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

  The Zero Patient Trilogy

  ((Book One))

  Harmon Cooper

  Edited by George C. Hopkins

  Boycott Books

  Copyright © 2016 by Harmon Cooper

  Copyright © 2016 Boycott Books

  Cover by White Comma

  Edited by George C. Hopkins ([email protected])

  ISBN-13: 978-1530749478

  www.harmoncooper.com

  [email protected]

  Twitter: @_HarmonCooper

  All rights reserved. All rights preserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For Sor Ganbold

  To face the faceless.

  To touch the senseless.

  To hear the voice.

  To see the Goddess.

  Author’s Note

  Before you dive into the troubled world that is the Canyon, it is important to know a few of the terms used in the trilogy. I’ve put a list of vocabulary words at the back of the book, which is instantly accessed through the table of contents or by clicking here. If ever you stumble upon an unknown term, this is a great place to look.

  Enjoy,

  Harmon Cooper

  .STERLING.

  .1.

  The stench of the dead is overwhelming.

  In the back of the motocart, intermingled with the top layer of corpses, Sterling waits for the vehicle to power up when the itch strikes. He holds his breath, bides his time, hopes the urge to scratch will pass. It doesn’t.

  Damn the itch.

  Damn everything about inconvenient bodily functions and the urges they incite. The Canyon, Sterling’s home for almost thirty years now, isn’t a place to be taken lightly. If he blows his cover now, he blows his life. Reeducation or other forms of punishment await him on the other side of a rainbow that dips into a pot o’ shit. That’s not including the likely disappearance of his family if he doesn’t complete the task at hand.

  Sterling swallows dust, ignores the dry mouth, dry throat, parched lips, gritty feel of the dust in his mouth. Focus on the task. Playing dead isn’t exactly his specialty, nor is riding in a motocart full of corpses, but all jobs require sacrifices and what Sterling plans to do is especially difficult.

  “One … two … three!”

  A muffled thud meets his ears as another body is tossed on top of the heap, on top of him. With a quick wiggle, he’s able to get to his itch using the fingernail of a dead man lying halfway on top of him and … and …

  That’s the spot.

  Gruesome, yes, but a corpse is a corpse, a fingernail a fingernail, and an itch must be scratched. The Book says that all things return to the state from whence they came, that breaking free of the mold is essential in becoming faceless.

  The Book says many things and on most days, Sterling doesn’t question the sacred work.

  “Just one more.” A man’s voice outside the motocart reaches Sterling’s ears.

  “Let’s get this over with,” his companion says. A metalzip buzzes by, its wings whistling and whirring. “They’re out in force today, aren’t they?”

  “That they are, that they are,” the first man grunts. “Ready? One … two … three!”

  The Vultured Few continue discussing the most recent war for a moment. They relive a few of the battles they’ve witnessed, ramble on about the Southern man with the most kills. Another lifeless body is tossed into the cart and sprawls partly on top of Sterling, making it that much worse.

  A mid-afternoon corpse run is one of the less salubrious ways to go south, but it’s also the most inconspicuous. He has given up breathing through his nostrils; the stench of unwashed, close-packed humanity and the ripe, feculent odor of decay only reminds him of how dire his situation has become. Blotted out orange sun, dusty cover, unwelcoming austerity – life in the Canyon.

  The motocart starts up and not a moment too soon – Sterling coughs into the tangled hair of the man in front of him. Using his bottom lip as a chute, he tries to blow the sweat out of his eyes. He’s too stuck to use his shoulder to wipe the sweat away; there’s no way he’s going to wipe it on the man’s head in front of him. Even a man like Sterling has his standards.

  “Think happy thoughts,” he whispers to himself and the corpses around him.

  None respond; the motocart creaks as its tires spin on the pavement.

  “You know, you guys aren’t so bad.”

  ***

  Capture Halo, the Goddess of the South. Bring her to the North.

  To save one’s own skin is a marvelous thing, and this is exactly what Sterling plans to do by capturing Halo. He can’t trust the man who tasked him with this fool’s errand, not one iota; then again, he can barely trust himself. Regardless, the Book says that a man’s debt follows him through time until it is repaid, that a man is nothing more than his debt, that even his skin is his debt.

  “I’m aware of what the Book says,” Sterling whispers to the corpse partially on top of him. “You don’t have to remind me.”

  “Are you talking to me, mister?”

  The voice startles Sterling and he twists right, lodging his body in a position twice as uncomfortable as he was just moments ago. Blood oozes from someone’s nose onto his exposed arm.

  “Who’s there?” he nearly shouts, still not able to see anything.

  “Are you heading south?”

  “No, I just fell asleep here.”

  A finger presses into Sterling’s ear.

  “Kid, I’m warning you … ”

  “You’re alive, you’re really alive.”

  The motocart hits a bump in the road and the corpses shift slightly and press more heavily onto Sterling. “What are you doing in here anyway? You’re too young to participate in the War Zone.” Someone’s shoulder is pressed into his stomach, making it difficult to clear his breath. He resorts to quick, short breaths that are hardly satisfying.

