The Zero Patient Trilogy (Book One): (A Dystopian Sci-Fi Series)

by The Zero Patient Trilogy- Book One (epub)

  (Don’t lose control.)

  (Par for the course, par for your soul.)

  “I WON’T!” I scream as I stand-drive. Lies upon lies, the Stayed must be saved. All that exists, exists to…

  (KEEP YOUR THOUGHTS TO YOURSELF, HUNTER!)

  “No reason to yell.”

  The wind a whip, whip up the wind, no time to care, no way to bear. Life a dare. Death a-coming pulse irreverent, I’m front wheel back wheel tearing east, pleased with my progress, pleased to please, return the Goddess and the Devout to their knees!

  --Focus on your task, Hunter, distraction is for the weak.

  “The least you could do is speak,” I whisper to the One Who Can Hear.

  Thoughts of the Hole dagger stagger. Locked inside the earth for nights on end. Fear stink smeared from chest to ankle, a dozen bodies freshly mangled.

  (I don’t want to go there again.)

  You won’t, Hunter, if you hurry.

  “You’re here! In the name of the Goddess … ha! In the name of … you!” Pleased to please I increase my speed for the lowliest of Lowers and the upperest of Uppers. I am an equal opportunity liberator!

  “Halo my Halo, Halo my Halo!”

  I say the Dusk Prayer a second time as I rumble ride down a darkened road. “Let dusk settle and the Canyon rest, give thanks to the Goddess, the Stayed, the Devout and all the rest. Protect me in my moment of slumber; hold me to your breast. Grant me the faculty to become one of the blessed. Lead all those who stray away from deathborn. Heal the earth beneath the feet of the scorned. Mourn the passing of those faithful few, who have given their lives in devotion to you.”

  The thought of her face, pure and white, her blinders pulled tight, mushrooms dirties inside my mind. I can’t help but undress her with my mind’s eye.

  (WHAT ARE YOU DOING?)

  Hand to head, smash rock fist. Again and again; I hit until I feel a ringing in my jaw. Life defies all, pain stings my maw.

  The Book says that the War of the Untold nearly ended life as we know it. If it weren’t for the Canyon, for the Off Limits, brittle bones and ash would be all that is left of man. We were saved by the first Goddess and the Goddesses to follow. In the Canyon life is hollow, dreams fallow, the Devout refined, a step above Uppers and two above Lowers, the unsowed and flesh givers swallowed whole.

  Populations must be maintained – forget your mothers, strangle lovers.

  “I’m not having any kids!” I shout as I increase the moto’s speed.

  The Canyon a fury of light, my lips and throat dry, the path ahead barely perceptible. Misty mog, midnight fog. Hunger pangs palpable.

  Are you coming?

  (Stop and carve her name if the filthy thoughts return.)

  “Tell me where, Goddess! Tell me where, and I’ll make sure they regret what they’ve done!”

  --If they find you, they’ll return you to me. If you don’t succeed, you’ll go to the Hole, said Father Miscavige.

  “Stupid, stupid,” I laugh as tears spill down my cheeks. “YOU ARE STUPID, HUNTER!”

  I laugh until my vision blurs and my driving becomes erratic. Static life in the Canyon praying to the Goddess and now I’m free, and free me is twofold madness. Less is more and more is less; the Book didn’t say that, but it did say to live with less unless you want a mess!

  “Confess your sins!” I say in the voice of Father Miscavige. “Audits, audits, audits. Admit your dirties to free room for more!”

  (FORGET WHAT HE DID TO YOU!)

  Never forget, Hunter.

  “It wasn’t his fault!” I cry out. “It was mine!” Wipe tears, peel soil with moto tires vroom vroom. Who is the person in the room? Who is the man behind the curtain? Who exists for the future, mindful of time’s grasp?

  “I am!”

  Forgive yourself, Hunter.

  “Never.”

  .2.

  Freedom a movement, freedom an expression, freedom from my cell, the Hole, Father…

  (What are you saying, Hunter!?)

  “NOTHING!”

  Say it, say it, say it. Think it, think it, think it.

  “Goddess? Can it be?”

  (It can’t be.)

  Drop thoughts in a bin and add fire. Stop the moto and punish. Something must give to be whole again. Beat the dirties out, those placeholders of sin.

