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

by The Zero Patient Trilogy- Book One (epub)

  It settles in front of a hefty door, identical to the one they came in. For a disorienting moment, Sterling is convinced that they’re somehow back where they started.

  “On your feet, step off the platform, and exit the through the portal,” the female officer instructs them.

  ***

  “You’re free to go.”

  The four now stand outside the Northern Entry Point, in the clear space between the Off Limits and the series of Khomei pillars. Simply being in the North eases Sterling’s mind considerably, but the proximity of the OL Officers is still a worrisome consideration.

  “Free?” Bolt asks the female OL Officer. “Just like mmmpht?”

  Sterling puts one arm around Bolt’s shoulder and slaps his other hand over the kid’s mouth as he hustles them both through the Khomeis. He hisses, “Kid – free, friendly advice: when they let you go, keep your hole closed and GO!”

  “Halo did it,” Bolt says when Sterling takes his hand away. The kid tries to look over his shoulder at the officers, but Sterling’s hand on his neck keeps him eyes front and moving forward.

  “Just keep going; our night isn’t over yet.” Sterling stops, takes another deep breath. The feeling of being home spreads through him, warms his soul. “Finally, a place I’m familiar with.”

  “Where do you think Halo is?”

  “Much of Zander’s wealth and influence comes from a series of depots he owns a few vestas away from the entrance to the War Zone.”

  “Zander… Damien?”

  Sterling nods. “The reason I was in the South was because Zander threatened to kill my family to collect on a debt I owed him if I didn’t bring Halo to the North.”

  Bolt shakes his head. “But that’s impossible. Zander is a champion of the North!”

  “A champion of the North who has never set a toe in the War Zone. Figure it out for yourself, kid – there’s power, and then there is true power. Who’s more powerful, the warrior that runs with his shiv at the enemy or the man who makes the warrior run?

  “The man.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why? Why would Zander tell you to do that? I mean, sure, he hates the South, but … all Northerners do.”

  “Like I said, I owed him a debt. A bet gone sour.”

  “You lost?”

  “C’mon kid – seriously. Would I be here answering your damnfool questions if I’d won?”

  Bolt processes all that’s just been said with a soft grunt, reminiscent of the grunt Sterling often gives when presented with a thorny situation. “So you know where she is?”

  “I think I do.”

  Bolt asks, “How is one kid and a guy like you supposed to get Halo? What are we supposed to do after?”

  “You see, this is why the Book is against questioning. Sure, we can play this out, and figure out all the options, or we can go in as blind as Halo and let fate take its course. And what do you mean by saying a guy like me? Remember, I kidnapped Halo pretty much by myself – okay, okay, with a little help from you – and I managed to get us to the other side of the Great Demarcator while only getting my ass kicked twice. I guess that doesn’t sound as good as I wanted it to, but there it is. I have a feeling that everything will work out. It has so far.” Sterling says all this with faux confidence of the habitual gambler; he knows that the odds are stacked against them. Regardless, timidity is a dish best served swathed.

  “I don’t have a weapon.”

  “You don’t know how to use a weapon.”

  “I can use a rock,” Bolt says.

  “They’ll have clubbing sticks. They may have … um … bullet flingers.”

  “Bullet flingers?”

  “They shot me with one.” Sterling fishes around in his pocket and returns with the bullet. He drops it in Bolt’s hand; the kid rolls it in his palm, lifts it to his mouth and bites.

  “That’s not food, kid.”

  Bolt gives him a look. “They hit you with this little thing? It definitely isn’t metal.”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. I was ambushed by several people.”

  “OL Officers?”

  “I didn’t get a good look at them. They … um … bullet-flinged? Flanged? Uh … flung bullets at me, I fell, they kicked me some and took Halo.”

  “Why didn’t she stop them?”

  Sterling thinks for a moment. “You know, that’s a damn good question. You hear that, Goddess?” he asks the sky. “The kid has a point.”

  There are bigger forces at play.

