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Tales from Sector C:



John Dodsworth




Shakespir Edition

Copyright © 2017 by John Wiber


Shakespir Edition License Notes

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The black sedan pulls up to the curb and stops abruptly. Rain pelts down from the charcoal sky, leaving tiny droplets and streaks on the windshield. The windows are heavily tinted and the car idles beside the curb for a moment before the engine shuts off. Carlos steps out from the driver`s side door, reaching down beside the seat to pop the trunk. There`s a group of X——-heads huddled beneath a canopy of an adjacent apartment building. They all stop and stare as Carlos removes a red duffle bag from the trunk, closing it quickly so that no one passing by can see the contents of what’s hidden inside; a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun, black briefcase with biometric locking device, duct tape, wire, two hunting knifes, plastic bags, and a couple bricks of X——-.

He looks around again, surveying the street. He knew how out of place he looked wearing a suit in this neighbourhood.

There are abandoned cars littering the street like so many discarded coffee cups. The gas rations barely made it out past Sector B. There are lilacs sprouting up through the cracked pavement, and a dull whispering wind that creeps over the dead land.

“Whatcha got there?” one of the X——-heads calls out. He has a giant nose ring that hangs down to his lip and a variety of other piercings embedded in his face. The rest of them look about the same, piercings and tattoos hidden behind tattered t-shirts and low-hanging pants. One of the junkies is missing the lower portion of his left arm, likely from drug-rot. They had the eyes of hungry dogs; rabid dogs with long faces and deep eye sockets. One of them is wearing a shirt that has the letters PA sitting atop a burning Canadian flag emblazon.

Carlos ignores them and shuts the trunk, making sure to double tap the lock button on his key fob. Not that it mattered, he thinks to himself. The car could only be opened by his own biometrics. He begins to move across the road towards the row of townhouses.

There are garbage cans overflowing with filth piled at the edge of the sidewalks, and graffiti everywhere; crude imitations of the Darwin being decapitated, burning Canadian flags, and the insignia for the People`s Army everywhere.

When Carlos notices the group of X-----heads moving with him, he stops and turns, lifting his leather jacket to reveal the 9mm Beretta tucked inside his waistline. The X-----heads take notice and disperse. There was nothing more useless to society than a drug addict, which was why the WIC had started producing X----- in the first place.

“Chill out, man,” one of them says, spitting in Carlos’ direction.

He was far out in Sector C, completely off the grid. He was exposed and he knew it.

These were the foot soldiers, the lowest of the low. They operated in separate cells, and every cell was different. As so often happens with fanaticism, there are those who misinterpret the cause. This, of course, was exactly why Carlos existed; to help facilitate such misunderstandings, thus ensuring more violence, more death, more destruction. The only thing to interpret is that one side always wins, Carlos thinks to himself. If you can’t see that, well then, you don’t deserve to be on our side.

Rain starts coming down harder and so Carlos trots towards the row of townhouses, the red duffle bag swinging against his hip. Some of the houses have black garbage bags in their windows, and Carlos can hear a dog barking from a unit close by. There’s a young boy playing with his bicycle on one of the tiny front lawns, and he stops and stares at Carlos as he makes his way past. He has scabs covering his arms and legs. Disgusting little beast, Carlos thinks. That’s what you get with an inferior specimen.

“Insider!” the child hollers, pointing at Carlos with a shaking finger. He glances at the child sideways and watches him run off towards his front door.

This was ground zero for the People’s Army. Down half a block, Carlos could see the remnants of a burned-down apartment complex, most likely the result of a fire-bombing by the SSF, or an accidental explosion of one of the PA’s homemade bombs. Savages.

He approaches the very first unit in the row and knocks on the door, looking upwards to find a video camera greeting him from above, the lens peering down on him like an emotionless cyclops. He can hear some muffled noises from behind the door, and he waves at the camera, taking off his glasses and looking straight into the lens. He adjusts his tie and waits. Paranoia runs rampant in these parts, like an unhinged faucet. The rain falls all cold and heavy on his shoulders. Carlos pounds on the door again and yells, “Open the fucking door!”

