Revolver Read online

  Contents

  Praise for...

  Title Page

  Other Works

  Stay Updated

  Copyright

  About Revolver

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Revolver

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  A Note To Readers

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About Convergence

  Chapter 1

  Praise for Revolver

  “Revolver by Michael Patrick Hicks, however, takes the ‘shocking’ gold medal. A classic example of social science fiction … most gripping.” - David Wailing, author of Auto

  “This story, you should print out and give to your friends and family. You should read it aloud at book club meetings and you should dissect with strangers at the bus stop. This story is freaking amazing.” - Stephanie Lehenbauer, Novel Commentary Review of No Way Home

  Praise for Convergence

  An Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award 2013 Quarter-Finalist

  “From the opening page of Convergence I was hooked. The dystopian world building is well done and the descriptions are vivid. The technology is imaginary and different...great characters and plenty of suspense/action.” - Nicholas Sansbury Smith, author of Extinction Horizon and the Orbs series

  “Convergence is fast-paced, full of action and a thrilling ride from start to finish. There is violence, depth of feeling, explosions, car chases and tenderness. The book has everything and is perfect for those who like their SciFi gritty, edgy and realistic.” – J.S. Collyer, author of Zero

  “[A] smart splice of espionage and science fiction. ... frighteningly realistic. Well-drawn characters, excellent pacing, and constant surprises make this a great cautionary tale about technology and its abuses.” - Publisher's Weekly

  “A cyberpunk thrillride through a future America under Chinese rule. The conflict between the humanity of the main character, Jonah, and the things he has had to do to survive in this harsh new world makes ‘Convergence’ an absolute pleasure to read.” – SciFi365.net

  Praise for Consumption

  “Your stomach will turn, your throat will restrict, and jaw will clench tighter than a bull’s arsehole in fly season.” - S. Elliot Brandis, author of Irradiated and Once Upon A Time At The End Of The World

  “…wonderfully macabre! Cleverly thought out, I was both disgusted and excited by this tale. This a MUST read for horror fans.” - Great Book Escapes

  “Hicks takes the reader to some twisted, nightmarish places and if you’re a horror fan with a strong constitution, add Consumption to your reading list – you won’t regret it.” - Teri Polen, Books & Such

  “Consumption is wonderfully paced and a real treat for horror fans. … I read it with the lights off and my Kindle screen turned up, and it was a totally immersive and satisfying experience.” - Franklin Kendrick, author of The Entity series.

  REVOLVER

  Michael Patrick Hicks

  Books by Michael Patrick Hicks

  DRMR Novels

  Convergence (Book One)

  Emergence (Book Two)

  Anthologies and Short Stories

  No Way Home (Stories From Which There Is No Escape)

  Consumption

  Revolver

  To stay up to date on Michael’s latest releases, and receive advanced reader copies of his work, join his newsletter, memFeed: http://bit.ly/1H8slIg

  Website: http://michaelpatrickhicks.com

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authormichaelpatrickhicks

  twitter: http://www.twitter.com/MikeH5856

  Copyright © 2015 Michael Patrick Hicks

  All rights reserved.

  [email protected]

  http://www.michaelpatrickhicks.com

  Newsletter: http://bit.ly/1H8slIg

  Edited by Alex Roddie

  Pinnacle Editorial

  http://www.pinnacleeditorial.co.uk/

  Cover design by Adam Hall

  http://aroundthepages.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  About Revolver

  The “stunning and harrowing” short story, originally published in the anthology No Way Home, is now available as a standalone release and features an all-new foreword written by award-winning science fiction author, Lucas Bale.

  Cara Stone is a broken woman: penniless, homeless, and hopeless. When given the chance to appear on television, she jumps at the opportunity to win a minimum of $5,000 for her family.

  The state-run, crowdfunded series, Revolver, has been established by the nation’s moneyed elite to combat the increasing plight of class warfare.

  There’s never been a Revolver contestant quite like Cara before. The corporate states of America are hungry for blood, and she promises to deliver.

  Author’s Note

  First of all, thank you taking a look at this short story. Hopefully you’re reading this via the preview feature of your eBook retailer and I can save you a small bit of money with this fair warning.

  This story might not be for you.

  It might upset you terribly. It could damn well piss you off greatly. If this worries you, don’t buy it. Save your ninety-nine cents and we can happily part ways here and now.

  You see, since Revolver was first released as part of the science fiction anthology No Way Home, it’s garnered a wide range of reactions due to its political nature, but with hardly anybody falling in the middle (which is actually kind of awesome, really).

