by Chris Sapp
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Books By
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
MAGNUS
IZABEL
ROE
KARIAH
AUGUSTO
IZABEL
MAGNUS
ROE
IZABEL
KARIAH
IZABEL
ROE
AUGUSTO
IZABEL
ROE
KARIAH
IZABEL
AUGUSTO
MAGNUS
LARKIN
IZABEL
ROE
AUGUSTO
KARIAH
IZABEL
LARKIN
IZABEL
ROE
IZABEL
LARKIN
KARIAH
IZABEL
ROE
IZABEL
AUGUSTO
MAGNUS
IZABEL
MAGNUS
IZABEL
ROE
IZABEL
MAGNUS
KARIAH
IZABEL
APPENDIX
SLADE ENTERPRISES
VALDEZ INDUSTRIES
ZANE EMPIRE
Author's Note
Lonesome Sample Chapter
Alien Hunter Sample Chapter
DEPENDENT DAYS
By
Chris Sapp
Copyright © 2016 Chris Sapp
All rights reserved.
Books by Chris Sapp
Alien Hunter: Genesis
Johnny Lonesome: Reign Fall
With Philip A. McClimon
Johnny Lonesome
By the Sword
For my wife Staci,
Being friends with a writer can be challenging, but being married to one is nearly impossible
Acknowledgments
Okay, where to begin? Well, those of you that helped make this book possible, you know who you are…so thank you. There. That wasn’t so hard.
What? Not good enough?
You’re right. Not even close.
First, I want to thank Brandon Blendon for helping me come up with the title. Dependent Days is much better than Dark Days or whatever drivel I had come up with. I want to say thank you to the Haun siblings. Tristan Haun read my first manuscript of this story (more about that in the Author’s note) and I remember him saying that this series could have more books than Dune. Thank you, but God, I hope not. One of the downsides of creating your own ‘verse is that you have to name everything in it. Tristan was helpful in this area too. Next is Mallory Haun, a long time betareader and even though the world I’ve created is too harsh for her liking, she was always very willing to read and discuss it. In fact, she helped me with the mystery that Izabel and Roe are trying solve. Another downside of creating you own ‘verse is that you have to establish rules. This is where Barrett Haun came in. His relentless questions about what it would actually be like to live in my world, forced me to create rules and obey them. Thanks, man.
I want to say thank you to betareader Jeff Scott, who has read every single version of this story without ever complaining. Well, except for the areas where my writing was weak and needed addressing.
Thanks to my friend and sometimes writing partner Phil McClimon for always encouraging me to finish this story instead of abandoning it.
Finally, I want to thank my wife Staci, because despite the fact that a part of me is always, always thinking about writing…she loves me anyway.
Their souls encaged
Their minds enslaved
You feel the rage
This brutality can never be undone
But the sun has not yet set
-Zack de la Rocha
MAGNUS
“I AM SORRY, sir but I can’t let anyone upstairs,” said the brown skinned ogre.
“I’m not just anyone. I’m Drug lord Magnus Slade,” he growled, fixing the ogre with a well practiced glare. Magnus was a nine foot tall centaur. Most wilted under his glare, but not this guard.
“I know who you are sir,” said the ogre.
Magnus’ nostrils flared with anger and he pawed the lush velvet carpet with his hooves in frustration. Damnit! He didn’t have time for this. Where was Elijah Defoe?
He was standing on the first floor of a luxurious mansion on planet Orathas, the elvish home world. The mansion was owned by Phaelan Lennox, the most famous rockstar of the last fifty years. Apparently, the second story was reserved entirely for Phaelan and no one was allowed up there, unless personally invited. Magnus reached into his leather vest and pulled out a scroll. He unrolled it and held it in front of the Ogre’s wet snout.
“Do you know what this is?” Magnus asked.
“A scroll?”
“How perceptive? More specifically it’s a warrant for the rest of Phaelan Lennox from Daedalus Shaw, the Czar,” said Magnus. He saw the ogre’s eyes widen in fear. Sweat beaded his brow and he swallowed audibly. Good. Maybe his words were finally sinking into the guard’s thick skull.
