Brexit provides opportunity to TV presenter and entrepreneur.
The problem was if you didn't have a high enough regular income to service your energy, health and food requirements, then you were forced to sell it anyway.
To the government.
Because cars and houses were so expensive, everyone lived close to their workplaces. The government and large companies controlled the whole population.
This was life as it was now. Everyone accepted it. The present generation had known no different, but there were still people who remembered what it was like to have a car, or a house or natural food.
Special Police Forces patrolled the streets.
In 2040, life wasn't much fun.
If you were alive.
The Glock felt heavy in his hand. It was old, but it was his favorite. Polymer frame. Ferritic nitrocarburizing. It wouldn't rust.
He was racking his brain, trying to work out how many rounds he'd used.
He could check, but he didn't have time. He had to make it to the dumpster.
Or he was dead.
Assume twelve. That means three rounds left. I've got to make it to the dumpster.
He took a deep breath.
The Package was at his feet. That's what he called him: The Package. No point getting personal. They wouldn't know each other for long. He might even be dead soon. Who knew? No point being on a first name basis with a corpse.
"Get the fuck up," he said. "We have to make it to the dumpster. Can you make it?"
The Package was breathing heavily. He was out of condition. He nodded.
"I....think....so," he said between gasps.
Why can't they send me to get someone fit for once? Even just healthy. Someone who could at least run more than ten meters without throwing up.
"Well don't think so, know so," he said. "When I say 'three' we bolt for the dumpster. And...."
"....and what?" asked The Package.
"Don't expect me to fucking carry you. If it comes down to you or me, it's me. Do you fucking understand?"
The Package nodded, his face red with exertion.
The rain kept coming down, a steady drizzle. The slick blackness of the bitumen looked treacherous in the dark, but they had to make it. The police weren't far behind.
He tightened his grip on the empty bottle in his hand.
He threw the empty bottle twenty metres down the alley and high into the air. He pulled The Package to his feet by the collar and turned and ran in the other direction.
As fast as he could.
The bottle smashed as it hit the bitumen.
Thirty meters to go.
He made it. He was behind the dumpster. The Package lumbered towards him and made it too.
That's why he trained. If he got out of this alive, he would never again procrastinate about getting out of bed to train. Jessica had always complained about the amount of time he spent training. He always told her that it was about being prepared.
She didn't complain anymore.
She was dead.
Stop thinking about her. You have to get this fat fuck back and collect your money.
That's all you should be thinking about.
Fat fuck. A bit of alliteration. Poetry under gunfire. Had to be a book in that....
Stop fucking around, Hansen.
There were still no shots. No footsteps. Just the rain dripping off the dumpster, into the puddles in the bitumen. Just the heavy breathing of his alliterative companion. The Package. The fat fuck.
Maybe I've lost them.
Yeah, right. Or maybe they're getting into better positions....
He bent down on one knee and checked the gun. The Glock had three rounds left.
So, he'd used twelve.
I need to get out of this alley.
There were three ways out. The way he'd come in was one. He wasn't going back that way. There was also the end of the alley.
Too far for The Package.
There was another right-of-way that ran off the alley.