The Gathering: Book One of The Uprising Series Read online

  The Gathering

  Book One of The Uprising SERIES

  By:

  Bernadette Giacomazzo

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of dystopian, modern historical fiction.

  Although some details of the story are based on true events, and set in actual locations in New York City, the locations are used in a fictitious manner, and the identifying details of the events have been changed.

  The public figures and other New York City celebrities are real; however, as with the locations, they’re used in a fictitious manner.

  The main characters are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Well, not entirely...

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to

  The RESISTANCE...

  to

  The Old New York City...

  and to all to dare to follow their dreams...

  GENUINELY...

  without using people as a means to an end...

  Credits

  Book Cover by Jessica Benoist-Young – www.jryoungauthor.com / upsidedownbooks.wordpress.com

  “Water to Wine” – Written by Phillip Richards & Timothy DaCosta – Originally performed by Status Joe. Lyrics reprinted with permission.

  “Home Again” – Written by Evan Saffer, Wilson Lihn, Jason Brown, & Tim Newton – Originally performed by Fixer. Lyrics reprinted with permission.

  “Tuxedo” – Written by Evan Saffer, Wilson Lihn, Jason Brown, & Tim Newton – Originally performed by Fixer. Lyrics reprinted with permission.

  “Nina” – Written by Jose Feliciano – Originally performed by Jose Feliciano. Lyrics reprinted with permission.

  Chapter one

  Jamie

  For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be the center of attention.

  I had it before. And I have it again, now.

  But for entirely different reasons.

  My name is James Randall Ryan IV.

  My nearest and dearest call me Jamie.

  My father, who is (well, now, was) not amongst my nearest and dearest, called me Jimmy. I hate that nickname, and when he died, I thanked every God in Heaven that I never had to hear it again. I wish I could say I otherwise missed the old man, but, unfortunately, I would be lying to you.

  And I wouldn’t lie to you.

  Not these days. And not about that.

  But when I was onstage, I was known as Ivan Sapphire – glam rock god, sex symbol, pussy connoisseur, Dionysus in leather pants, Jesus Christ in sunglasses, High Priest of the Bacchanalia, Son of a Bitch of a Preacher Man.

  I was all those things, and more.

  I was the lead singer of a band called Faust.

  We – myself, William Lynn on guitar, Jordan Barker on bass, and the Reverend Tom Newman (yes, he really was an ordained minister – granted, he got ordained online, but that’s just as valid of an ordainment as any other) on drums – played a balls-to-the-wall, blistering brand of rock’n’roll that earned us accolades, fans, fame, and a lot of money.

  New York City was, at first, just our home. When Faust first started playing together, it became our playground. And by the time our careers were in full swing, New York City was ours for the pillaging.

  Like any other band, we paid our dues in the beginning: playing Tuesday night open mics in dive bars with no name, getting tossed a $20 to split four ways at the end of the night, having to slog it out at a job the next day while nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon-induced hangover – a job that we didn’t want to be in, in the first place, because we were on the fast track to rock stardom, even if only in our own minds.

  I remember the night that all changed, though. I see it clearly in my mind, as though it all happened last night.

  It was a Friday night at the legendary CBGB. We were opening for a pretentious, shoe-gazing hipster rock band. I wish I could remember their name…Ars Poetica, I think it was.

  But it doesn’t really matter now.

  At that time in New York City rock’n’roll history, our brand of music had gone out of fashion. Gone were the days of leather-clad lesser rock gods and their songs of hedonistic excess – in our place were unshaven, unkempt navel-gazers who sang music to slit your wrists by. This was the soundtrack to your Prozac-induced manic-depressive state, kids – 50% less pussy, 100% more bitching and moaning!

  Brooklyn hipster pieces of shit.

  We opened for Ars Poetica because Hilly – the legendary owner of CBGB – wanted to give us a fair shot but knew that most people were there for Ars Poetica. He figured, with all things being equal, he’d be able to earn us a few extra fans if we had a chance to get in front of their crowd.

  He told us that, of the hundreds that paid the $25, with a two-drink minimum, we’d be able to get a few new converts.

  Ten, maybe.

  If we got lucky.

  He kept insisting that we should remain optimistic, but realistic.

  And if we did well, he promised, we would be able to have a headlining show on a Friday night; prime real estate for a New York City rock band to obtain, at that time.

  And take home $100 to split between the four of us as a consolation prize.

  Hilly.

  May he forever rock’n’roll in the afterlife.

  The night came, and we stood before the crowd – wall-to-wall people, as far as the eye could see. The faces all seemed to blend into one another – men and women, black and white and every shade of tan in between, long hair and short hair in every color of the rainbow.

  It was the finest representation of the old New York that so many people had come to know and love. The great American melting pot. The rock’n’roll dream come true – the music serving as the great unifier of people from the world over, and our performance, a communion of souls. Take, and eat – for it is my body of work, and it will be given up for you.

