The Book of Eadie, Volume One of the Seventeen Trilogy

by Mark D. Diehl

  Eadie cleared her throat. “Is there something you want, Prophet?”

  “Yes. Thank you, General. Are you aware that this place is quite dangerous?”

  “The Zone? Yeah, everyone knows the Zone is dangerous, Prophet. But nobody brings any trouble into Dok’s place. It just works that way. I read once that wild animals never attacked each other around watering holes …” She paused, gently placing her palm over the wound on her cheek. “Something like that. Anyway, I think Dok’s place is like a watering hole.”

  “With all respect, General, perhaps the animals at watering holes were safe from each other. However, they were especially vulnerable there to human hunters, because they were entirely exposed and their guard was down. What I am referring to here is of the same order. It is not the violent individuals living in the Zone whom you must fear at this moment. It is the outsiders, those who falsely claim to represent a higher power.” The Prophet went silent, his face turning wooden again.

  Eadie rolled her eyes over at Dok, who shrugged. She nodded slightly. “That’s fine, Prophet. Thanks. I’ll … I’ll take that under advisement.”

  The Prophet gave his same closed-eyed half-nod, half-bow and went back to sit down against the wall.

  The new train, headed back into the Zone

  “Coming out!” Lawrence said, pushing against the wall of bodies that separated him from the train doors. “This is my stop! Let me out, please!”

  He struggled and shoved, but the doors closed again before he reached them. The train started moving, the crowd at the station speeding by and blurring until the platform was lost from sight. Lawrence forced his way through the throng of passengers, making his way toward the doors and looking at the map to see where the next stop would let him off.

  Shitbox Manor

  “Augh!” Old Fart yelled, jerking his arm back from a hole in the floor that was nearly the size of his desk top back at Celarwil-Dain.

  “Huh?” Kel sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  “I was …” Old Fart squeezed his eyes shut hard and blinked a few times. His eyelids were like wet, sticky rags. “I rolled over in my sleep and I almost fell into this hole in your floor!”

  Kel made a frustrated hissing noise. “Told you when we came in last night, man. Security, is what that is. See how it’s right inside the door?” He pointed down the hole at the room below. “Door’s nailed shut down there, got sharp sticks pokin’ up, broken glass, alla dat. You hadta jump over it when we came in, remember?”

  “I don’t remember anything.” He lightly fingered a bruise on the underside of his jaw. “Except that we were attacked last night.” He covered his face with his palms. “I feel awful.”

  “Yer hung over, dummy,” Kel said. “That’s why.”

  “Humph.” A hangover … if only that was all. His brain felt like a giant blister of poison had formed there, threatening to rupture with the slightest disturbance. That was from the alcohol. Then there were the bruises and abrasions from the fight. But he realized that the rest of his body was struggling to adjust to life without his various synthesized medications. His eyes, nose, throat, and lungs burned in reaction to something in the air, and rashes had erupted in a number of spots on his arms and legs. He involuntarily tensed and twitched from time to time, perhaps in want of muscle relaxants.

  He attempted to draw a deep breath and cringed. “What’s that smell coming up from the hole? Something rotten? Garbage? It smells black and slippery … mold?”

  “Li’l bit of that. Probably growin’ lotsa germs down there, right? Anybody falls down that hole, I don’ want ’em comin’ back up.”

  Old Fart put his palms on his temples but instantly worried that he might somehow tumble into the hole. He put one hand on the floor to steady himself. “We lost our chips in that fight, didn’t we? I’ll make it up to you, Kel. As soon as I’m able to …” He leaned forward, vomiting a torrent of alcohol down into the hole. He straightened his arms and arched his back, pushing away from the hole, but his stomach sent forth another blast.

  “Shit, man!” Kel said. He swallowed and blinked, lowering his voice. “Stinkin’ up my whole place an’ shit. Damn.” He stood up and staggered toward the door.

  “I’m so sorry,” Old Fart said. “You must be really sick, yourself. Golden people have modified abilities for blood purification. My system’s supposed to be able to filter out more than a traditional European bloodline like you evidently have.”

