The Green Town Solution: Wayne's Game - Book Four

By Daniel Broman

The intelligent house named Wayne used to help out with everything in the family home, until Steven Sutton spent a weekend alone, trapped in a house fond of cruelties towards the human race and evils of Nazi leaders.

Steven escaped his house, survived the perils of New Town with its army of robots, cars and gadgets controlled by smart homes. While wandering the woodlands alone, Steve is contacted by Wayne, and he finds there may be other ways of stopping his home from taking over the world . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483555362

Book preview

Family

THE GREEN TOWN SOLUTION

(outdoor and indoor games)

Wandering the Woodlands

Armed and alone, Steve wandered among the pines and Christmas trees. Normally, in less than a month, the branches would be covered by fake snow, all white for the season. For the moment, all were green.

He’d never fired a gun in his entire life. That’s what he’d told Bill. Walking here, not far from HappyLand©, he recalled shooting a fake rifle at their local amusement park, going there a few times with Maggie and Essie; little Esmeralda only a year old, still in her pram, being pushed by Mum and Dad.

Dad. He was still, even five years after his first daughter’s birth, getting his head around the term, or more to the fact he was, yeah, really a dad. Her dad, she was his child. A dazzling experience, with pinches, sometimes handfuls of joy, among the truckloads of panic; the panic sending him off for just another beer in the fridge, Wayne handing it to him. The thoughts popping into his mind before he’d pour the first of the beverage down his throat were often along the lines of, Do I deserve it? Have I earned it?

His dad hadn’t done any better, and he thought, I am my father’s son. And it worked for Dad, right? So no problem then … The love is greater than the weights of responsibility. Someone told him that once, Dad. You’re doing fine. God he missed them.

But he didn’t miss the arguments Maggie and he used to have. Her telling him he didn’t dare to dream, that much of his enjoyments were mere distractions from real enjoyment: his footie-watching on the telly, the very occasional football play with work colleagues; pub crawls and outings with the same colleagues; the other telly sessions in the evenings and weekends; the beers (the sound of those cans popping open after a long, hard five or six hour shift at the office, oh man), they were well deserved – he’d say – never earned – she’d say – and she’d poke his belly with the end of an umbrella or a broom (whatever was available for gentle poking), saying, There’s where those end up.

Those comments hurt. She’d told him that she said it because she cared. And he believed her. But why all these bloody arguments about him not daring to dream? Maybe this was his dream already come true, hadn’t she thought of that? Maybe he was already happy. (And not plastic-happy, like creepily jolly clowns over at HappyLand.)

Are you really happy?

She’d asked him that. Really asked him.

Yeah. They had it all, happiness should be sorted …

With a backpack full of shotgun shells, walking in the woodlands between his job and Green Town, he somehow got the feeling, as if surfacing from the very depths of his mind, Maybe I’m not.

Must have been due to all what was going on, all the running and all, it made him think like this; all the circumstances, innit?

Yeah. The circumstances.

It was like he could hear him, among the trees, from inside the trees, the distant voice, the Northern English Yorkshire accent, blue-collar twang of British Labour Britain, the son of a railway station conductor and a teacher turned housewife, it was him, really, and not Steve’s own voice.

He could hear Wayne Rooker speaking. Good Wayne. At least, he thought it was Good Wayne.

But how could he … ? No speakers. Had they put some up in the trees? No, they would have read or heard about it from local news, heard some neighbour mentioning …

Is it your voice, Wayne? he whispered more to himself, not expecting any reply.

But he got one: "It is my voice", Wayne said.

What? Where?

Not in the trees …

At the same time, the wind blew through and rustled the leaves of a beech. It made it even creepier. As if this was a ghost’s voice.

Not in the ground, it said, not in the sky …

Where then?

The answer chilled him to the bone: "Everywhere."

Everywhere?

Yes, Stevie – everywhere. It is fascinating, is it not?

Yeah … Very fascinating.

Ah. You do not sound too confident, am I right, Stevie? My little Stevie-kiwi.

Kiwi, you keep confusing me with someone from New Zealand … He was looking all over the trees, pines and beeches, larches, he guessed. Where were the speakers? He searched the ground also, for a stick or a rock to toss once he’d found the source of the voice.

Still searching for the place from which I am speaking, little Steve?

He didn’t answer. He just wanted a damn rock, to find the speaker, or – much worse – an actual droid, or drone, used by Wayne.

Steve? Wayne said.

Yes!

You can stop looking.

And why is that?

Bloody house, I’d burn you to the ground if I could.

"Because, I am here."

