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

  Clay overpowers Sterling at first, flips him on his back and straddles him. He gets one solid punch in, but shrieks in pain and surprise when Sterling shivs him in the ass. Clay just wants to escape now; Sterling hooks him around the neck and puts the point of the shiv up under his jaw.

  “In the name of the Goddess … ” Clay whispers as he realizes his personal extinction is nigh.

  “That’s a curse where I’m from.” Sterling is just about to drive the shiv home when Bolt grabs his arm, pulls it back.

  “Dammit, kid!”

  The distraction is all Clay needs. He puts an elbow in Sterling’s ribs, twists away from the blade and scarpers out of the room, hand to his ass and limping as fast as he can. “Why the hell did you do that?” Sterling screams at Bolt.

  Some commotion outside; the other guests are awake.

  “You can’t … ”

  “What’s happening?” The flesh dealer calls out from the main building.

  “Shit, kid.” Sterling grabs him by the front of his shirt. “Hide the shiv.” He wraps the kid’s fingers around it, pushes him away. They hear a motocart start, the whine of its engine pierces the cool night.

  “What’s going on?” the flesh dealer stands at the door now, a wary look on his face.

  Sterling grunts. “Your tough-guy drunk regular tried to make off with my … nephew.”

  “Clay did this?” The flesh dealer scratches the back of his head. “Damn, well … ” His eyes meet the blood on the stone floor. “What happened?”

  Sterling shows the flesh dealer his fist, uses his other hand to point at a bruise forming on his cheekbone.

  “Damn.” The flesh dealer glances at Bolt.

  “You really need to get locks on these doors.”

  “Can’t,” the flesh dealer says. He makes a gesture indicating his arms are tied. “The Southern Council has ruled against them.”

  “Well.”

  “Well, what?”

  “Nothing.” Sterling shakes his head – the South and their nonsensical rules. “Good night. If I ever see that child-thieving bastard again, I’ll finish the job I started.”

  “No qualms here,” says the flesh dealer.

  ***

  Hard to sleep after Bolt’s almost-abduction. Sterling tries, lies in the bed thinking of how fucked the day has been, a day of violence and ecstasy. He’s had plenty, but none like her though. Although the rhetoric is always the same – the Book, the Goddess, the Stayed. But that’s the rhetoric of the Canyon; the absence of any sort of magniloquence keeps the place safe, simple, altruistic, as it should be. Never mind the few troubled souls trapped in the only inhabited hole on the entire planet.

  The planet.

  Sterling has thought about it before, but not much. It’s hard to think about the bigger picture when the smaller picture is besmirched with shit. Life in the Canyon, life of the Stayed is defined by classes – three to be exact – and passing the time until you die or you’re raptured.

  Being raptured is the way Sterling wants to go. He’s an Upper, so his odds are a bit higher, but not much. There’s a ceremony at the furthermost port of entry at the Off Limits. You say your goodbyes, you enter, and something happens. No one knows what happens, but you are guaranteed facelessness by doing so. Guaranteed.

  As he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, Sterling drops his hand to his member. He goes at it slowly, then quickly, trying to get his seed out as rapidly as possible so he can get some rest. Images of the flesh giver come to him, her breasts, her bindrings, her blinders. This triggers a response and he succeeds, covers his moan with a cough, wipes his seed on the bed sheets as soon as it’s all out. They’ll clean the room in the morning anyway, probably.

  His urges extinguished, Sterling thinks of the Great Demarcator, colloquially referred to as Off Limits, which separates the North and South. The wall is a tremendous construct, at least three vestas wide and six vestas long. It is managed by OL Officers, who also police either side of the wall. The War Zone sits in the middle of the barrier, the only place people from the North and the South are allowed to go freely. Once they file into their side of the stadium, they’re able to watch war as it happens. The gates leading to either side of the War Zone have never been open more than twenty minutes.

  The War Zone is probably the second most popular thing on either side of the Off Limits, next to religion. Participating in a war was how Sterling smuggled himself to the South. It was a risky move, but dire situations call for desperate actions.

  Of course, there are other ways to move to the other side.