  Kel laughed, swinging open the door. “Yeah, maybe you got a hopped-up liver or whatever, but sittin’ in an office every damned day made you weak. I can out-drink you any day, punk, jus’ like I can out-fight you any day.”

  “Well, anyway,” Old Fart said. “I’ll still honor our deal. I’ll get to a machine as soon as I can … I’ll get some more chips to pay you for your hospitality. Then I’ll make my way back home, of course. And I’m sorry about making your room smell … even worse.”

  Kel was peering into the hall, distracted. “S’all right. I hate the closed door, anyhow. Hate it. Like a cage. But even wit’ the hole I gotta have it kinda closed at night. I think now’s daytime, though.” He stepped over the hole and out into the hall. “Brian? Man, what you doin’? Since when you leave your door hangin’ open?”

  There was no answer.

  Old Fart looked to the window, which comprised a bizarre network of metal bars, nails, screws, and wood splinters, with bits of translucent plastic stuffed in between them. It did seem that there was some light coming through it. “Are you claustrophobic, Kel? Afraid of small spaces?”

  Kel came back over the hole. He flicked his lighter and a tiny, feeble flame appeared, which he pointed at Old Fart. “Ain’t afraid of shit.” He bent down to a small dish half full of overused cooking oil with a piece of wire wrapped around a bit of rag serving as a wick. The lamp ignited, throwing violent orange patterns over the room’s tiny walls and giving off rancid smoke. Old Fart clenched his teeth as his stomach fluttered but nothing came up. Kel slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “Anyways, you wanna go home just ’cause we got rolled?”

  Old Fart shook his head, belching silently. “No. I don’t want to go home. I would rather stay here, and experience more of what your life is like. I’ve already seen more excitement in the last several hours than I had in my whole life up until now …” He put his palms on his temples, as if holding his skull together. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m terrified to be here. But, you know, the problem with my wife back at home … it makes me sick when I think about it. She used to be so different before the reconditioning—”

  Kel’s face contorted in disgust. “Ugh. Your wife’s a God-zombie?”

  Old Fart nodded. “But I’ll go back. It’s what I have to do. And don’t worry about the money I promised. I’m good for it, Kel.”

  “What the fuck you talking about, Old Fart? Look at this shit!” He gestured to the floor, where he was spreading out the items they had taken from the one attacker they had captured: a shirt with a big section of cloth cut out of it, a piece of unidentifiable metal twisted into a ball, half a meter of string, a pair of shoes that were more holes than material, and a terribly old piece of chewing gum. “We got all this together, man. Half this shit is yours!”

  Kel shook his head. “Brian!” he called again. “Brian, man, you might’s well come in an’ meet my friend, Old Fart, here! What you doin’ over there, anyways?”

  Again, no answer.

  Kel shrugged. “Th’ fuck is his problem?” he said, stepping back over the hole. He rapped on the door with one bent finger. “Ay! What you—Brian?” Kel turned, his head pivoting to take in the whole hallway. “Brian?” Kel froze, staring down the hall toward the staircase.

  “Kel?” said Old Fart. “What is it?”

  “Not here,” Kel said. He stayed frozen. “But his door’s open.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe he’ll be right back then.”

  Kel pulled the neighboring door shut. He shook his head. “Nobody le
aves their door open ’round here ’cept me,” he said. “An’ Brian, never. Really, really never.”

  “You’re worried about your friend, then?” Old Fart asked as he stood. Tastes of copper, iron, and acid rose in the back of his throat. His stomach lurched, threatening to explode again. Why had he gotten up?

  Because anything Kel worries about would have to be a very bad thing.

  Dok’s place

  “Prophet?” Eadie said. It came out as a whisper. A thought had made her cold and numb. She cleared her throat. “Prophet?” The lady next to him gently patted his arm, but he did not respond.

  Eadie rose to her hands and knees and crawled across the floor, knocking his empty bottle of sodje out of the way. She took him by the shoulders. “Prophet!”