  I remember feeling so nervous. I remember standing up on that stage – that filthy, piss-ridden stage that felt like it would collapse under my feet any minute – with Willie, Jordan, and Tom – my three brothers-in-arms – and looking out into the crowd to find a friendly face.

  Although it didn’t happen often, if I ever got onstage and found myself feeling nervous at the prospect of performing for a maddening crowd, I would often look out into the audience and find a friendly face to sing to for most of the night. Sometimes it worked – just as many times, it didn’t – but either way, it would end with me ending up with Mrs. Right Now, with her pretty little skirt – often two sizes too tight – torn off and tossed in the back of our van and her shirt around her ears, followed by proclamations of eternal (or, at least until one or both of us got off) love, heavy panting and sweating, and various bodily fluids splattered to the walls, the floor, the seat cushions…anything that was within arm’s reach, really.

  Paradise by the dashboard light, as the old song goes.

  That poor, stinking van.

  It wasn’t that I was a man-whore, so much that I was ready and amenable to whatever was nearby that was equally ready and amenable.

  And who wouldn’t be, really, in the same circumstances? You mean to tell me that any straight, red-blooded American man who has been granted access to every size, shape, and flavor of pussy on the island of Manhattan will think of being a monk?

  I think not.

  And if there’s one universal truth about musicians in general – and lead singers in particular – it’s that we get into the business of music for one reason: pussy. The fame is nice, if you can get it – the money is nice, if you can get it – but we get it all because, a
t the end of the day, we want prime-cut tenderloin pussy, and that, you can get.

  But that night, the friendly face I locked onto would rock my world in a way no one had ever done before.

  Angelique.

  I knew, from the minute I laid eyes on her, that I would never want anyone else ever again.

  And I never did.

  Seeing her inspired me to play like I’d never played before.

  Oh, we were never terrible – in fact, left to our own devices, we were incendiary – but that night, we played as though the world was burning down around us. We sang the soundtrack to the apocalypse, caterwauling and squealing and throbbing and pounding our way through the lyrics and music as if it was our last night on Earth.

  New York City was a big, beautiful bitch, and she was ours for the fucking.

  And we fucked her but good – hard, long, slow, all night long, and we were all left panting and sweating thereafter.

  We tried to set the night on fire.

  And we succeeded by orders of magnitude.

  And by the end of our set, we not only had the audience leaving CBGB with us – leaving barely anyone behind for Ars Poetica, those poor, navel-gazing, wrist-slitting fucking Brooklyn hipster pieces of shit – but I had Angelique’s number in my phone.

  Hilly gave us the Friday night headlining slot the following week.

  Angelique gave me her virginity after that show.

  And thus, began our rocket ride to the top.

  The press started to come out in droves to our shows after that first fateful headlining show. Article after article, and photo after photo, came out to tell all of New York City about us. We played every envied stage on the island of Manhattan: CBGB, The Continental, Arlene Grocery, The Bowery Ballroom, Mercury Lounge, Joe’s Pub, and The Bitter End.

  Once, twice, three times around the island, and back again for more.

  The Pirates of Happenstance. The High Priests of Chaos. The Lords of Misrule.

  We sold our souls to rock’n’roll, and our bodies to the New York City rock scene.

  It was amazing.

  They lavished us with every accolade they could imagine, and even some we’d never heard before: Willie and I were the New Millennial Glimmer Twins – Batman and Robin with Les Paul’s – Genghis and Kublai Khan on a savage panty raid. As a collective, we were known as the four horsemen of the rock apocalypse, effectively rendering every other genre of music in New York City completely redundant. We were the best rock band in captivity – the buck-skinned prophets of a dying brand of cock-rock, fueled by illegal drugs and cheap beer and late nights and early mornings and starving ourselves for days on end (sometimes because we weren’t hungry, other times because there was nothing to eat, and still other times because illicit drugs are a hell of an appetite suppressant…).

  We were equal parts savages, sinners, saviors and saints.

  We were all those things, and more.

  It was all said, written, blogged about and photographed, documented for all of prosperity and placed in a time capsule for history to be the judge.

  Let history be the judge of us, and condemn us to a life of Hell, because we experienced Heaven on Earth.

  The whole thing started with rock’n’roll, and then it was all out of control.

  And it was all true.

  We sold out every show. Every night we played.

  The money was flowing, and so were the drinks, and so were the drugs. Pabst Blue Ribbon made way for marijuana, and later, the finest white powders for our noses and veins.

  I wasn’t much into the white stuff, but occasionally, I would indeed powder my nose. Nothing crazy – just a sniff here and there, enough to get the nose burning and the heart (and other organs) throbbing, but easy enough to come down from with a Pabst Blue Ribbon or two after the show was over.

  Willie and Tom, though, loved cocaine. They loved everything about the white powder – the clandestine ritual of acquiring it, the soothing ritual of using an ATM card to chop it into fine white lines, and the adrenaline rush they would get from rolling a dollar bill nice and tight to snort it, ungracefully, up their noses – and soon, they (especially Tom) had developed a particularly nasty habit that would cost them a lot of money.

