The Anarchists

by Brian Thompson

  THE ANARCHISTS

  BRIAN THOMPSON

  Copyright © 2012 by Brian Thompson

  Great Nation Publishing

  3828 Salem Road #56

  Covington, GA 30016

  www.greatnationpublishing.com

  email: info@greatnationpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. The names Stan Witmore, Mason Conway, Justin Rochester, Harper Charlotte Lowe, Samantha Wright, Wynter Dawn, Yvette Sloan, Crystal Cantrell, Madison Marie Coley, Ramsey Mateo, Ellis Murtaugh, and Kelly Roshenburger were provided by the “Name a Character” contest winners and released for use with all legal rights. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To: My Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, whose life continues to inspire and shape mine.

  My “number one” Heather: a special thank you for this story’s framework and your personal sacrifices and my parents, Bradley Harley, Sr. and Barbara Thompson for their undying support!

  Everyone who provided invaluable input, especially: Reggie Alford, Stacey Bancroft, Adrienne Boisson, Martha Brown, Nakia Brown, Samedia R. Bryant, Debra Franks, Michelle Hover, Jeff Ransom, Jackie Rodriguez, Jenna Tress, and Susan Williamson.

  All my former teachers who continue to inspire me: Tim Askew, Cindy Lutenbacher, Sandi Delp-Naso, Sue Posch, Toni Salaam-Butz, Kathy Walsh, and Linda Zatlin. I appreciate you more than you know.

  Steven Manchester, my friend, and brother-in-Christ. Thank you.

  The “Name a Character” contest winners (in alphabetical order): Rosa Batchan, Nick Carita, Carolyn Davis, Lauren Ellington, Jesse Epps, Kristi Lambert, LaKesha Mills, Barbara Shelton, April Ragland, Lisa Sinnock, Valerie Strawmier, and Jean Williamson. Thank you for your unique contributions.

  My student virtual assistants: Maryann Key, Alex Oshifodunrin, and Lynae Bogues. Thanks!

  Also, to my “Superfriends” Tyora Moody of Tywebbin Book Tours, Tia McCollors, Kemya Scott, Maria Joyner, Starr Hall, and Jonathan Brown/Definitive Visions, LLC. You are appreciated.

  To my pastor Bishop Eddie L. Long: thank you for teaching me how to withstand adversity.

  Watch for Reject High, the first book in a Young Adult series, coming in 2013.

  This work is dedicated to those struggling to make things right in the world.

  PROLOGUE

  Bound at the feet and hands, Noor straightened his posture. A crooked smile crept across his mouth as his eyes met those of his judge’s heir. “I dared to overthrow your righteous kingdom and take his place,” he spat with contempt. “There, I admit it. End this joke of a trial and suffer me to die.”

  EL’s voice filled the chamber. “So be it.”

  Noor flinched, as blue winds whipped about his body. The floor vanished into darkness. He looked away, bracing himself for the worst. Swept into the air, he dropped down. . . down – faster and farther than any flight he had ever known. As he plummeted, those who supported the coup joined him – nearly half of EL’s finest. To his surprise, the number included his five, most trusted lieutenants and secret co-conspirators.

  Together, they rebelled against the command to serve. And together, they would perish for it.

  The convicted crossed realms. From their origin in the third, to the second among the heavenly bodies, and into the last – that of the mortals. The skies cracked with thunder and lightning. Stars tethered themselves to each of the beings, giving the brilliant appearance of a billion falling flames, and the pungency of brimstone filled the air. The collisions flattened the mountains, raising valleys into new, higher precipices. Geysers of hot water spurted up through the fissures in the ground and formed boiling pools around the incinerated plant life.

  Noor rolled over to his knees. Indeed, his essence had changed into that of a mortal female about the age of 20. He was alone, and retained several of his unnatural abilities.

  But this body’s sensations startled him. Small bumps appeared on its skin, but the flickering yellow bursts nearby abated them. He approached one of them until the fire overwhelmed him and he jumped backwards onto a jagged stone.