  CONTROL.

  “A rock!” I shout as I scramble off the vehicle. Stone clutched, anger of the Devout swelling through me, I drive the sharp rock down onto my arm.

  (Incipient harm, pain a nerve-dagger from the brain.)

  The mark a reminder of the words I shouldn’t say, the thoughts I shouldn’t have, the feelings I shouldn’t feel. SWALLOW IT, HUNTER! Blood red, sting full body, all the things Father Miscavige has taught me.

  All the things he has done to you.

  (IGNORE!)

  --There is only one Hunter. You are the defender of the South, the pinnacle of the Devout, the owner of the Stayed, the one who punishes himself for the sins of others, liberation’s brother, the champion of the Book.

  --I AM FILTH!

  --Yes, you are filth, my child, Father Miscavige said as he ran his hand along the contours of my skull. But filth is important. Through filth we understand cleanliness; through sin, righteousness; through falsities, truth; through hate, love. You hold within you all these things.

  --I am nothing; I can’t possibly help the Stayed.

  --You’ve already helped the Stayed, and you will do so much more. You must defend the Book, the Goddess of the South.

  Shiv in hand, find some skin, carve, carve, carve, I AM FILTH. Carve it again. I AM FILTH. Bask in the pain, the curer of the insane. Bloody palm, back on the moto again.

  (Vroom vroom Off Limits bloom.)

  You must hurry, we are almost to the border.

  “Halo!” Speed at full blast – life blares past. Mind numb to the voices, bad choices, past dirties, inner voices.

  (I am me.)

  “That’s right, you are you!” I laugh again, wipe blood against my seersucker top. Behold the fallen wind and the sallow soil. Days and nights spoiled, the Stayed’s lives foiled. Retold countless times, the Book provides guidance for the iniquitous and the righteous. Quell the riots inside your hearts – know the Book is where we meet and where we part!

  Attention on the headlamp’s light. Shiv the night and become Halo’s knight.

  Out of sight, out of mind, grow together out of time. Right along the line – is there any other way to exist? Sidestep to progress, forget the memories, the horrible things, the terrible THINGS HE DID TO ME. Carve to remember, carve to forget.

  (FORGET!)

  “I’m trying to. I’m trying to. I’m trying to.”

  All things will be addressed, Hunter.

  “Goddess! Speak to me, speak!”

  I am near. Follow my voice – you are my shield.

  “Anything!”

  Truth is on the horizon, Hunter. You may not like it.

  “I am your warrior!”

  You must confront HIM.

  “Who?”

  Miscavige.

  I slap myself across the face with my bloody hand. “Blasph! Blasph! Blasph! Falsities speak through me! Blasph!”

  What he did …

  “Halo, please! You are the Goddess, but he is the Shephard of the South. There is… PLEASE!”

  (Don’t listen to her – what are you SAYING!?)

  “She’s the Goddess, she’s the Goddess, she’s the Goddess.”

  Tremble, shiver, kiss the flesh giver. Finger grazers dance over my unspeakables, delixer swims through my veins. Blinders pulled so tightly, too tightly, come to me, Hunter; come in me, Hunter.

  “I can’t … ”

  (I will!)

  “BLASPH!”

  The truth rests on the horizon at half-mast.

  .3.

  Silence voices, swallow choices. Halo is near. Turbine life, twisted nights of dirty thoughts. Those weren’t her words; she�
�s scared, impaired. Blasphs balloon in me, make them stop.

  SILENCE THOSE THOUGHTS!

  Twisted nights underground, eyes sky high to the slits in the ceiling. Peeling skin from the bones of another, healing others through liberation, mind vacations as shit and piss miss. Wicked trips into places unseen, left foot right foot circular scenes. Sense the nightfall, sense the daybreak, shout at the entrance to the Hole, “PLEASE, in the name of the Goddess, LET ME OUT!”

  Do it for the deathborn, those born of scorn, those in face covers, Uppers and Lowers. Do it for the Stayed, the eunuched, the enslaved, the gamblers and their lizard games. Carve your skin, begin again once scabs form, skin torn is skin reborn. To life’s apparent motion – never lower your standards when it comes to devotion.

  “FASTER!”