  The ports of entry on either side of the War Zone allow a certain number of people through a day, but most of these are either council members or have quick business with the other side. The North has better soil, so there’s more cacti and other vegetation there. The South has better distilleries, so the delixers are higher quality, and this has created some trade between the two opposing sides.

  In fact, Sterling feels the effects of the delixer as he lies in the bed. The stuff has turned his stomach sour; every breath he takes seems to draw the acidic liquid even higher. At some point in the night, he gets some water from the basin in the corner of the room (water given as a ration to the flesh dealer to run his business), but that doesn’t seem to help either. Sitting with his back against the wall, Sterling cleans his shiv, scrapes it against the bottom of his boot as he thinks about the next day.

  There have been attempts to kidnap a Goddess before on both sides. Only one was successful, and that was at least thirty years ago. Getting an audience with the Goddess isn’t going to be easy and truthfully, Sterling hasn’t thought much about her abduction. His passage to the North has supposedly been secured by Zander Damien, but he still has to get her to the Off Limits first.

  Bolt sniffs, turns to his other side. He now faces Sterling directly, his eyes closed and his skin pale in the darkness. The kid’s lips part and he says a few words, The Canyon is grand, the Canyon is home.

  Sterling recognizes the phrase immediately. It’s a quote from the Book that has been adapted into a child’s prayer. The original version goes, The Canyon is grand, the Canyon is home. Do not lose your home to flames simply to test its inflammability. The nursery rhyme version expands upon the rhyming pattern to form something that all children understand. The Canyon is grand, the Canyon is home. The Goddess commands the Stayed alone.

  An idea comes to Sterling as he watches the kid sleep. It might not work but it’s better than his original plan of simply waltzing into the Church of the South and taking her.

  “Thank you, Goddess; thank you, Time,” he says, bowing his head to the North.

  ***

  Hazy morning light spreads through the room. With the sun blocked out most days, the morning murk is something that Sterling is all too familiar with. Toxic miasma – life of the Stayed.

  Sterling sits, reaches for the food on the nightstand and wolfs it down.

  “Wake up, kid,” he says gruffly.

  Bolt moans and stirs; the blanket rustles around him like the wind stirring.

  “I don’t want to … ”

  “Today is the big day.” Sterling blows his nose into his fingers, wipes his hands on the sheet.

  Bolt sits up, keeps his blanket pulled over his head so it forms a hooded cloak. “You’ll try to take Halo?”

  “Not just me,” says Sterling, “you too.”

  “I won’t do it.” Bolt tosses the blanket off his body. His blonde hair is a mess; his eyes still puffy with sleep. “I’m going to my aunt’s today. It’s why I came down here.”

  Sterling shakes his head. He’s been thinking about their relationship since the early morning. Time had already cast his rocks for him and the next step was logical. “The Goddess brought us together and she’s kept us together for this long. Now, I need your help to do what I plan to do next.”

  “I don’t believe in the Goddess of the North.” Bolt pushes himself backwards, gets caught up in his b
lanket and falls again.

  “Since when?”

  “Since last night.”

  “Since you saw a whore dressed as the Goddess?”

  “It reminded me of her.”

  “Dammit, kid it is supposed to remind you of her!”

  “What are you going to do with her anyway, with Halo?” Bolt asks, settling on the floor.

  “That’s not up to me. I just need to meet her and we’ll go from there.”

  “I don’t know how you want me to help you.”

  Sterling asks, “How good are you at playing sick?”

  Bolt coughs.

  “You can do better than that.”

  Bolt coughs with more enthusiasm.

  “Good, that’s what I needed to see. Here’s the backstory: We’ve been to the clinics near the Off Limits and you still aren’t getting any better. It’s your cough, hell, everyone has a cough so that should be an easy sell. Also, you’re getting dizzy from time to time, and sick to your stomach.”

  “Okay … ”

  “All I need is for you to get me into the Southern Goddess’ inner chamber. I’ll handle everything from there.”

  “You won’t be able to,” Bolt says, “on your own at least.”

  “Well, I kind of have to; otherwise … things get real hairy for me.”