  He winced, for the rock pierced the heel of his right foot and drew blood. Marvel and fascination over the pain excited him. EL forbade His servants to see blood, for it represented suffering to the mortals. It also possessed an ancient secret that only humans could choose to understand. Pursuit of that mystery for himself led to his capture and subsequent dismissal.

  Why had EL exiled him and changed his gender? What purpose did that serve?

  After the fire dissipated, a pile of neatly-folded clothes appeared in its place. Scorning the mercy, he dressed anyway. A few attempts passed before he appropriately wore them. Surveying the area, Noor recognized the city on the horizon – he had visited this particular peninsula several times before – and admired it for its lack of social restriction. Thus, he’d adopt its moniker as his forename and keep Noor as a surname.

  In the remote distance, the smoldering horizon beckoned to be explored. Noor remembered the divine decrees, which indicated the lifespan a mortal would not exceed 120 years. He could not locate his trusted soldiers in that time, not if EL had changed their appearance, as He had to Noor. No, he must recruit five humans and find them in a century’s time.

  “If I cannot rule in EL’s realm,” he resolved, “then I will conquer this one.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  MICAH AND HARPER

  New Year’s Eve morning, 2049

  Prior to committing what some considered murder, Micah Darrion James held a high resolution photo of his family. Meanwhile, Harper Lowe, his always punctual girlfriend, changed from a fire engine red, v-neck sweater shirt and grey dress slacks into a knitted top and jeans.

  Harper was a slender and leggy Caucasian, with shoulder-length blonde hair she ponytailed and obsessively dyed black to mask the premature gray. For the picture, she let it down at Micah’s urging. Christian, then six months old, had been propped up between his father’s thick legs, a smile squeezing from his fat cheeks. Two-year-old Gabrielle, his ebony-skinned daughter from a previous relationship, held a plush toy. Still tanned from the vacation, Micah laughed. His natural curls were cut low. It was his 38th birthday, about a year-and-a-half ago.

  Last night, he happened to coerce his mother into entertaining her grandchildren for a few hours on New Year’s Eve morning. He and Harper needed “couple time.” Otherwise, the former scientist would question her son into the ground about their doings, asking “where are you going?” and “why can't the family go with you?” A two-time divorcée, Laverne James heavily scrutinized the relationships of both her sons – especially this interracial one. She informed him that Harper’s enlarged breasts signaled pregnancy. He explained it as the effects of a push-up bra and hoped she left it at that.

  Micah and Harper did not speak en route to the facility. It was their least expensive option, shoddy in more than a few ways, and situated in a dangerous location. Words had been previously exchanged on the subject, but nothing constructive. Harper was “irresponsible” and “forgetful.” Micah, who had gotten downsized months ago, was “jobless” to his face and “basically worthless” behind his back. Because of their collective gross inadequacies, they agreed to end it. A third-party’s involvement meant neither had to dirty their hands in the deed. The decision itself would rem
ain a joint one.

  Their transport rattled, halting at a traffic intersection where it moved no more. Micah cursed and authorized the ignition again, but the engine failed. Jupiter, an American auto giant, specialized in practical vehicles, but this one passed its prime 50,000 miles ago.

  Harper started the vehicle’s warning lights and expectantly looked at her boyfriend of three years. We should have traded it in years ago, like I told him we should do.

  “I’ve got it.” He cursed again before entering the pouring rain without Harper’s umbrella, protected by his stained, black leather coat. Beneath the hood, his patchwork had not held: a critical hose hissed steam from a tiny split. Wrapping the crack to the best of his ability, he reconnected the hose. This time, the hydroelectric engine sparked alive.

  “Piece of junk,” she snidely remarked. “We’re going to be so late.”

  Completely drenched, Micah cranked the heat to high and cut his eyes at her. “At least we own it. We’ll get there in time.”