  Closer than I thought, lost in thoughts, I see the lights of the Off Limits ahead. Little diamonds twinkle twinkle. Now is the time for faith to take its course, to prove my worth. Now is the time for the Devout to shout, scream as if the entire Canyon were the War Zone. North and South at each other’s throats. Take note! Kill and gloat!

  (Voices cascade down my spine in real whisper-time.)

  “Where?” I ask. “Where are you, Goddess?”

  Here.

  “I am here, too!”

  I am near.

  “Where?”

  Follow the light.

  “But those … those are at the top of the wall. The Great Demarcator … ”

  Crash the moto, make your presence known.

  The Goddess moves through me. I close my eyes and I see her kidnapper. A tall man, thin, with beard stubble and dirt-colored hair. He’s pulling her off a motocart, just about to hit a gate. Eyes blink blink and my perspective returns.

  “HE’S TAKING YOU!”

  Hurry, Hunter, hurry.

  The wall two vestas away. Three. I speed and speed towards the spotlights that shiv the night. Crash-land imminent, I prep to leap when something strikes me in the shoulder.

  (WHAT!?)

  I scream. It feels like a metalzip burrowing into my skin, a thousand concentrated scorpion stings. My body off the moto, explosion a sea of red colors. Orange, hot against my face, but I’m too busy clutching my arm to pay heed.

  No shiny blood, no open wound. I scream in agony, scramble away from the heat. Metalzips spray, pepper the ground, toss dirt in the air. Another hits the back of my calf; I’m down again, using my arm to pull me away from the combat zone.

  “What’s happening?” I whimper. The pain is worse than a carving, worse than Father Miscavige’s punishments, worse than fists to the face, worse than anything I’ve ever experienced.

  (I collapse.)

  The sound of feet pattering on the soil awakens me. No one speaks as they approach. I play dead like a good boy, like a good Stayed. With my back to them, they can’t see the grin on my face.

  .4.

  The Hole. Man versus man versus woman versus woman versus man. Only one survivor can come out of the Hole. I was that survivor, the only one worthy of a true audit.

  --Hide in the dark, Father Miscavige advised. It’s the only way. Let them kill each other first. The cell walls will come down at night. You’ll kill again in the morning. Play dead in your cell. Let them come to you and use the element of surprise to your advantage.

  (Back to reality.)

  A pair of feet stops directly in front of me – the knee high R Boots of an OL Officer. My hands, currently holding my stomach, shoot out and I pull the man down. The response is instant.

  PAIN – the unadulterated type.

  My back is shredded by more metalzips as I kick my feet out, try to get my hands on the man I’ve knocked over. His weight is off; he’s something else entirely. A bite in his leg and my teeth crack against metal.

  (WHAT ARE YOU!?)

  No time to vocalize, no time to contemplate. I’m reeling in pain, fear and adrenaline. The stinging sensation on my back makes my muscles impossible to use. No use. My arms loose, no longer functioning. Everything collapsing around me as the man moves away.

  I’m sorry, Hunter.

  “What are you doing!?” I scream as more metalzips smash rock my flesh. The pain defined by lumps, deranged, maniacal; my brain bumps against the inside of my skull as I struggle to stand tall, to fight back, to counterattack.

  The voice lightning to the whirlwind of me. Inspire insanity, retire normalcy, kill indiscriminately in the name of the Book, of the Devout, the Stayed, pray or be preyed upon. The sounds erupt around me, popping, searing my flesh, hitting my chest, avoiding my neck, a fist comes down onto my back.

  FIGHT BACK!

  Another fist.

  (I CANNOT!)

  “I … will … save … you … Halo … ”

  Blood spurts from my nose and mouth and I fall. I die kicking, praying, wishing that I hadn’t been caught.

  .5.

  Voices appear in my head. I listen, try to grasp what they’re saying.

  “He has the mark. He’s property of the Church of the South.”

  Light splits my head open. Eyes vertical mind contagious. I’m lifted, placed in another place. Moan emitted, flash of faces, no more words from those who have taken me. A hand runs over the scars covering my body. I tense, relax. My muscles feel ripped in half.

  Gasp for breath.

  (Ignore the call of death.)

  Face meets cold metal. An engine rumbles my skull, chatters my teeth.

  “Release … me … ” My words fall like flower petals. “You let this happen to me.”

  I’m sorry, Hunter.

  “Why, Goddess?”