  As for Jordan, he preferred a different type of white powder – one where he chased a dragon – one where the pain of his world could be drowned out with a simple needle prick – and it would cost him a lot more than money.

  Soon, we took the show on the road, playing every major city from coast to coast. Our tour itinerary took us to Jacksonville, Dallas, Houston, Phoenix (where Willie spent the night in the county jail after he was caught bouncing up and down on the sheriff’s daughter, who also happened to be the city’s most popular stripper. I swear, you can’t make this stuff up. Willie claimed she was just a pit stop – the long arm of the law claimed it was prostitution – but a quick call to a top criminal attorney, who went to school with Willie’s very wealthy dad, on West 57th Street settled the matter quickly and favorably for my dear friend), Los Angeles, north to San Francisco, through Portland and Seattle, then through America’s Heartland where we played rock festivals, carnivals, state fairs, and even the Freedom Riders Motorcycle Show in Bismarck, ND (which ended with us running out of the state with little more than the clothes on our back and the instruments in our cases, when the Reverend Tom got piss-your-pants drunk and insulted the President of the local chapter of the Hell’s Angels, which ended as well as you think it would).

  A quick stop-over in Chicago to visit some of Willie’s relatives – who were equally perplexed, and amused, by us – and get some real food in our stomachs, was the only respite we had on a tour that careened through Cleveland, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia, before we played a homecoming show in New York City that, literally, shut down traffic in two directions on the Bowery for more than four hours.

  But while my musical compatriots took this opportunity of newfound fame, fortune, and free drugs to plow their way through every Daddy’s girl that gave them a clear “yes” (to their credit, if she was too drunk or high to consent, or couldn’t be verified to be over the legal drinking age, they ran the other way), I kept to myself and often found myself keeping my eyes on the road (no need to look in any other direction, because if I did, I would be greeted with an eyeful of tits, ass, and pubic hair – and while I don’t mind seeing a gorgeous naked woman, I could certainly do without seeing my bandmates’ sweaty nutsacks mere inches away from my nose) when it was my turn to drive, and texting Angelique into all hours of the night when it wasn’t.

  When I finally returned to New York City, after nearly a year on the road, I asked Angelique to marry me, and she – of course – said yes.

  That’s it, right?

  This is the part where we say, “and they lived happily ever after, the end,” yes? This is the rock’n’roll Tristan and Isolde – Romeo and Juliet on the Bowery – King Arthur and Guinevere on the Isle of Manhattan, with Excalibur as a six-string and a crown of thorns, isn’t it? This is what would have happened to Sid and Nancy, if Sid hadn’t owed all that money and Nancy didn’t have that nasty habit, am I right?

  In a perfect world, it would be.

  But unbeknownst to me – and the rest of my compatriots – while we were touring the country, we were oblivious to the changes in the world around us.

  And not long after we got back, America in general – and New York City in particular – would change forever.

  Chapter TWO

  Emperor

  I awoke, rose, and pushed my still-sleeping wife to the side. She moaned, slightly, in protest, and put her arm around me again.

  I pushed her away.

  I want no one to touch me as I prepared to enter my skin.

  Chameleon-like, yet still very human.

  For I have all that I ever wanted.

  New York City at my command, to do with as I please.

  Loyal, docile subjects…and those who dared to not be were forced
to be, or they faced being killed.

  A military machine, unparalleled.

  A wife I tolerated. To be frank, I never loved her – rather, I merely tolerated her because it was easier to do so. And, certainly, she felt the same way for me – perhaps a little more contempt, since she was still hung up on her long-deceased boyfriend and the father of her daughter.

  My step-daughter.

  My step-daughter is the little girl that I helped raise, but whom I certainly never felt any sort of “fatherly” feelings toward. How could I develop “fatherly” feelings, really? It was more important that the city be under my command.

  Because that is my right.

  For I am in charge – My Word, Before All, Above All, With Liberty and Justice for All.

  I stood before the window, overlooking the terrain that was once known as Central Park, but was now, like everything else in the city, named after me and under my tutelage.

  I know, now, it was time to address my subjects.

  We were in the throes of martial law.

  At one time, the United States of America ran on a system of representative democracy. Presidents were elected by an Electoral College, and the Electoral College was elected by the populace of the people. Shortly after the last president left office, however, corruption ran rampant in the system of democracy – the electoral college was bought, and sold, to the highest bidder – and none of the populace realized that the system of government that served them so well was being compromised (they were lost too deep inside the manufactured drama, it seemed, of The Bachelor and Love & Hip-Hop) until it was too late.

  When I was elected, I declared a state of emergency in the United States and demanded that emergency powers be given to me to restore law and order to an increasingly-distressed country. It was the least they could have done, those savages.

  Once the powers were granted to me – again, unanimously – I abolished the Electoral College and replaced each state’s representatives with a squadron of police officers. Rather than be keepers of the peace, however, these police officers were equipped with the finest military equipment, and – worst of all – were trained in the art of a deadly type of vampirism known as psi.