  “These people don’t wait. It's not a drive-through window, Micah. You can’t just get there when you get there and expect a D&C like a Happy Meal.”

  I'm not the one who changed outfits. “It’s New Year’s Eve. We’ll be waiting anyway.”

  Micah tuned the satellite radio to something he could listen to and drown her out. When the station played a classical song he liked, Harper shut it off.

  “Do you have to be like that, Harp?”

  She crossed her arms. “I love the sound of falling rain, and I can't hear it over that.”

  He knew that but did not care. Silence forced him to dwell on his lingering drowsiness. Micah lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

  “Really?” Harper shook her tousled hair, which showed hints of gray and blonde at the roots. “Of all the things you can think of to do. . .”

  Micah exhaled smoke. “You shut off the satellite, I'm soaked, and you want to piss and moan about a cigarette? Listen to your rain and leave me alone.”

  Harper’s hands cupped the bottom of her growing belly. Micah noticed it. “It’s not a ‘him’ or a ‘her’ yet,” he said, his voice trailing off. “It doesn’t matter. . .not now.”

  “It’s a boy,” she ventured. “I know it, and it matters to me. You would too if. . .”

  “C’mon.”

  She turned in her seat. “Your great-grandfather. . .”

  “It didn't happen. And you can’t have faith just because someone in your family did. That’s part of why church is so fake now. . .”

  Here we go. “There were articles, pictures, eyewitnesses. . . what about all the people he healed?”

  “. . .and you’ve got people pretending to love God, or even know him, or her, or it. People get leadership roles because they know how to work crowds. They put together shows with God slapped on them somewhere. I don’t understand how you can believe in that. It’s a con. I won't even get into the money thing.”

  “My faith lets me sleep at night,” she shot back, “and I know that even after we do what we’re about to do, God will still love us. Faith isn't a scientific thing, Mike.”

  The allusion to his insomnia irritated him. “God will forgive you, if you know it’s wrong and you do it anyway? That’s weak.”

  “That's love and mercy.”

  They said no more on the subject until Micah stopped at the clinic. Despite the rain, a line of silent but hostile-looking protesters blocked the entrance. A pang of fear hit his stomach. “These wackos make me nervous. Wait for me at the curb. I’ll walk you in.”

  “Why, so we can be even later?” Harper opened the door, umbrella in hand. “Just park. I don’t care where those people post up our pictures. We had a nine o' clock and it’s 9:11. After 20 minutes, they cancel you, and I’m not going into the New Year without ending this.”

  “Ending what exactly. . .us, or the pregnancy?” He suspected the answer. “Just wait.”

  She departed without responding. Micah watched the canary yellow oval approach the gathering dressed in all black. If he abandoned the Jupiter in the unloading area and it got towed, that would be another financial burden. And then they would not have a way home.

  Harper tried to circle the line, but a gaunt woman with a face painted like a skull blocked into her path. “Consider your options carefully,” she warned.

  The irony of options humored Harper. “Snap a picture and get out of my way.”

  “Give it up for adoption. Let a relative raise her. Take responsibility and raise her yourself. This isn’t just about you and how you live your life.”

  Harper cursed Skull Face. “Then, who's it about: my unemployed boyfriend? The bills we can’t pay? What do you even know about anything?”

  “I know women like you use abortion like an eraser. Murder's a sin!”

  “Do you have children? Have you even had sex before?”

  The brazen woman’s lip quivered a bit.

  “Do you adopt? Take in foster kids? Show me one scripture that says ‘tell someone what to do, but don’t help them.’ That’s a sin. Tell me! We’ll turn around and go figure this thing out.”

  “You could have prevented it.” Skull Face reloaded on rhetoric. “Contraceptives work almost all of the time unless you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Harper raised her fist to strike but a clinician kept her from doing so by restraining the expectant mother's wrist.

  “That’s enough.” The woman had forced her way through the crowd. “The ban goes into effect tomorrow. Give this young lady the opportunity to exercise her right to choose today.”