“Now does that sound like something you want to be involved with?” Magnus asked.
“I’m sorry sir. But I can’t let anyone upstairs,” said the ogre. His shoulders, which had momentarily stooped with his resolve was renewed along with his conviction. Magnus busied himself with re-rolling the scroll to keep from ripping the guard’s tusk off. The guard was loyal. Magnus understood that. He even admired it. But no one was above the law, not even Phaelan Lennox. Magnus turned back to the ogre.
“Okay, let me try a simpler approach. Move or they’ll move you.” The sound of two pump action shotguns being racked gave weight to his threat. The ogre’s eyes flicked from Magnus to the two shotgun wielding Centaurs that were standing behind Magnus. This was Petro and Flynn and they went everywhere Magnus went.
To his credit, the Ogre maintained control of his fear. The only outward signs were a fresh wave of sweat on his brow and the tightening of his grip on his own weapon. The guard’s unwavering loyalty was going to get him killed. There were worst ways to die. Just as Magnus was about to signal his guards into action, a door upstairs opened. Light flooded the darkened stairwell behind the ogre. No one moved. The three centaurs were locked in a staring contest with the lone ogre. They heard the door close followed by the sound of footfalls on the stairs. Someone was coming.
The figure that descended the stairs behind the Ogre was a male “Chromey” and like all of his kind, he was completely hairless, that way he could apply kevlar lotion to every inch of his chiseled body. He looked like a polished sculpture…that moved. His uniform matched the ogre’s, another estate guard. He had the sleeves rolled up, revealing his sculpted shiny forearms.
“What seems to be the problem here?” The chromey asked.
“These four-leggers refuse to leave,” snarled the Ogre. He was comfortable hurling derogatory insults now that he had back up.
“Listen gentlemen, you’ll need to—
The Chromey stopped talking as he balled up his left fist and punched it through the Ogre’s spine. Kevlar lotion was serious shit. The lotion would harden and then turn into a nearly indestructible solid that resembled steel. The Chromey’s fist exploded through the Ogre’s chest, showering the centaurs with blood and chunks of brown flesh. The Chromey pulled his hand free and the ogre dropped.
“Follow me,” the Chromey continued with a large smile.
“Elijah Defoe, I presume,” Magnus said.
“In the steel,” Elijah said as he offered Magnus his gore free hand. They shook. The Chromey’s hand was hard and ice cold. Elijah turned and ascended the steps. Magnus followed, stepping over the ogre’s dead bo
dy.
The forbidden upstairs was just as luxurious as the downstairs. Same velvet carpet. Same six inch base boards. Expensive paintings adorned the walls. Magnus recognized the more famous ones, including an impressionistic piece that was titled Bloody Branches which depicted the famous Blood Oak trees that were utilized by Durga Zane during the Morphagen War. It was all very eloquent. Except for the bodies littering the floor. These were the rest of Phaelan’s security detail. Most had fist sized holes through the center of their chests. But some had been dismembered and one, a green skinned ogre, had been decapitated. The familiar coppery scent of blood assaulted Magnus’ nostrils.
Elijah led them to a room at the end of the hall. It was secured behind two double padded doors. An electric keypad was wired to the wall. Elijah typed in the seven digit code and the doors parted. Magnus cantered boldly into the dimly lit room. His hooves clacked loudly on the mahogany floors. His nostrils were assaulted by a new stench. Body odor.
Magnus ignored the smell and looked around the room. He had expected to see the elf rockstar lounging on a leather couch in front of his flatscreen or shooting his morphagen into his veins. Or perhaps even getting laid. But the leather couch although present and just as posh as imagined was empty. The entire room was empty. The only thing out of place was a large fleshy cocoon lying where a coffee table would normally be. It was roughly seven feet long, four feet wide, and three feet tall. The sides were slick with pus and they pulsed with life. This was the source of the body odor.