  “Halo is more powerful than the Time.”

  “You’re getting ballsy, Bolt, and I don’t like it. You keep your mouth shut about the Goddess of the North.”

  “I’ve seen them both,” he protests, “and I’m telling you, the Goddess of the North isn’t as powerful as Halo. She’s … different.”

  Sterling is off the bed before Bolt can reach the door. He grabs the kid by the arm, raises his hand to slap him. “KEEP IT SHUT!”

  Bolt tries to pull away; Sterling squeezes even harder.

  “You owe me,” Sterling says through clenched teeth. “For last night. That man was going to take you and do you know what he would have done to you if he had?”

  Crying now, Bolt shakes his head.

  “He would have hurt you, used you like a lover and then if you were lucky – lucky mind you – killed you dead,” He lets go of his arm. “I need your help. The Goddess … she’s brought us together.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Because of my family, that’s why.” Sterling sits on the bed, rubs his hand over his beard stubble. “If I don’t bring … ” He gives the kid a funny look. “If I don’t bring Halo to the North, they’re going to kill my mother and my sister. Hell, they’ll kill me too. So my rocks are cast – you see what I’m getting at here? I’m not doing this by choice; I’m doing this because of what they will do if I don’t.”

  “Who is?” Bolt asks.

  “I’ve told you enough, kid,” he says, regaining his composure. “Regardless of what you believe, I need your help. If you help me, I’ll … ”

  “What?”

  “She’s powerful, right? Halo?”

  Bolt wipes his tears away, nods.

  “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “I didn’t know that I was going to help you.”

  “Well, if she’s really the Goddess, she won’t let me kidnap her. Do you believe that?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then you’ll help me. If you get caught, you tell them the damn truth – I kidnapped you and forced you to help me. Got that? You even tried to kill me, that’s what this is.” Sterling points at the black eye given to him by Clay. “You’ll be a hero down here. If she isn’t the Goddess, well I’ll take her to Zander and that’s that. If she is, I’m as good as dead anyway. Deal?”

  Handshakes aren’t given, but a nod will suffice for Sterling to trust Bolt – or more importantly, for Bolt to trust Sterling. Trust is a shiv today or a shiv tomorrow.

  “No one’s ever done it before,” Bolt says. “No one has ever captured a Goddess.”

  “You’re young and I’m old.” Sterling chews at the inside of his cheek for a moment. “And just so you know – it has been done, when I was a boy.”

  .6.

  Sterling is just about to step outside when Bolt stops him. “If you’re going to blend in down here, you need to make some changes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You might not think it, but your posture makes you look like an Upper from the North. Your shoulders aren’t right.” Bolt approaches him cautiously. “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  He reaches his hands up and tries to curl the older man’s shoulders over. At first Sterling stands rigid; eventually, he gives in to Bolt’s soft hands. “You also walk like a Northern Upper – proud.”

  “To be confident is to be faceless.”

  “That’s the North’s interpretation. They think that confidence leads to facelessness; the South thinks that facelessness is bad, so the passage you just quoted is actually a bad thing.”

  “Damn,” Sterling says, a bit annoyed at being corrected. Bolt is several heads shorter than he is; looking down at the kid reminds him of how much power he holds over him.

  “Slouch a bit, don’t show your confidence in your shoulders,” Bolt says.

  “Got it, got it. Anything else?”

  “We need to get some red root.”

  “Red root?” Sterling remembers the depot manager’s teeth from last night. Northerners stay away from the stuff.

  “You want to blend in, right? Well, most men about your age chew red root.”

  “How does it taste?”

  “It tastes like red root, I guess – how would I know? It’s supposed to keep you alert though.”

  “Let’s get some.”

  “The guy that runs the Fleshroom will let you have some, I’m sure.”

  Sterling opens the door, steps out. The sun is brighter than normal today; the smog adds a light gray filter to the sky. It’s a good sign, good enough, anyway.

  “Another thing,” Bolt says as he follows behind him.

  “Yes?”