  Halo’s voice appears in his head, as if it had been there all along just waiting for Sterling to ask a question.

  “You keep hinting at that.”

  Hurry.

  “We’re trying.” Sterling points to the east. “That way. Let’s make it quick. We don’t have to run, but take extra-large steps.”

  “Right behind you,” says Bolt.

  .3.

  The North is laid out in several circular grids, which connect at various points forming a large loop around the Church of the North. Sterling has walked counter-clockwise around the Church numerous times, as is a custom in the North. To fully circumnavigate the Church takes nearly a day. Many wake up early on special occasions and begin the walk; in an ostentatious display of piety, some prostrate themselves around the entire loop, which takes about two days and results in bloodied hands, wrists and knees. This ritual circumnavigation graphically illustrates the fact that life is cyclical for the Stayed.

  “There.” Sterling’s points to the outer rim of the settlement. Zander has the most depots of anyone in the North; being close to the Off Limits is one way to maintain control over the industry. His father had the most depots as did his father before him.

  “How do you know?” Bolt asks.

  “Is that where you are, Halo?” Sterling looks up at the sky.

  Yes.

  “Trust me, I know. Once we get closer, we’ll … ” Sterling bites his lip; he has no idea what they should do once they reach the string of depots.

  “We’ll what?”

  “Let me worry about that, kid,” he says with a grunt.

  As they walk in silence, Sterling’s thoughts return to the War Zone and how he had smuggled himself to the South in a motocart full of corpses.

  He recalled the start of the war, the roar of the crowd on either side of the stadium, their excitement and bloodlust almost a tangible thing. The North and the South both fielded three hundred combatants; some were professional warriors – well-muscled men with finely-finished, purpose made weaponry. Others were the crazy brave and the fearless foolish, armed with shivs, makeshift clubbing sticks and a surrealistic, delixer-fueled impression of their martial prowess. The religious zealots were well represented on both sides, and were often accoutered with nothing more than bare hands and righteous fury.

  The metalzips were also well represented; they swarmed above the battleground thicker than flies on filth.

  A ribbon of charred soil separated the opposing forces. The front-most combatants – the over-eager amateurs who usually sustained the highest casualties – screamed and growled and thumped their chests with weapons or fists as they prepared to charge. The professionals would usually hang back to direct a flanking maneuver or countercharge, or sometimes engage in single combat with the other side’s champions, but the initial charge was what frequently decided the engagement. Men leapt up and down behind the front lines like manic kangaroo rats, pumping themselves up, crying out for their Goddess. Some slammed their fists against the sides of their faces; others vomited, smeared their vomit across their chests. Still others quietly soiled themselves as the realization of their approaching extinction loosened bowels and bladder.

  Sterling stood well back from the front line, his shiv in his hand and his whole body trembling. He’d gleaned enough information from various disreputable Lowers at various disreputable flesh depots and gambling clubs to know that there were only two ways to travel to the other side of the wall; either as pa
rt of the Northern or Southern Council or one of the handful of Upper employee representatives at the Off Limits, or by playing dead in a war and hoping that the other side’s Vultured Few picks you up and takes you through. Realistically, Sterling knew that the second option was the only one he’d have any chance to make work.

  The war siren sounded and a thundering mass of two-legged protoplasm smashed together like two giant fists. The sound and the fury was unlike anything Sterling had ever known; a swirling chaos of violence and color; of cut and thrust; bellow, shriek and smash. He briefly wondered if it had been like this for his father when he’d died on this very battlefield, and then banished the thought with a single blink – he needed his full attention here and now.

  Dust in the air, blood slick underfoot, the overpowering smell of shit and piss and fear thick in his nostrils, Sterling did exactly as he’d planned – he ducked down, covered up, steadily moved forward and avoided direct engagement until he’d pushed through the actual fighting and came out behind the Southerner’s front line.

  He’d intended to lie down as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, smear himself with mud and blood and play dead until it was all over and the Vultured Few hauled him off, but a Southern zealot with a jagged rock in either hand noticed him almost immediately. “Death to the Northern Blasph Scum!” he roared as he came at Sterling full on.