  “Heading down, just like you,” the kid answers. “They were going to trim me, and my mom wants me to have kids, so she’s sending me to her sister in the South. You?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  The motocart rattles and the bodies on top of Sterling shift again. A large man’s moob puddles over his shoulder and presses into the side of his face. The rest of his girth is barely contained by the seersucker fabric keeping the man’s body contained.

  Sterling asks, “How old are you?”

  “Just turned thirteen.”

  “A Lower?”

  “Yes.”

  “With family in the North and South?”

  “My mom was twin born. They separated them. You’re an Upper?”

  “I am,” says Sterling.

  “Why are you traveling to the South?”

  Sterling dodges the question with one of his own. “You’re not trimmed yet? How’d you get away with that? There have been at least two lotteries in the last six years.”

  “By hiding on a motocart filled with corpses heading to the South,” the kid says. “If you aren’t going to tell me why you’re heading down, at least tell me your name.”

  “Sterling. Yours?”

  “Bold.”

  “Appropriate.”

  “For what?”

  “You said, Bold, right?”

  “Bolt,” he corrects. “Bolt. As in bolt of lightning. Ever seen the blue ones?”

  “On occasion. And you’re from the South?”

  The motocart creaks; gas discharges from a
corpse near Sterling.

  “In the name of the Goddess that reeks!” Bolt hisses.

  “Language,” says Sterling. “She may not be here, but she can hear us.”

  The kid laughs.

  “What?”

  “In the name of the Goddess isn’t a curse in the South.”

  “It is in the North,” Sterling reminds him. “And that’s where I’m from.”

  The motocart skids to a halt and the engine clicks off. The corpse pile shifts forward, putting pressure on Sterling’s back. It feels like someone’s knee is pressing into the small of his back but he can’t be sure. His only goal at this point is to keep the area in front of his mouth clear so he can breathe, which he tries to do by keeping his neck erect and his nose out.

  “I’m going to sneeze … ”

  “Don’t do it … ”

  “I can’t stop it … ”

  “Dammit, Bolt!” Sterling mouths as soon as the kid sneezes.

  “Did you hear something?” one of the men driving the motocart asks.

  “No, why’d you stop anyway?”

  “The engine’s acting up. Can’t you feel it?”

  “Just keep going; we’ll get it fixed after the drop off. We’ve only got a dozen more vestas to go.”

  The motocart starts up again. Wheels tear into the gravel and Sterling finally breathes. “In the name of the Goddess that was close.”

  “You said that was a curse word in the North,” says Bolt.

  “We’re not in the North anymore.”

  ***

  The two are quiet for a spell. Sterling continues to focus on a clear opening through which to breathe and tries to ignore the very human stenches that assail his nostrils. Shit, body odor, sweat, blood, vomit, piss – the stink of extinguished humanity comingles and festers in the bleak afternoon sun.

  “What’s the plan?” Bolt asks, spearing the silence.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we arrive at the gravesite.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “My plan is to pretend I’m dead,” Bolt tells Sterling.

  “That’s a bad plan, kid.”

  “It worked last time.”

  “They couldn’t tell when they touched your body?”

  “They didn’t touch my body; they just dumped the cart. The people of the South are afraid to touch dead bodies because the bodies may transfer their facelessness; even the Vultures don’t do it any more than they have to. None of them wants to be deathborn.”

  “That’s stupid. Deathborn only happens to those who die with a face.”

  “Have you been to the South before?” Bolt asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Being faceless is a sin in the South; if you die faceless, you become deathborn. Everything is different down here, like it’s an opposite world or something.”

  Sterling grunts. Going south wasn’t exactly his idea, wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the fact that he lost a bet to the richest man in the North, Zander Damien.

  Capture Halo or your family dies to clear your markers. The terms to end all terms.

  “So they’ll just dump us in?”

  “That’s what they did to me last time.”

  Sterling grins, uses his bottom lip to try to funnel more air onto his eyes. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day, kid.”

  “Bolt.”

  “So we just wait until nightfall then we crawl out of the gravesite?”

  “Well it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  “How so?” Sterling asks.

  “They’ll start adding dirt as soon as we’re dropped inside.” Bolt seems closer now, inches away from Sterling’s ear.

  “What do we do when they dump the dirt in?”

  “We put ourselves in a position that makes it easier for us to dig our way out,” Bolt explains. “They don’t pack the dirt down until the following day; at least they didn’t last time. Keep your hands free when you fall. Try not to suffocate.”

  “Then dig our way out?”

  “Yup. What were you planning to do?”

  .2.

  “That should do it.” Sterling jams his shiv back in his boot. He’s used it before – twice – and he isn’t hesitant to use it again. What happens in the Canyon stays in the Canyon. All it takes is one glance up at the smoggy sky and the layer of dust and the absence of the stars to remember this. “You all right, kid?”

