Dark County

She looked at them and wondered how many were on the level. There were over a hundred people crammed into this dingy farm building. Decent number for a rural area. Enough to prove the rumoured unrest was real. Enough to outnumber the local authorities too.

How many were genuine anarchists though? How many prepared to act?

How many were even genuine? Rumours of government moles were rife. Imposters planted among the herd to take the temperature. Sense the threat. Check their competence.

Raids were common now. Detention centres had sprung up. Get caught at a meeting like this and life could get difficult quickly.

Suzie pulled the lip of her hood forward and scanned the building for bolt holes. Just the door that she had entered by and another on the opposite wall. In front of that two men were busy setting up a TV.

If they were raided, then there was little chance of escape. But she’d been to enough of these meetings to know the risks.

Suzie looked around. Strange, no one she recognised.

There would always be a politically activated minority. Dropouts and malcontent students, standing – shoulder to pidgeon-chested shoulder – with the burnt-out beards and braids who fed vicariously on their youthful passion and certainty of change.

This lot were different though. These weren’t marginalised intellectuals. There were suits here. Even uniforms.

No, this was something bigger. A universal cause.

She looked at the flyer again.

“Dream of a fairer society? Tired of corruption, empty promises, and lies? Want real change? www.darkcounty.co.uk”

That had led Suzie to the boards, private messages, and ultimately to this.

But what was this?

At that moment the TV came to life. A video call was connecting. The familiar ringtone drew silence and bought the crowd in closer.

A composite figure soon answered. Its body; real, androgynous, average build, wore a dark suit. Its head, on the other hand, was digitised; an animated image of an old man with a deep tan, thick glasses, and bald head.

‘Good evening,’ it said, the voice artificially fluctuating. ‘My name is Friedman.’

As the figure spoke the digital face moved, mirroring the words.

‘Some of you may recognise me, I was once famous. During my lifetime I won the Nobel Prize which enabled me to influence Prime Ministers and Presidents. I altered their way of thinking, and indirectly changed the world forever. Your world.’

Friedman leaned into the camera.

‘I am the reason you are here.’

‘You see, I was the driving force behind the free market economy; the system we’ve lived in for fifty years, the one that allows anyone to do anything… for a price.’

The smile it gave now was digitally enlarged and showed an unnatural number of teeth.

‘I was the one behind the deregulation of the financial markets, deregulation that encouraging bankers to take greater risks, to collapse economies. I was the one that emphasised the need for profit above all else, creating a system where CEOs of national institutions are owned by billionaires, and where businesses buy governments.’

Friedman held its arms out theatrically.

‘I am the grandfather of the one percent. I gave birth to the world that made you a commodity. I enabled them to make you irrelevant. You…’

Suzie could feel a tension growing in the room.

‘You.’

Friedman pointed at the camera and nodded.

‘And you… but you don’t have to be.’

Friedman let that sink in for a moment.

‘For years our society has been built on division. Division by class. Religion. Politics. Ideology. Deliberately pitting black against white. Red against blue. Christian against Muslim. East versus west. Time and time and time again. And why? Because the logic is tried and tested.’

Freidman held both hands open, like scales.

‘Create two armies and they focus their attention on each other. So afraid for their own lives, they won’t ever think to look up at the Generals! Look up and ask if the battle is a just one!’

Friedman wagged a finger.

‘Well, I say no more, I say it is time to take action.’

‘Fucking right.’ Someone shouted.

A few others agreed.

Then more. The entire room.

Twenty miles away, in another similarly sized room, servers flashed furiously. They were analysing a live feed from a camera located within the TV, then matching the faces of those present to a central database that did not officially exist.

One by one the attendees were identified.

Only a solitary hooded figure eluded them.