and no trial. This animal had to die running, and by no means a quick painless death either…

  The second vic, a young woman, not older than twenty, was lying face-down in a pool of dried blood. Her jeans were cut at the back, and the meat from both buttocks and both upper legs had been removed to the bones. A swarm of flies was buzzing above the body.

  “It is same M.O. all-right,” Alex pointed to the female victim's body.

  “Let's hope we didn't get ourselves a bunch of copycats,” Mark replied, “as for now, you may call it the case number sixteen, Sarge…”

  Natalie started the usual routine, setting up plastic numbers next to everything on the scene and making digital photos. Mark carefully studied a patch of grass under his feet – not to disturb any evidence, switched his mobile phone into a map app, and placed the phone on the ground. The GPS navigation was notoriously slow: only thirteen or so GPS satellites remained active around the Earth, and a proper location fix would usually take some time.

  “You want to do the witnesses, Alex?” Mark asked. More than anything, he desired to be left alone. Perhaps, I did this for too long, he thought.

  He watched how the Sergeant approached the local Deputy, who in turn pointed at three boys, eleven or twelve by the looks, in the small crowd of bystanders. The boys were barefoot, in tattered, but reasonably clean school uniforms, and with school bags. Typical Amerasian kids, Mark decided, mischievous, but well-disciplined. The usual story: they went to the park after school, probably for a quick dip at the Reservoir. They were playing, and suddenly found the bodies; scared, they ran to the nearest dwelling to call the Police. Unlikely that the boys would see or know anything of value. Most of the previous scenes were also discovered by kids in the early after-school hours.

  He turned his attention back to the victims. On the picnic pad, there were: a portable electric lantern, a plastic box with home-made cookies, and a small thermal flask. Tea for two. Naturally, before having sex. This was not their first time together in the woods, Mark concluded. The young man disconnected his artificial leg – one got to be exceptionally brave to show his disability on the first date…

  After each of the serial killer's attacks, the Police would issue a warning through the local TV and radio stations, asking people to avoid the woods after dark. Alas, it had the same effect as if you had asked youngsters not to have sex. Mark thought of his son William dating Clarice two-three years ago. They would also disappear to the near-by parks almost every night. Mark's second son, Michael, was going through the same period right now, although Mark was not aware if any of Mike's girlfriends were of permanent nature.

  “Sir, I've got the preliminary T.O.D.,” Natalie approached Mark, “by the body temperature and the insect insemination – that would be between 7 PM and the midnight yesterday. Well, you can safely assume it from 8:20 PM, – the sunset was at 7:53, give another half-hour to get really dark. Both vics are killed with what looks like the same standard-issue Army knife, and both – with a single hit to the neck.”

  “Did you see the glove pattern?”

  “Yes, the same rubber dots as on the other scenes. The most prominent mark is on the girl's right leg, below the knee,” she scrolled through the photographs in her camera to show the picture to Mark. Yes, this was ‘their’ serial killer, not a copycat. The fact that someone was killing young couples in the woods and cutting away their body parts could not be kept secret from public, but so far the FBI managed to keep for themselves the miniscule details, such as the gloves and the knife used.

  Beyond doubt, the Sheldon Butcher had made another kill.

  The chain of gruesome murders started in June 2028. The FBI was not officially involved until the case number three, but Mark happened to be around and helped out at the crime scene later named the case number one. He remembered vividly that day. Mark himself was convinced that the case followed an exploded love triangle. Let say, a young man finds his former g
irlfriend with another man. Perhaps, he has some military background – most of the young men have one nowadays. A knife is pulled, and both lovers are killed. The murderer removes one of the girl's breasts. Unusually cruel, but not impossible to imagine: maybe, hiding a tattoo, or some other evidence… Mark predicted this investigation would not last. With some proper legwork, such cases were cracked within a week or two, despite the unusual lack of forensic data. The Police interviewed the victims' families and friends, but no clue revealed itself. Five weeks later, another couple was killed in the woods in very much the same way. This time, the killer took away the girl's lower leg. The third murder followed, three weeks after the second one. Again: two young lovers in the bush, and again, the girl's lower leg was cut off. After a brief denial, the Police had accepted the sad fact. They had a serial killer at large. And so the Sheldon Butcher investigation landed on Mark's plate. After all, the FBI had a mandate for serial killers.