  “I’ll … be fine.” Bolt wipes the spittle off his mouth. Watching Sterling kill the Vultured Few had been more unpleasant than the kid had expected. The first man died quickly, the second, not so much.

  “Clothing … ” Sterling hops down into the hole, waves some flies away. His pants are fine, just a few stains, but he definitely needs a new shirt. Pulling his seersucker top over his head, careful of the face cover, he goes to work on the black war paint on his face. He smears it away from his eyes and uses his shirt to wipe up the mess. He doesn’t want to look like he’s just returned from the War Zone. “How are your clothes?” he calls up to Bolt.

  “Fine. I wore two shirts.” Bolt tosses his outer layer into the hole.

  “I should have thought of that,” Sterling says as he sorts through the bodies. It’s not pleasant, but he’s beyond pleasantries by this point. Finally, he finds a man with a clean enough shirt. There’s a bit of blood on the face cover, but that’s easily replaced.

  Sterling grabs the man’s arms and pulls him up into a sitting position to make it easier to take off his shirt. He counts himself lucky that this one hasn’t stiffened up much yet, sees something twitch out of the corner of his eye, ignores it. Face covers are usually buttoned into the tops of the shirts men wear in the Canyon, which makes it pretty easy to take off. Sterling replaces the man’s face cover with his own and puts the shirt on. He bounces off someone’s back and catches the edge of the hole, where he quickly pulls himself to the top.

  Once he’s dusted off his clothing, he moves over to the two motocart drivers. Known as the Vultured Few because of the dirty work they perform on either side of the Off Limits, Sterling almost feels sorry for killing the two men. No time to process his feelings, he lifts the first man’s legs and drags him over to the hole. He does the same to the second man, uses his foot to roll both men into the grave.

  “I need to get to the Church of the South as soon as possible.” Sterling picks up a shovel and starts filling the grave.

  “Why?” Bolt asks.

  “I want to meet the Goddess.”

  “Why?”

  Sterling hesitates; he knows better than to explain to the kid the details of his suicide mission. “I have my reasons,” he finally says. “Any more questions?”

  “You want my help?”

  “No.” Sterling rests on the end of his shovel, thinks for a moment. “It’d be helpful if you point me in the right direction, though.”

  “Why do you want to meet the Goddess?”

  “You were raised in the North,” Sterling says, filling the grave once again. “The Southern Goddess is false. You know this, right?”

  “I know it … but … ”

  “But what?”

  Sterling stops again, casts a weary glance at the kid. Killing Bolt now would make sure there were no witnesses. He swallows the thought – he’d rather not take the life of someone so young.

  “I’ve seen them both,” Bolt says.

  “The Goddess of the North and the South?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “The Goddess of the South is different. She’s blind.”

  “So?” Sterling drops the shovel and takes a step towards the boy.

  “Halo isn’t like the Goddess of the North.”

  “A lizard’s a lizard.” A metalzip flutters by. It stops just above the two, its wings buzzing loudly. The quote from the Book comes to him: Zippers buzz and do what they must; metalzips aren’t to be touched. “Bolt, I’m going to be honest with you.”

  �
��Yes?”

  “There’s room in this grave for another.” The kid takes an epic step back but he doesn’t run, which Sterling admires. “But I need some help getting around. You’ve here been before and you can help me.”

  “And if I help you?”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “How?” Bolt asks.

  “There won’t be room in this grave for another. Are we clear here?”

  Bolt gets the picture. “I’ll take you to the Church of the South, but I don’t know how you’ll get in there to see her.”

  “I’m sure we’ll figure something out, but tonight, I want you to help me find a fleshroom. It’s been a long, wearying day.”

  ***

  Sterling starts the three-wheeled motocart. Bolt is next to him now, his eyes wide with a combination of excitement and fear. The two almost look like father and son, aside from the thin layer of youthful fat that softens the angles of Bolt’s face and his blonde hair, at odds with Sterling’s premature grayness, which gives silver highlights to his shaggy brown locks. Their eyes are similar, oval-shaped and tucked under a pair of thick brows; their narrow noses seem as if they’ve been cast from the same mold; their frames somewhere between malnourished and well-fed.

  The South is different from the North, the houses made from the same materials yet shaped differently. While many of the dwellings and depots in the North are rounded and circular, everything in the South is all planes and right angles. There are a few Southerners out, but not many, which is also different from the northern side of the Off Limits. Northerners are much more free-spirited than the hyper-religious people of the South. The biggest issue between the two sides boils down to one doctrinal dispute: Northerners believe being faceless is a blessing; Southerners believe it is a curse.

  Sterling lightly presses the acceleration pedal and they’re off, travelling down a narrow lane lined with oddly shaped stones separating the burial pit from the Southern dwellings. The street is lit by dim orange lights, powered by the Off Limits. Sterling has wondered where the power comes from before, but he knows better than to ask about it. The Book says that questions are what led humanity to nearly extincting itself.