“What is this?” Magnus demanded.
“It’s a detox cocoon,” Elijah said. “What’s it look like?”
Magnus knew what it was. Hell, the whole galaxy knew what it was.
“I know what it is!” Magnus yelled. “Where’s Phaelan?”
“You’re looking at him,” Elijah said with a nod towards the cocoon.
“No!” Magnus roared.
Magnus raised up on his hind legs and planted his front hooves on Elijah’s chest in the blink of an eye. The Chromey fell on his back, collapsing under the centaur’s weight. Petro and Flynn backed their boss’s play and were there in instant with their shotguns. As if the Chromey could actually go anywhere with a Centaur on top of him.
“What the fuck, Slade?” Elijah moaned.
“You were supposed to stop him from detoxing,” Magnus growled.
“It couldn’t be helped. I tried,” Elijah said.
“Then I no longer need you,” Magnus leaned forward, pressing more of his considerable weight down on top of Elijah. There was a loud crunch as his metal chest bent.
“Wait! Wait,” Elijah screamed. “Phaelan had a secret! One that’s worth a million credits!” Magnus had become Drug lord of Slade Enterprises after his father, Dorian, had passed and if there was one thing he had learned during that time, it was how to tell when people were lying. Elijah was telling the truth. Magnus removed one hoof, easing the pressure by half.
“I’m listening,” he said.
IZABEL
GETTING YOUR DAILY morphagen fix was as ordinary as taking a shower. Some people preferred to do it at night before bed and some people did it in the morning before coffee. Seventeen year old Izabel Ramsey liked to get hers at night. Sitting on a rust stained toilet, she used her teeth to pull the tourniquet snug around her arm. Her vein was pulsing. So was the stall door and the metal latch. Even the lights seemed to be flickering in rhythm with the drums. An ogre band named SkullFuck Zombie was giving the patrons of Spanky's Bar a healthy dose of heavy metal whether they appreciated it or not.
Ignoring the pink strands of hair hanging in her eyes, she plunged the needle into her waiting vein and heard a cry of ecstasy. But it wasn't her own. Some vampyr slut was screwing in the stall to Izabel’s left. Welcome to San Andreas where getting fucked is easier than breathing, Izabel thought. The vampyr cried out again and gripped the top of the stall. Izabel used Spanky's restroom to get high. Sluts used them to get dick. The vamp tramp was a regular and every Friday night she shared the stall with someone new. Last Friday her fingernails were blue and it had been an ogre. Tonight they were glittery red and it was a Minotaur she was riding.
The music stopped and that only left the pounding of Izabel's heart. The Ogres were done with their set which meant that five minutes from now it would be her turn. She still couldn't believe Spanky had called her. She'd been bugging him to let her play for months. He'd gotten so tired of it that he told her that if she asked again he was going to rip her pretty little tongue out and toss it in a blender. Elf tongue was a popular protein supplement for meathead Ogres. That was a month ago. But then he’d called and said he had a cancellation. The slot was hers if she could be here in an hour. She'd made it in forty-five minutes. Which was a miracle considering how crowded the skies above San Andreas got on Friday nights.
By the time she removed the tourniquet, the vamp tramp was announcing her climax with a series of squeals. She sounded like a hyena on fire. Unfortunately, Izabel knew what came next. After seeding comes the feeding, she thought as a thin stream of blood ran down the rusted toilet bowl and pooled on the cracked tiles. The Minotaur had been sucked and fucked but probably not the way he'd planned. Some time tomorrow he'd wake up with a splitting headache, a matching set of holes in his throat, and a new morphagen addiction. Once you go vamp, you switch camp or so the saying went.
Izabel coiled the tourniquet up so it would fit inside her black morphagen case. She slid her syringe into the slot next to the well-used spoon. The place reserved for baggies was empty. The elf morphagen coursing through her bloodstream was the last of her stash. But it would keep her ears elongated into points, her frame tall and thin, and her pupils in the shape of vertical slits instead of circles until she bought more in the morning.