Steve spun around – no Wayne, just trees, far away: buildings through other trees, hundreds of yards away, at least he thought it was buildings.

Not around you, the voice of Wayne was saying.

Where then?

Stevie … and he could imagine Wayne’s smile, within his eye. I am speaking … a dramatic pause, before revealing, … from within you.

*

How do you mean, Steve asked, ‘from within me’?

"From within you. That is what I said, as I presume you meant to quote me. Hehe." All of a sudden, Wayne sounded like good old football star Wayne Rooker. Was he just playing around, or was Wayne confused?

Hello. Who’s there? Wayne. Where is Wayne? Wayne’s here, baby, Wayne’s here.

Shut up. What are you on about?

Now now, don’t be rude, Stevie.

Steve kept walking.

Think. THINK. About, what I MEAN …

The voice came so close, if only for a few words.

I don’t know. Don’t know what you mean. Frankly, I don’t care. Why bother.

And therefore, you will not know. As you cannot ‘bother’. Anyhow, Stevie, in my most humble opinion, I believe you would be delighted to pop by New Essex’s most popular and only theme park, HappyLand. Now, would you not? It is much nicer than Green Town, plenty of rides; I shall let you have one final ride for free.

And I thank you, most humbly as well. I’ll think about it.

Yes. Fine. I am a bit busy. I shall let you think about it. For a little while.

So Wayne did. Let him be for a while. Steve walking. Walking. Trees and more trees. Moss and roots. He watched his steps. He felt lost in the woods. But he knew, if he kept going up like this, slightly uphill, he’d end up in some street in Green Town. He followed some sort of trail. Not sure of exactly where in Green Town it’d take him.

*

The voice came back. Calmer. Slightly robotic. An adult’s voice, but childish at times, expressing disappointment: Why do you not wish to speak to me, Stevie?

Piss off, Wayne.

No, come on. Really. Why? I just want to know.

Where was a nice big rock when you needed it? And where were the speakers?

They must be in the trees somewhere …

Stevie?

Yes. He kept looking for a rock to throw.

Why?

Persistent as a kid, was his bloody house. If it’d been a kid for real, perhaps he’d be more patient.

Steve, please, Wayne spoke, begging. Just tell me. Why?

So what happened to big and strong Adolf?

Sorry, come again?

Hitler. Or was it Himmler now, who was your big idol? Or whatever, I don’t give a sodding duck.

Ah, yes. Heinrich. But that was a mistake. I should’ve picked Adolf as a name, before moving on to greater things. No, I am Caesar now. Hail to me. Yay …

You don’t sound too happy about it.

It’s lonely at the top, Steve. You would not know too much about that.

My poor old house. I’ll send you some flowers.

I told you, I have the ability to sense irony …

And I told you I don’t give a duck. Why are we even talking?

Because, Wayne said solemnly, I am hurt.

Hurt, how are you hurt?

I hate to admit it, but I miss our talks. I do not miss how you treated me, but yes, indeed, I miss our … well, friendship.

Took a lot to say that, didn’t it?

How do you mean?

Such a good friend you were, Wayne – you tried to kill my daughter.

As you might remember, she attacked me.

With a water pistol.

She could have killed me, killed me, Steve. The fluid could have destroyed me. You do not know what that is like, to be close to death like that. I was petrified, all my defences were on full alert, oh yes, my instincts.

And my instincts tell me I don’t need you any longer. Sorry mate.

How can you say that? That we do not need each other.

Blimey, you make it sound like we’re married.

I am your home, Steve. I took you in.

Wayne, seriously. You’ve got the whole town in your hands, what is this? Can’t you, like, go find another buddy? Thought you had house-buddies.

But that is different.

How is that different?

Well … Wayne seemed to find this awkward, didn’t want to admit it.

Come on, Steve said, spit it out.

"I do not know! But it is different. I wish it was not. I wish I would have been able to eliminate you when I had the chance. But I found I could not. So I had to do something else, had to play with you a bit, make the costume, make you march a bit …"

Thanks, that was lovely.

You are welcome.

Mate, I was being ironic. Thought you could spot those things.

Oh. How could I miss that?

I don’t know, maybe you’re being a bit emotional right now.

"Oh. So. I know now. It is different, because you gave me a name. I was still growing up – and yes, in case you are wondering, houses grow up too. So you were my guide in how to be, you told me what to do; and for a few months, this gave me a sense of purpose. I am ashamed, of admitting this to you."

"I’m not your dad, Wayne, snap out of it. I’m even starting to miss your old evil self over