The World Of Steam

1

The year was 2068. God was dead. England had turned into a billowing cinder of smoke that refused to cease, no matter what we tried. All of our attempts were futile. Steam and gas had taken over the world once more, rising up from the ground like the rotting undead. Oil and petrol were merely a thing of the past – a long forgotten memory left to rot away inside the decaying, rusting barrels. The 120,000 miles of pipelines were completely dry and rusted, their metal frames turning cracked and brown. They were used for nothing but mere decoration, just built to make the murky landscape look pretty. There was not a single oilfield worker left in existence, there being nothing left for them to pump out. The land was as dry as a bone, the oil wells were parched and useless. The only purpose they served was to be used as scrap metal, their frames melted down and turned into other machines of industry and war. It was all coal and wood now, burning away in furnaces, turning into charcoal and refuse. We had gone backwards almost three centuries, back to the Victorian era. The country was turned upside down and inside out with no way of being able to be restored to its former glory. Pollution plagued the world. You are probably thinking to yourself that there was at least one good outcome out of the madness. Well let me tell you, there wasn't. The air was toxic, the only thing that my tongue could taste was charcoal and ammonia. It was horrible. My taste buds burned. The flavour of food was all but a distant memory to me. The only places that weren't industrialised were small islands, with no use to anyone. I wasn't surprised if the Space Agency was searching for a planet made of oil. What a brilliant discovery that would be in a time like this. It would take us back to the past when things were much simpler. But for now, we had to settle on the dystopia that we had created for ourselves. We were the architects of our own destruction. I walked by an empty, run down store that had long since closed down and looked at myself, catching my reflection in the window. I was dressed in a long, brown trench coat that was old, scuffed and had seen better days. My hands were gloved in tight, brown leather. There was a matching fedora atop of the black double filter gas mask that was permanently stuck to my head. Life expectancies were quite short in a city such as this one. I did not want to take any chances, whatever the probability – however high, however low. Industrial air filters did nothing to cease the smoke. You could dot a hundred of them around London and you would still be breathing in phosphorus. There was no difference made in whatever anyone tried. But there had to be a solution. There had to be. If we did not find one, then London would turn into a ghost city within half a year, maybe even less. You are probably thinking to yourself, why don't I just get out of here? Why don't I just go and start a new life, away from all of the poison? Well let me tell you. Outside of the boundaries of London, I had nothing. No spare houses laying around, no friends, no lodgings, just the place where I have lived for the past two decades. What was out there for me? Empty, gas filled streets, that was what. I turned from the window and kept walking along the street. Suddenly, there was a loud roar as an eight hundred foot Zeppelin flew over my head. I stopped and looked up at it as it belched gas and fumes from all sides, covering the already blackened sky. Well, it was more brown and grey, but still, you get the gist of things. The summers were cold, the winters even more so. I had forgotten when was the last time that I had seen the sun. It hid itself in the smoke, trying desperately to come out, but failing each time. The machines that we had created were not used for transport or to make our lives easier. They were only primarily built for one purpose. War. That was how it happened. King George VII wanted it to be this way. Well, he got what he wanted, and now we were all dying because of his ideas. The hospitals were full to the brim, the waiting lists were months long. The doctors and nurses were permanently working overtime, trying to cure their patients, every single one of them on the verge of burnout. The undertakers and the gravediggers had their work cut out for themselves, sometimes even burying bodies in pairs. Psychiatrists themselves were going insane. And the worst part about all of this? There was nothing that we could do about it. We just had to sit and watch as we all choked ourselves to death. Looking ahead of myself once more, I continued my journey. A spluttering car drove past me, pouring out black smoke from its chimney. A small burning furnace sat underneath the bonnet, cooking the coals. Madness. I walked up to an office, unlocking the door. I stepped inside, closed the door behind myself and unbuttoned my trench coat, hung it onto the coat rack. Underneath, I wore a brown, three-piece pinstripe suit, a plain brown waistcoat and a brown pinstripe shirt underneath, complete with matching pinstripe trousers and a red tie around my neck. Stepping over to my desk, I sat down at it. All I could do now was sit and wait for any clients to come by. I was a private detective after all. The job was easy enough and offered me no stress from the industrial work that most people did. Suddenly, the door opened up. I reached into my waistcoat and drew out an 18 carat gold pocket watch on a chain. That was quick. Putting my pocket watch back into its place, I looked back towards my new client who stood in front of me. A standard policeman stood there, dressed in his uniform. He wore tight navy trousers, gleaming, shined shoes and a navy shirt with a thin black tie around his neck. His badge was displayed on his shirt pocket and he carried a navy policeman's hat on his head, the insignia of the police service on it. "How can I help?" I asked him.

"We need your help to track someone down." He replied. Without asking, I stood up from my desk, fixing up my tie, and reached for my trench coat.

"Lead the way."