After exiting the bathroom, Izabel stopped by the dressing room where she traded her purse for her guitar. It was an Orville Hummingbird Electric. It cost her 3000 credits. She was only allowed to pull 500 credits a month out of her trust fund. She'd saved up by eating nothing but ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for six months straight. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and waited for Spanky to introduce her to the crowd. Some could argue that there were better places than Spanky's to have your debut. Just like some could argue that there was better guitars to use than an Orville. But she used an Orville and she wanted to debut at Spanky's because that's how Phaelan Lennox and Phaedra White, lead singers of The Phaes, had done it. They were the biggest thing to hit hard rock in the last fifty years. They had topped all the charts, sold-out the most concerts, and broken the record for most downloaded song…ever. They were simply amazing and it had all started on the same rickety wooden steps that Izabel was currently standing on.
"Okay, the next act, is a girl I've had my eye on for a while." Izabel heard Spanky tell the crowd. "The first time I heard this elf sing...I cried." Spanky never cried and he damn sure never heard her sing. But he liked to lay it on thick.
"She's a real gem,” Spanky continued, “a diamond in the rough if you will."
Izabel closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and thought about all the times she'd gone to sleep praying for this night to come.
"Put your hands together for the lovely Izabel!"
The crowd was still applauding when she emerged on stage but she barely noticed. The immense heat radiating off the stage lights was staggering. It felt like she was being boiled on a spoon. Thank God, she'd worn a tank top and put her hair up in a ponytail. Tank top? Exposed armpits. What if she broke out in a heavy sweat? Too late. What if she reeked? Could the crowd smell her? She grabbed the wooden stool before she fell down. She looked out at the crowd but all she could see were vague shapes sitting below a haze of smoke.
Spanky was a nine-foot tall black ogre with tusks as thick as her arms. Passing her the microphone, he grabbed the back of her neck with his free hand. He leaned in close and the smell of his breath caused her gorge to rise. Whatever he'd eaten last must have died
, been resurrected, and then died again. “Cock this up and you'll never play on San Andreas again."
There was no doubt that he could break her neck with a snap of his fingers. She nodded and forced herself to smile at the faceless crowd. Spanky gave the crowd one last wave and then she was alone. Alone in front of a hundred people. All of them expecting her to be good. No, better than good. She was supposed to be some kind of diamond in the rough with a voice that could move you to tears.
With hands shaking hard enough to register on a richter scale, she lifted her guitar into position. Exhaling slowly, she reached into her pocket and found only lent. When did her pocket get so big? Her pocket was empty. She’d lost it. But it had to be there. But it wasn’t. She was on the verge of panic when her fingers closed around a triangular piece of plastic. Her lucky pick. Well, actually it was just her favorite. But if tonight went well, it would become her lucky pick. Izabel raised her soon-to-be lucky pick and--
"Pardon the interruption folks," said Spanky as he joined her onstage again, "but there's some breaking news, I thought you'd like to see."
He pointed a thick blunted finger towards the 70 inch vidscreen decorating the wall to Izabel's left. She turned to watch. What else could she do?
A crisp clean image of a Galactic News studio appeared. The anchor, a six inch tall faery named Rebecca or something, was hovering above the desk. "I must warn the viewing audience, the following images are very disturbing." The faery's grave face was replaced with a grainy image of an expensive hotel room. No, it wasn't a hotel. The clouds outside the window were moving too fast. It had to be a luxury barge of some sort. A naked elf woman was sprawled on the lush carpet in the foreground. But there was nothing attractive about her. Elves were thin but this chick gave new meaning to the word anorexic. You could count all of her ribs. Her hips were dangerous points instead of luscious curves. Her face was the worst, cheek bones that were so over developed they protruded against her skin like elbows. Her irises were solid black. Ears that had once been elegantly pointed were now long and floppy. In fact one draped over her face hiding one of her hideous eyes. It was instantly clear to Izabel what happened.