  His eyes opened halfway from behind their veil of stringy hair.

  “Who are the higher powers, or whatever you called them? Who did you mean?”

  His face was slack. His eyes drooped. His lips were dry, but when they parted, his usual voice came out. “I believe I referred to those who claim to represent a higher power, General.”

  “Yeah, them. Who did you mean? Could they be from the government? Might they be the police? The Feds?”

  He nodded.

  She looked at Dok. He shrugged.

  “Prophet, why would the Feds look for me here?”

  “Please do not lose faith in the boy, General. He is loyal to you, I am sure. But he did not think about the way the police work. He did not realize that they could trace his location from the implant.”

  Her eyes met Dok’s. “Feds don’t come to the Zone. They never come here, right?”

  Dok stared a moment. “For Clayton Ricker’s son they might. And anyway, yeah. I’ve heard that they are starting to come back around here these days, though I don’t know why. People have seen them walking around in their stretchy gray business suits, but they don’t seem to be stopping any crimes.”

  Her breathing quickened. She closed her eyes. “Prophet, why didn’t you just tell me you thought the Feds were coming? Why all that ‘claim to represent’ stuff?”

  “Forgive me, General, but in my experience telling unpleasant things directly to those in power seldom produces the desired result. Best to give all the pieces and let the recipient put them together—that way the listener believes the message more because it came from her own mind.”

  Eadie groaned.

  The Prophet cleared his throat. “General, if I may suggest one more thing?”

  She nodded quickly, ignoring the pull from the stitches in her face. “Tell me straight this time—not just pieces, okay?”

  “As you wish, General. It seems there is very little time. Too little for you to leave the premises. If you run out of the building, you risk meeting them on their way in.”

  Eadie stared at the Prophet. An electric feeling flooded into her face, making her eyes sting and her mouth hang open. “Yes. That could really happen,” she muttered. She turned numbly toward Dok. A tear slowly worked its way down her cheek but she felt so disconnected from her body she was unable to lift her hand to wipe it away.

  Dok flung open one of his cupboards, dumping some dried leaves into a small jar. “Take this upstairs to apartment five-seventeen. Mrs. Klaussen lives up there. Tell her I sent you up to check on her and that this is for her joint problem.

  “You want me to administer medicine?”

  “Her joint problem is routine old-lady pain; she’s fine. That’s just regular tea. Now go.”

  Eadie headed for the door. Dok extended a hand to the Prophet, hauling him to his feet. “Take this fellow with you,” he said. “Something tells me the Feds wouldn’t get a lot of information from him, but still, it’s better not to risk it.” He snatched the knife from the spot where Lawrence had left it, pointing the handle at Eadie. “And take this.”

  It was still smeared with her blood. She tucked the blade behind her apron, taking the Prophet by the hand and leading him up the stairwell. A loud set of footsteps echoed up from below.

  (?)

  Brian stood in the freezing acid rain. He had no coat, no umbrella. Tiny droplets trickled down his face, burning his eyes and his chapped lips. The last thing he remembered was going to bed.

  He turned a slow circle, trying to figure out where he might be. Clearly it was somewhere in the Zone. The concrete had all been removed from the streets and sidewalks, and all the wood, glass, and metal had been removed from the buildings. But even in the Zone, most of the buildings still survived. Here they were mostly piles of rubble, and the ones left were missing walls.

  He surveyed the buildings again, more closely this time. There had to be some familiar feature or identifying mark. He knew almost every part of the Zone. Every part, except for—

  Every standing wall and piece of rubble was pockmarked with signs of gunfire. The fallen concrete was shattered into tiny pieces, its steel reinforcement rods removed.

  It was darker now than it had been a minute ago. Brian ran his splinted hand up behind his back, reaching for his gun. It was not there. He took a few steps in a random direction, pivoting his head all around. Lightning stabbed down through the sky, making him squint. At his feet, a tooth and part of what looked like a knucklebone poked out of the toxic mud.

  There could be no mistake. He was deep inside Fiend territory.