  Some reviewers have loved the heck out of this story, setting it as my personal best at the time of its publication, with another calling it “stunning and harrowing.” Author David Wailing called it “A classic example of social science fiction” that “takes the ‘shocking’ gold medal.” One reviewer wrote that it was “the most overtly political and also one of the most enjoyable” in the No Way Home anthology.

  Revolver has also been called, by some readers, “Horrid leftwing drivel.” Another “found "Revolver" so nauseatingly Politically Correct that had this book been physical instead of electronic, I would have physically flung it across the room.”

  Obviously, not every story is for every reader, and Revolver is certainly no exception. Most of the vitriol that has been directed toward this story, and in a few e-mails to me directly, indicate that politically right-leaning readers do not find much to enjoy here, and a few have been quite upset to have their beliefs and expectations challenged. That, of course, is perfectly fine.

  This story is not meant to comfort, nor is it meant to be an easy read. It is also not the least bit subtle, as more than a few readers have mentioned. Revolver was written mostly in a fit of anger. It’s not subtle and it is not meant to be subtle. It’s meant to be disruptive and challenging to the status quo. As such, depending on your political predilections or how well tempered you are toward heavy-handed narratives, it might not necessarily be the type of dystopian science fiction you are looking for.

  But, in general, based of feedback I have received, this story may not be for you if you are the type of reader that believes Fox News is the b
est example of exemplary American journalism, or that Donald Trump is the ideal statesman and deserving of the presidency, or that the War on Women is non-existent. In which case, I encourage you to save your buck, close the preview window, and maybe we’ll meet up later in a different work at a different time. No harm, no foul.

  However, if you’re willing to brave what one reviewer called the “emotional rollercoaster” that follows, then welcome and happy reading to you.

  On with the show…

  To my son, who, at the time of this writing, is still a

  few weeks away from being born.

  I hope you will help make this world a better place.

  I know that, soon enough, you’ll be making my world a better place.

  Foreword

  Back in what feels like the dim and distant past of 2014, I approached a number of writers who I considered to be up-and-coming fast – talented folks I wanted to get to know better. I hadn’t, at the time, envisaged working with them to produce anything, let alone an anthology. I had expected we might critique each others’ work, perhaps even cross-promote as we all write in similar genres. My intentions were about community more than anything else.

  Michael Patrick Hicks was one of the first I approached. I love his work – it puts me in mind of Robert Crais and Philip K. Dick. It’s direct and unapologetic; it's controversial and seizes the heart of important concepts in our society and our future.

  But when I started curating No Way Home, and Mike sent me Revolver, I admit to drawing a breath and pausing. I dropped an email to S.W. Fairbrother and Alex Roddie and expressed some concerns. Was this story too controversial even for us? Did we have the cache to publish something so… ruthless? Both told me to stop worrying. It was a good story with a strong message, they said. So we ran with it.

  I’m so glad we did because, out of the whole anthology, I think Revolver stood out. It was powerful and uncompromising, a story that came from deep inside someone who had something important to say. It was a visceral observation on our society that hit home so hard because, in the same allegorical way as Stephen King’s The Long Walk, and even Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games, it was just too damn plausible. Maybe even inevitable. Scary, threatening and unsettling.

  Fiction, particularly science fiction, has a duty not only to entertain, but to cast light on the shadowy parts of our society and its possible future. Revolver made people reading it feel uncomfortable because they saw truth in its bitter words.

  And my truth is, I’m ashamed I even considered hiding from that.

  Lucas Bale

  Copenhagen, 2015

  Revolver

  THE PRICE TAG on my head was $5,000. Easy money.

  I followed the bald man down a long corridor lined with closed doors and framed black-and-white studio portraits of the station’s newscasters. I turned away from their glossy-print gazes, focusing on the producer’s back. He wore a long-sleeved blue button-down and black khakis that had sharp creases on either side of his legs. Sweat beaded his forehead from the brief moment he’d spent outside to allow me access to the building. The overhead lighting made his shoulder-holstered gun gleam.

  He deliberately kept a few paces ahead of me, and I caught the downdraft of his cologne. He smelled nice. I didn’t. Too much time in the heat, dressed in too many layers, wearing most of the few clothes I had to my name all at once. I didn’t want them to get stolen and find myself fucked over by the winter.

  Not that I was going to live that long.

  “We’re through here, Ms. Stone,” the producer said. I forgot his name. Stevens or Stephenson. Whatever.

  He held the door open for me and tilted his head back, nose up, holding his breath as I walked past. I imagined he worked with a lot of the desperate filth, and wondered how he hadn’t gotten used to it yet. Fuck him. Let him enjoy his false sense of security. Truth was, he was living on the edge between prosperity and desolation, a good two weeks’ notice away from losing everything. Eventually it would happen, and he’d be blindsided by it, same as everyone else.