  Sterling spun out of his way, stuck out his foot and rammed his shiv in the Southerner’s kidney as he stumbled past. The man shrieked in pain and surprise; Sterling jumped on his back, grabbed a fistful of his lank, greasy hair, rode him to the ground and stabbed him the neck. He jerked his shiv forward as the man tried to jerk back away from the blade, severing his own throat. The Southerner coughed and gasped and kicked and spluttered his life out into the hard packed dirt of the arena as Sterling held him close and worked his way beneath him.

  The man expired, Sterling moved the zealot’s face to the side so he wouldn’t have to look into his still open eyes. More screams, more acts of inhumane violence as the battle swirled around him in a series of disjointed vignettes; here a Northerner’s skull deformed as a clubbing stick smashed into his head from behind; there a Southerner shrieked and tripped over loops of his own intestines that spilled from his ruined abdomen. Sterling shielded himself with the zealot’s body as best he could, but this did little to protect him from being kicked and stepped on.

  Gradually, the smashing, bashing, bellowing, hacking, stabbing, seething mass of maniacal humanity flowed away from him, and Sterling unobtrusively felt in his pocket for the small container of black grease paint – his only other possession that wasn’t his clothing or his shiv. Cautiously, so as to not draw attention, Sterling daubed the black paint across his eyes and nose, marking himself as a Southern warrior.

  All that was left to do now was to wait.

  There was little chance of anyone discovering Sterling’s charade – you either walked off the field and survived your wounds or you died where you lay. Neither side checked their fallen because of the Book. The North believed that those who die in the War Zone would never be faceless and the South believed the exact opposite – that those who die were indeed faceless. Only the Vultured Few were low enough to touch the bodies of those to be deathborn.

  The war ended at the sound of a second siren; both sides withdrew to their respective starting points where the living were tallied and wagers paid out. Playing as dead as a bludgeoned rodent, Sterling waited until he felt a pair of hands on his ankles and another pair on his wrists. He held his breath, knowing all too well that if he showed signs of life, he’d be re-killed by the Vultured Few.

  Not thirty seconds later, he was tossed onto the heap of bodies. Ten minutes after that, destiny struck like a scorpion’s stinger and he had his first encounter with Bolt.

  Now in the North about to test fate yet again, Sterling glances at the kid and a plan flashes behind his eyes. “I know what we’ll do,” he finally says. It is as if the plan were placed there in its entirety by someone else.

  ***

  Sterling and Bolt are huddled behind a tremendous tank of water. Pipes as thick as his torso dip into the ground, connecting the tank to the Off Limits. On the other side of the water tank is a series of pipes that feed into the main water distribution depot, where it will be rationed and packaged. The sky is taking on the hues of dawn; the Canyon will awaken soon.

  “Halo,” Sterling whispers, “we’re ready. Two men, right?”

  Yes, one at the door and one next to me. The others have left for another depot to play a game of rocks that I initiated. Is Bolt ready?

  Sterling turns to the kid. “Are you sure you can do this?” He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. The plan is crazy, ballsy enough that it just may work. “I really should be the one doing this,” he says as an afterthought.

  “No, you should be the one on the motocart,” Bolt says, clearing his throat. “It’s our only option.”

  The way the kid tells him this is unsettling, almost as if someone else is speaking through him. Sterling ignores this thought and says, “Let’s go over it again.” He hands Bolt the shiv and the boy pockets it and takes a few steps away from the water tank.

  “Hi, I’m here from the Windsor Distribution Center with a message for … ” Bolt doesn’t finish his sentence, and instead pulls out the shiv and jabs it directly in front of him.

  “Remember to do it here.” Sterling presses his finger into Bolt’s sternum and drops it a few inches. He steps behind the boy, goes over the motion with him again by controlling the kid’s arms. “All your force, as hard as you can. You want to ram it all the way through him and have the blade come out his back. And step back once you’ve done it because he’s going to try to grab you. And don’t forget to pull the shiv out.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Drop it on the ground for a second.”