  The Book is false. You must fight back.

  BLASPH!

  Smash rock fist. I hit myself again and again. Another person’s hand tries to stop me.

  “Blasph! Blasph!” Spittle flicks from my lips.

  “Stop moving, Hunter,” says a man.

  “How do you know my name?” I cry out. “How!?”

  FIGHT BACK!

  You must relax, let what happens next happen. We will meet again. I promise, Hunter.

  “Lies! Lies!”

  (It’s not Halo speaking to you Hunter, you fucking idiot, IT’s YOU!)

  “Blasph!” My feet hit metal; the sound is hollow. Synapse fire – I’m ice to fire. “Blasph! Blasph! BLASPH!”

  The Book says that those who are deathborn come into the world screaming, twisting, writhing in pain, longing for shelter inside the womb tomb. The Book says that we are all filth, born unholy, born of shit, unworthy of our petty lives. I recreate the fallen among us through my outpour of anger. I AM FILTH.

  “RELEASE ME!”

  My eyes spring open, catch the moving skyscape above me. Hues of gray and blue, the light from a dim moon. Mog thick as always, the air tainted and the Stayed wasted and wounded.

  (You’re in a motocart. They’re taking you somewhere.)

  “I KNOW WHERE I AM!” With my hands on the rim of the cart, I try to lift myself over. A clubbing stick meets my fingers, stinging. Driven by madness, called by the Goddess, the true Goddess, Halo, not the BLASPH whispering between my ears, I use the last of my strength to throw my body toward the driver all to no avail.

  I wail at the strike on the back of my skull – night becomes true night.

  .STERLING.

  .1.

  Sterling had a hunch Zander Damien wouldn’t uphold his end of their bargain. That being said, he had no idea that he’d be beaten and dumped, left to die in front of the entry point on the southern side of the Off Limits. Bloodied lips, a rib that feels out of place, a plangent pain berating his psyche – he’s bleeding and bruised in the South, lying on his back and wondering how it came to this. And what about his family? How will they fare? The thought of his mother and sister in the hands of Zander’s minions produces a throaty sob.

  It’s been a while since Sterling has cried. The tears sting; the heavy feeling in his chest spreads to his shoulders and up his neck.

&n
bsp; A ballsy move if there ever was one, he had gambled big and it had almost paid off. Almost. Nevertheless, his family was likely dead, or soon to be deceased, and he was more alone than he’d ever been before.

  You deserve this.

  “Not now, Halo.” He spits gritty blood out of his mouth, wipes his lips with his palm.

  They’re taking me to Zander now. Once we get there, they’ll string me up.

  “Not my problem … ” Sterling glares up at the blackened sky. He’d curse if cursing would do any good.

  They’ll try to kill me.

  “Use your mind tricks to control them, Goddess.”

  It’s not that simple.

  “Dammit, Halo, it is that simple!” Sterling slams his fist against his chest as he works on coughing up a lung. “Fuck … ” he mumbles, transfers more bloody spittle from his lips to his sleeve. “The fuckers hit me with something.”

  They’re called bullets. The ones they hit you with are nonlethal.

  “Bullets?” He sits up, paints his hands across the ground stirring up dust in the process. His fingers reach something small and cylindrical. “They … threw this?”

  They’re used at night along the Off Limits.

  Sterling tries to examine the small bullet; it’s too dark to really take a good look at it. He shoves it into his pocket. “Well, everything is done now, over, finished. I’m stuck in the South, and unless I want to do the dead body trick again, which may not work, this is my fate. I fucked up, royally. I shouldn’t have trusted … him. I should have died trying to shiv him to death after he gave me this useless assignment, I mean, punishment. Fuck Zander and fuck my life. This is all my fault.” Another sob reaches his throat. He attempts to gulp it down, but it’s useless – the emotions aren’t going anywhere, not with his family and his imminent doom looming large in his consciousness. Defeated and beaten, Sterling lies on his back. He turns to his side, cradles one of his knees with his forearms.

  You lost a bet and paid your debt. There is nobility in this, even though it began as a form of iniquity.

  “Yeah? Well how’s this for nobility?” Sterling uses a finger to snort dust and snot from his nostril onto the ground. “Cut the shit – you know very well how fucked I am now, regardless if my debt is paid or not.”