  “Hide if you see any OL Officers.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks, turning to the boy. Bolt has already adjusted his face cover over his mouth and not a second too soon. A wind blusters past, nearly knocking Sterling off his feet. He gets his mouth cover on too and curses the fact that he left his Leaks in the North. The wind screams like a million banshees and then it stops abruptly, almost as if it had never blown in the first place.

  Once the wind settles, Sterling opens his eyes and gives the sky an angry glare. Everything has an orange tint to it with layers of pinks and purples. The smog and haze keeps sun away. All the Stayed can do is pray. There are a few days a year that the haze dissipates enough to see the sky, but those days are few and far between. They’re great days to get married though, if you can manage it on short notice.

  “You were saying … ”

  “Hide if you see OL Officers. They’ll know.”

  “Know what?”

  “They’ll know that you’re here illegally.”

  “That’s hearsay.”

  Bolt shakes his head. “They found me out last time, took me back to the North. They also put me through three months of reeducation in the Off Limits.”

  “Damn, kid … ” Sterling can tell by the look on Bolt’s face that he isn’t exaggerating. His facial features, normally soft and naïve, have hardened into the phizog of a bitter old man.

  Bolt points at a tattoo behind his ear indicating he’s done a stint in reeducation. Sterling has one too, behind his right ear.

  “And you’re trying to come back again? You sure are brave.”

  “No one wants to be trimmed,” he says.

  The flesh dealer steps out of the main room of the establishment. He’s in the clothing of Southern Uppers: a long sleeve shirt with an elaborate face cover decorated with embroidery – loose pants, shirts, R Boots – and a fringe of beadwork. “I’m sorry about the troubles last night,” he says, “but I hope other than that, the stay was up to your stand
ards.”

  “It was fine,” says Sterling.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  The man is just about to turn away when Sterling calls out to him. “Say, I’m clean out of red root. Could I borrow a little?”

  “Of course.” The flesh dealer takes long strides towards them, his boots kicking up tiny puffs of dust. He reaches under his arm, retrieves a small tin. One pinch later, and Sterling is palming one of the South’s favorite pastimes.

  ***

  “Now we find a motopublic heading to the church.”

  Sterling follows Bolt around the Fleshroom and onto a main road. A few motocarts rumble by them, trailed by single person motos, which are much more popular in the North than the South. Sterling has a moto back at his home; two wheels, 50cc, two seats and custom grips that he won in a game of lizard with a moto dealer.

  “Where’s the motopublic?” Bolt asks a passing Upper woman. She’s in full outdoor garb, a head-to-toe cloth covering and bindrings over her shoulders. No words are exchanged between the two; she simply lifts her arm and points, revealing heavily be-ringed fingers – the wealthy seize every opportunity to showcase their wealth.

  Bolt leads the way and Sterling follows. He places the red root in his mouth, chews once, almost gags.

  “This stuff is terrible!”

  “Don’t chew it,” Bolt explains, “put it between your cheek and your teeth and suck on it.”

  Sterling’s tongue moves the mess to the side; it’s still bitter, but at least it isn’t quite so overpoweringly vile.

  The two walk for a good fifteen or twenty minutes. They pass Depots, another fleshroom, a small worship center, Lowers’ residences and a single public bath. Sterling doesn’t have to ask Bolt to confirm that this is the poorer part of the South. He assumes the richer part is closer to the Off Limits, as it is in the North. Proximity to the Off Limits allows for easy access to the War Zone, the distribution points, the council halls and the various ports of entry. As to why the Upper lady was walking the streets moments ago – they do tend to get around. After all, Uppers are pretty much in charge of everything, aside from the Devout.

  A group of Lower Southerners stands on the side of the gravel road in tattered clothes and dirty R-Boots. Lowers aren’t issued the same amount of cloth as the Uppers – same in the North. The women make up for this by decorating their faces in peculiar ways. One thing that’s popular right now on both sides of the Great Demarcator is a string of beige dots below each eye. Of the four women waiting for the motopublic, three have the beige dots atop their cheeks. The fourth has the Widow Mark on her forehead, a vertical tear made by pressing one’s finger into clay and dragging it from the top of the forehead to the glabella.