Almost instantly, the door is flung back and Carlos is staring down the barrel of an automatic rifle. He was very much aware of the little red dot which was currently dancing upon his forehead, like a ray of sun. The man holding the gun has a black bandana covering the lower portion of his face. His eyes are like black marbles, a classic sign of an X----- user.

“Let me see the scar.”

Carlos shows him the scar on the backside of his neck where he’d been excavated.

“You got a cell phone on you?”

“No,” Carlos replies coldly.

“Check his pockets,” the man with the gun says to an unseen stranger. Another man appears from behind the door. He is a burly giant of a man with broad shoulders and a scraggly beard. His arms are covered in faded green tattoos, as well as his chest and neck. He grunts as he pats down Carlos, groping his legs and torso with the well-practiced hands of an ex-soldier. He’s a defector. A turncoat. A man who was blessed with the privilege, and turned his back on it. Carlos had no pity for defectors. Enablers. Like giving a heroine addict a needle.

“He’s clean for gadgets,” the ex-soldier says. “He’s got a gun in his belt.”

“Take it from him.”

The man with the automatic rifle finally lowers the barrel and Carlos steps inside the house. Despite its shabby demeanor on the outside, the inside of the townhouse is a highly technological and polished landscape. The place was a buzz with activity, with bare hardwood floors and walls covered with various screens, monitors, and wires.

There’s a poster of the President covered in red Xs and various other crude graffiti. DEATH TO MONROEDEATH TO THE SSF is spray painted upon the back wall in crude black letters. There are stacks and stacks of books which had been discarded from Sector A long ago. Why waste their time with such frivolous things anymore? George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, Marx, Hemmingway, Faulkner, and the rest. What was the point of reading such trite? Human empathy was simply a symptom of weakness. Of rationalization. It wasn’t natural to have empathy, since the point of everything is survival.

A half dozen miniature televisions are lined up against the front hallway wall, various camera views being live-streamed. Carlos can see himself on one of the screens. Beyond the entrance is a wide open room. There are more surveillance monitors set up along the far side wall. They have the entire block under surveillance, and Carlos can see the group of X——heads standing by his car. They better not fuck with my car, bloody savages. There is a large oblong table in the middle of the room with various items atop it, including a detailed map of Sector B’s Light Rail system.

“So, what do you have for us?” the man with the red bandana asks.

“Exactly what you asked for.”

The man studies Carlos with squinted eyes. “All of it?”


Carlos sets the red duffel bag down on the table and unzips it. He pulls out a bundle of electrical wire rolled neatly in a loop, some switches, the small brief case, a container filled with red capsules that once dissolved can be used as a catalyst, ten thousand tabs of X——-, and finally, a box of titanium nails.

“Here you go,” he says, standing back from the table.

The group of men look on, studying the contents of the bag almost as closely as they are studying him. Carlos notices a Muslim man in full beard and turban standing in the corner of the room. That was a rare site these days, even out here in Sector C. Most of the Muslims had been transported to the Mid-West by now. And it won’t be long till this fella joins the rest of them. Either that or he’ll be dead.

It didn’t make much difference either way.

Carlos turns to leave but one of the men, a Hispanic looking fellow, yells for him to stop, pointing a rusted AK-47 directly at his chest.

“Just wait a minute bro,” he says, the barrel of the gun staring at Carlos like an all black pupil. “Why do they call you ‘Carlos,’ eh? You don’t look very Spanish to me.”

Carlos laughs. “You serious bro?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” he says, brandishing the AK.

“Okay,” Carlos sighs. “It’s pretty simple really. Carlos is the name the SSF gave me.”

Silence as he waits, pulling his lips back in what he can only hope is perceived as an innocent smile.