  “Choosing death is not God’s will!” said Skull Face.

  “Maybe not,” said the clinician. “But what about free will?”

  At that, the doors shut behind them at 9:19.

  Inside the whitewashed and sterile waiting room, Micah imagined the programmers responsible for the trippy music had been lobotomized. Four magazines later, the power cell of his holographic phone, or “holophone,” had reduced to emergency levels, severely limiting his entertainment options. The spectacled nurse looked wroth and unwilling to change the HTV channel from the forum talk show airing. This type of holographic programming irked him even more than the judgmental assembly outside. He pushed his way through the ranks like a linebacker.

  Irritated, Micah redirected his attention to the show, which, at a low volume, sounded like fighting turkeys. It featured five women of different walks of life analyzing and debating issues. Far stage right, a conservative pundit on the panel had a fashion sense as buttoned-up as her viewpoints. Next to her sat a wisecracking, middle-aged businesswoman. At center, Kareza Noor, a beautiful, middle-aged local executive, acted as guest moderator. To her left, a popular liberal provoked arguments to rankle the right-winger. Last on the panel, an Asian woman folded her hands and rarely spoke her mind.

  The topic swung from trivial gossip to the changes in abortion legislation. The front desk attendant turned up the volume. Micah leaned forward and cocked his head. Though the James/Lowe family’s finances were in disarray, this one thing went their way. The law would not go into effect until midnight tomorrow. Had Harper’s boss Jackie not advanced them the monetary units, they would have had this child. Thinking about the diapers, formula, and healthcare expenses alone made his nights restless.

  “Some of these peaceful demonstrations have turned violent, especially in Florida, and New York City – which has the highest number of legally-induced abortions. It’s not about ‘put-my-picture-on-a-website-so-everyone-knows-my-shame’ anymore. People are getting killed,” said Kareza with definition.

  “Well, abortion – it’s murder. Period. Point-blank.” The conservative crossed her arms. “The legislation squares with existing laws. Kill a pregnant woman? You’re charged with double murder.” She flipped her hand. “Can’t call it alive when on one hand, and deny it’s alive on the other!”

  “Murder is illegal,” said the finger-pointing liberal. “But abortion shouldn�
��t be. I’ll put it out there. I own an Ordnance.”

  The funny one ducked, drawing nervous laughs from the live audience. “You brought it here, on the set? Take her purse! Pat her down or something.”

  “That's my Second Amendment right. How I use it is my choice. This new law takes freedom of choice away and enforces a system of beliefs on all women. That’s unconstitutional. That’s the decision handed down 80 years ago, Roe. Vs. Wade, and it should stand.”

  “So, let me get this straight: citizens should have the choice to shoot someone or kill babies?” the conservative barked. “Why even open your mouth and say something so stupid?”

  “Stupid? Free will is stupid? What do you do about the poor and impoverished without access to free contraception and educational services because our conservative president cut funding to it? Tell them not to have sex? We were all teenagers once. Trust me: ‘just don’t do it’ doesn’t work.”

  Micah found interest in the topic, though his views were simple. They couldn’t afford it. Laverne couldn’t stand to help, and Harper’s affluent mother wouldn't. A couple thousand monetary units now were better than the millions they may spend in the years to come. Their answer was simple, even now, as he imagined his son or daughter being destroyed. My son. He wanted another boy, but not now. Not like this.

  Kareza crossed her shapely legs. “So, playing devil’s advocate, should abortion be legal in ‘certain situations’ – like rape, incest, molestation, and the like?”

  The funny one laughed. “Guest moderator for one day and you’re trying to start a fight?”

  “We’re trying to get to pick at the heart of the issue,” Kareza replied.

  The Asian woman perked up. “The Center for Disease Control reports that pregnancies from rape, incest and molestation make up a small fraction of the three million abortions performed last year – less than one percent. Almost 80 percent say they aborted because of finances, unplanned pregnancy, or inconvenience.”