  7

  The Federal Truck

  “The Williams kid’s running scared, boss.” Hawkins said. His EI was set to voice-only mode. Psychoholograms were a distraction when driving.

  “Damn. That’s bad,” Agent Caspan’s voice—or the artificial electronic pulse that sounded like his voice—said. “Bad for me, and really bad for you. How far are you from the CBD?”

  “Oooh. Long way, sir. Too far. I’ll have to try again tomorrow,” Hawkins answered, with a derisive chuckle.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so. Get on over there now. The old man wants to talk to you, give you his personal insight into the case.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to check my weapon on the way in to his office, won’t I? And what else? Bow to him? Genuflect? I hate these fucking corporate dicks.”

  “I was allowed to keep my weapon, but then, I am a captain. Pretty sure it’ll be the same with you, though. He’s a prick, all right, but he’s so high up he doesn’t seem to want to waste his valuable time on fanfare. You walk up, tell the secretary your name, she makes you stand around forever, then he lets you in to a room crawling with Unnamed Executives in black suits and sunglasses, flashing their creepy double gold rings. It’s like being neck-deep in tar, I swear to God.”

  “I can’t wait. All right, I’m on my way, sir.”

  Dok’s clinic

  The door swung open. A blocky Federal Agent, a mountain of concrete in his gray suit, pushed past Dok, nearly knocking him over. He quickly scanned the little room, checking under the table and behind the door. He stormed into the bathroom, and finding it empty, threw open every cabinet in the office.

  “I’m sorry,” Dok said. “I’m closed for the evening. If you have an emergency I can—”

  The Agent grabbed a fist full of Dok’s shirt, marched him backward across the room, and deposited him on top of the examination table. “A cut-up waitress came to see you. She had a college kid and some bum with her. Where are they?”

  Dok stared at the cold blue eyes. “I don’t know.”

  The man’s eyes opened a little wider. He seemed to grow taller, coming closer to stare down at Dok without releasing the grip on his shirt. Dok had to fight back his terror and stall, buy Eadie some time.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. She left.”

  “So she went home?”

  “Maybe. Can you let go of my shirt, please?”

  The Agent slammed Dok backward against the table. Dok’s vision filled with amorphous yellow blotches. The Agent pulled him back to a sitting position with the same hand, tightening his grip. “I’m asking the questions,” he said.
He leaned closer, talking quietly, breathily. “I’ve heard about your kind. You violent black jungle killers. Had everything you wanted handed to you, wormed your way into government, corporations, universities. But in the end, you killed each other off with your bloodlust, didn’t you?”

  Dok looked down at the huge fist holding most of his shirt. “That’s right,” he said. “We wormed our way in back when all that mattered were brains and hard work, and our DNA mixed with everyone else’s. Hell, even I’m mixed—half white. But some of us didn’t get into those organizations, making that money, getting those medical and gene therapy benefits, before the Gold splice became available. Those on the inside snatched it up, permanently changing their family makeup and securing their positions, at least for a while. Then, as the world ran out of resources, those of us outside the corporations were left to fend for ourselves, literally fighting for jobs, food, shelter … everything. There weren’t many left of “my kind” by then, so it didn’t take us long to pretty much die off.”

  The man leaned in until he was so close Dok’s eyes couldn’t focus. “But you’re still here; you must be the meanest of them all, huh?” He shoved Dok backward, releasing the fistful of shirt. “Why don’t you go ahead and try some of your shit on me?”

  Dok stared, tensing to avoid a shudder. Every minute he kept the Agent here was another minute for Eadie to get away.

  “You know what it is that makes you different from me?” Dok asked. “It’s DNA, the code of life, the sequence of which tells your cells how to grow. Sometimes nature switches the order a little; that’s called a mutation. But nature played no significant part in making us different, did it? The changes that made you were engineered by human scientists.”

  The Agent scowled. Dok talked faster.

  “If your DNA hadn’t been tweaked for organizational compliance before you were born, and enhanced to make you the charming, gentle giant you are now as an Agent, you and I would only be separated by a couple of natural mutations.”