The Hispanic man’s eyes narrow, and Carlos can see the barrel begin to shake.

When the first man begins to laugh, the rest slowly follow. The Hispanic man lowers his weapon, although remains skeptical, staring at Carlos with the dead eyes of a grievously unamused man.

“What’s it matter what my name is? You got what you need.”

The man with the bandana nods and Carlos is allowed to leave.

On his way out he can hear the men ruffling through the various gifts Carlos had brought them. Hope you enjoy it while it lasts, assholes.

Outside, he can smell smoke in the air. Everything seemed a shade grayer in Sector C.

They know as well as we do. This is the wasteland.

Carlos shudders as he moves away from the house.

Of course, Carlos wasn’t SSF, not technically. He wasn’t anything. His identity was sealed. He was a tool. A weapon. His purpose: disturb and disrupt.

The same group of X——-heads are standing just behind his car, eying him as he makes his way towards them. Carlos walks on the other side of the street so that his pistol is adjacent to the group. Like starved dogs. He honestly didn’t blame them, he didn’t even hate them. It just was as it was. In the end, they know what they are.

A siren sounds somewhere in the distance.

Carlos makes his way for the driver’s side of the car while the X——heads are momentarily distracted. Nothing scared a paranoid drug addict worse than the sound of a siren.

Natural Selection.

Charles Darwin had it right. Fuck god, Fuck jesus, Fuck lucifer. Carlos would take Darwin over any of those old fools. It all came down to evolution. May the strongest survive while the weak perish. That was the only point. The end goal. Survival.

He starts the car and revs the engine, shooting a puff of smoke out from the tailpipe. The X——-heads yell obscenities and move further away from the car, giving up any final hopes of armed robbery or assault that they may have had. Typical. Too scared to take on a real man, but those thugs wouldn’t hesitate to take down a little old lady.

They don’t notice the miniature black briefcase that Carlos placed on the ground before entering his car. And as he pulls away, spinning the tires so that more smoke fills the air behind the SUV, he snickers as he pulls out the electronic trigger.

Hell, if there was a god, he’d be thanking me for this shit.

He waits until he’s down the block before detonating the remote.

The explosion rocks the street, shattering windows in the nearby apartments. One of the X——-heads remains alive, although his abdomen has been punctured by shrapnel, his intestines spilling through his fingers like strands of spoiled spaghetti. Carlos can hear him shrieking in pain from down the block. Savaged limbs lay upon the pavement like dead toads, staining the already battered roads with blood. People scream and rush from their houses, forming a panicked circle around the chaos.

They were in the final phase now, and the protocol called for the apprehension, detainment, or destruction of all available targets. Drug dealers, members of the PA, some dude who called the President a faggot on a phone call one afternoon, it didn’t really matter who, so long as they had trainloads of people heading for the Mid-West before the Security Wipe commenced.

Carlos makes a right turn and continues driving. The explosion would surely bring the SSF, who would undoubtedly find the stash house in which Carlos had left substantial incriminating evidence. This would either lead to an arrest, or a shoot-out. It didn’t really matter which, the only thing that mattered was the same universal truth as old as humanity itself: survival.






Travel to the year 2039 in this dystopian North America where the governments of Canada, America and Mexico have consolidated, and society is segregated into Sectors. A haunting glimpse of what could become of our increasingly militarized society, as the public's privacy is slowly reduced to absolutely zero and where the ruling class have adopted a new religion which guides their horrendous motives throughout the series; Darwinism. Meet Carlos, a double agent for the SSF, as he infiltrates a hostile terrorist cell of the People's Army in his never ending quest to cause chaos and destruction. The cruelty of man is epitomized through the mentality of this haunting protagonist. Beware of the harsh truths which he may reveal...

  • Author: John Dodsworth
  • Published: 2017-06-01 04:05:09
  • Words: 2332
Carlos Carlos