  “Should I leave you my coat?” I asked.

  His lips curled in a funny, sour sort of twist and he primly shook his head. “You can hang it over there,” he said, pointing to an overly elaborate coat hanger.

  I shook myself free of the carpenter’s coat, and then peeled off two oversized sweaters, down to a dirty, sweat-stained and once-white tank top. I thought about taking off my boots to fuck with him, smirking at the idea of smacking him across the face with a toe-jam-soiled sock. Smug prick.

  Stevens – if that was his name – stood at an end table, next to a fancy bar stool with a thick leather seat. A large wooden box the color of dark walnut was opened on the table. The revolver sat enshrined in plush velvet and he motioned me toward it with an artificial air of ceremony.

  “This is a Remington New Model Army Revolver, first produced in 1858,” he said with a reverential tone. “Fully loaded, six shots, with .44 caliber rounds.”

  I nodded, admiring the gleaming gun metal and polished wooden grip. I sidled up close to Stevens to deliberately invade his personal space. His distaste was apparent, but I’ll give him credit for not moving away. Instead, he breathed shallowly through his mouth, lips slightly parted.

  “It’s a nice gun,” I said. “Why six bullets, though? I’ll only need one.”

  He shrugged. “Dramatic effect. We’ll have you open the cylinder, show it to the cameras. Let the audience know this is for real.” He licked his lips, staring at the firearm as if it were an old lover. “Did you want to hold her?”

  Her, I noticed. Not It. Christ.

  “Sure.”

  He passed it to me with the gentleness he might use to handle a newborn. I’d never held a gun before and the weight was surprising. Even though it was only a few pounds, it seemed heavier. My fingers curled around the handle, and my index finger closed on the trigger. I’d never held a gun before, but this felt surprisingly natural, and a little too easy. I pointed it, away from Stevens, of course, and tracked the room through the sight at the end of the barrel.

  I can do this, I swore to myself.

  After a minute of mustering confidence and expelling doubts, I resettled the gun in its box and took a deep breath.

  The Remington came from the Open Carry Association for Armed Americans, a “proud sponsor” of the Revolver webcast. OCA3 had a lot of politicians in their pockets – enough to pass mandatory open carry laws for all citizens in virtually all of the red states. Stevens was the third man I’d seen in the broadcast house that carried, and I knew there were plenty more I hadn’t seen, behind all those closed doors and in the studio set.

  As a media employee of a far-right-leaning broadcast, Stevens was considered to be in a high-risk profession; along with police, firefighters, airline pilots, military servicemen and -women, educators, mail delivery, cable and internet service providers, doctors, construction workers, jewelers, librarians … The list seemed endless. OCA3, and their bought-and-paid-for shills across the nation, insisted that “a right ignored is a right lost forever”, and that it was the duty of all ‘real Americans’ to exercise their Second Amendment right and bear arms at all times.

  “Don’t put the gun to your temple,” Stevens said. “You’ll want to put it here, behind your ear.” He pointed to a spot behind his ear lobe, where his skull met his neck. “Give that trigger a nice, long, steady pull and that’ll do ya.”

  “Why there?”

  “We want to avoid any accidents.” He licked his lips, as if he were salivating at the promise of a gun going off. A fucking Pavlov’s dog of the open carry movement. “Don’t want the bullet to glance off the bone of your skull. Had this guy one time, the bullet circled his skull, blew off his scalp but didn’t kill him.”

  He stared at the box, plainly lusting. “Or you can stick it in your mouth, put the barrel up against your upper palate.”

  I made the mistake of shifting my ga
ze downward and noticed the growing bulge tenting the front of his khakis.

  “It’s been cleaned already, and it’s a reliable gun,” he said. “You’re all ready to go.”

  He licked his lips again, and then, for the first time, really looked at me.

  “There’s a bathroom through there,” he said, pointing at a door behind him. “You can get cleaned up, and we’ll have make-up get you ready for your big debut. Fresh set of clothes in there for you, too.”

  I nodded numbly, unable to remember the last time I’d had a decent shower. He stood stock still, as if he were waiting for me to undress in front of him. After way too long, he rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh, put out by my modesty. I waited until I couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore, then went into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. There was no lock.

  Hot water cascaded down my body for a good, long while, and I held my fingers under the powerful spray to wash away the grime that had collected under each fingernail. Shampoo wrung all the excess oil away from my long hair, and I rediscovered the joyous feeling of fingernails against my scalp as I worked up a lather. A women’s razor had even been left for me, and I went about shaving my legs and armpits, if for no other reason than a brief return to a mostly forgotten routine.