  Bolt drops the blade on the ground and Sterling steps in front of him. “Let’s do it again, pretend I’m the man.”

  He goes over the script, and knocks the wind out of Sterling with his thrust. He leaps back as soon as the invisible blade is in. Sterling’s maybe cracked rib screams, and he coughs, staggers, reaches his hands out for Bolt. “Ow, dammit! Good, kid – just like that; harder if you can. Swipe at the face, just like I showed you. The man should be bent over at this point. If not, wait to get a clear swipe.”

  Bolt does as instructed, makes a swooshing sound as he does so.

  “This isn’t fun and games, kid.”

  “It’s scary … ” Bolt’s face twists with worry.

  “As soon as you get the shiv in, I’ll start the motocart and crash it into the side of the depot, so be ready to jump out of the way. The other man will run out and I’ll jump him. Don’t get involved with our fight, just stand back – got it? Let me handle the second man. The first man may still not be dead yet, but a shiv in the gut will keep him somewhat distracted. Make sure you get his face if you can, get some blood in his eyes.” Sterling places both his hands on Bolt’s shoulders. “The Goddess will be with you; she’s told me this herself. She’ll protect you – she’ll protect us – you just need to cause the initial distraction.”

  .4.

  Sterling sits on a motocart about sixty feet away from the entrance to the depot, slightly off to the left. He watches as Bolt approaches the door, the kid’s shadow shrinking as he moves closer to the light.

  “You can do it, kid … ” He says under his breath. Bolt turns to him, flashes a quick thumbs up. “Go on now,” Sterling hisses. “Don’t give yourself away.”

  Bolt knocks and the door opens about ten seconds later. He delivers the script as per their plan, grips the shiv and thrusts it forward into the man’s stomach.

  The world stops.

  Sterling’s mouth drops open in sheer, unadulterated disbelief. Before Bolt can withdraw from his thrust, the man grabs the boy by the neck, lifts him one-handed, and with a simple flick of the wrist snaps the boy’s neck
like a twig. The man tosses Bolt aside with no more thought than he’d give to a discarded Ration bar wrapper; the shiv plinks against the cold soil.

  Without further thought, Sterling starts the motocart, stands on the accelerator and aims directly at the man who’d so easily taken the boy’s life. The man looks up from Bolt, registers the onrushing moto and tries to dodge just as Sterling leaps off. The motocart smashes the man into the depot wall; the breath woofs out of Sterling as he lands hard and sheds skin from knees and elbows as he slides into the depot. His ribs are seriously unhappy now, and he seriously considers just lying there instead of dragging himself to his feet, but Halo isn’t going to rescue herself and there’s still the second man to take care of.

  “Dammit!” Sterling manages to shout as he attempts to shake off the third beating of the day. “I’m too old for this shit!”

  The second man exits the depot. He’s well-built, thin, with broad shoulders. His eyes are cold, lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll’s eye, and he moves quickly and confidently toward Sterling. He’s unarmed, but holds his hands as if he’s sure that they’re more than enough weapon.

  Sterling moves to meet him, feints with a high right and slams his left elbow into the man’s nose. It feels as though he’s hit the side of the depot; his arm goes numb, the man smiles, grips Sterling by the front of his shirt and with one hand throws him up against the depot. He slides down the depot wall and lands in a sitting position, legs outstretched. It feels good to just sit there for a moment, and if the second man from the depot wasn’t moving in to kill him, he probably wouldn’t even think about getting up.

  He drags his eyes open and sees the man approach; he sees Bolt’s crumpled form and thinks how small and frail it looks; he sees …

  The shiv.

  Sterling reaches down deep and throws himself at the shiv as the man charges in. He lands on it, cuts his hand as he retrieves it and rolls to his feet. The man turns and swings; Sterling slips under it, tackles the man and carries him to the ground and thrusts the shiv at …