As he successfully grasped onto the ladder with his right hand, feeling as if his arm might be pulled right out of the socket, the side of his head slammed into the horizontal section of the ladder and the wall simultaneously and his right knee cracked against the metal.
He hung suspended by just his right arm for a full second before he was able to get a foothold onto the ladder and reach out with his left hand.
But it worked. He was far more secure, clinging to the ladder, than he had been about four feet higher when he’d been scaling across the ledge.
He didn’t even bother to try to catch his breath. Looking up, he saw that the rooftop was only a single story up. More than anything, he wanted to get up the ladder and off the side of this building. The wind rippled against his jumpsuit as he ascended to the height he’d just been pulled off of by the wind. He could hear Rex grunting and coughing from about a foot away and looked over.
Rex was in the middle of a coughing fit, forcing his head into the crook of his arm as he hacked and tried to clear the residue of the tear gas from his throat. Though he was just a few feet from the ladder, it didn’t look like he was going anywhere soon. Cripes was just a couple of feet behind him on the ledge, and, like Rex, was hacking and coughing.
Bronson spotted blood on the upper lips of both men, the red spittle flying as their coughing fits continued.
As Bronson watched the two men who, just minutes earlier, had been strangers, struggling on the ledge, he hearkened back to the offer he’d been presented to be here. It had come during one of his interview sessions when the prison therapist speaking with Bronson about the guilt and self-blame he felt over his family’s death proposed the idea.
“You can never make up for your wrongs,” he said, “But you can decide to make a difference. Even one man can make a difference if he tries.”
Ensuring a solid grip with his right hand and both feet, Bronson reached out with his left hand.
“Here!” He shouted. “Take my hand!”
Rex paused for a moment before reaching out and grasping Bronson’s outstretched hand. Rex’s fingers and even his palm felt rough and calloused all over. In that moment Bronson decided that Rex had been a marine.
Bronson pulled Rex over the ladder, guided his one hand to a rung and then scaled his way up to move out of the way. He paused once he went up about four or five feet and spotted Rex helping Cripes in the same manner. He then turned his attention back on his own ascent and, moments later, was climbing onto the roof. Tim was reaching down to help Bronson with his final move, grabbing onto the back of Bronson’s jumpsuit and helping pull him over the top.
“Thanks,” Bronson said, and then turned to assist Rex in the same way Tim had helped him.
Once Rex was up, Bronson shuffled on his backside away from the edge of the roof. That was when he registered a thrumming noise that had been there the whole time, only he hadn’t been paying attention. Clinging for your life fifty stories up the side of a building might do that to a person. It was a helicopter, and it was close.
Bronson got to his feet as he surveyed the rooftop, looking for a place he might be able to take cover if they started shooting from the copter. There was a single stairway access about fifty feet away. But he also noticed a large landing pad to the right of it.
The helicopter was coming in for a landing.
“It’s landing!” he shouted to Tim.
“Yeah!” Tim answered, standing in a similar evasive pose.
He watched it slowly glide in, realizing it was, indeed, going to land on the rooftop, and then glanced back at Rex, who was leaning down over the side of the building and pulling up. He was likely helping Cripes make his way over the ledge and onto the roof.
But Bronson watched in complete surprise as, instead of pulling Cripes up and over, he pulled until the man was halfway onto the roof then sat back, swung a foot into his chest and kicked.
Cripes lost his balance and tumbled back below the edge of the roof.
“What the hell?” Bronson yelled, scrambling to the edge, realizing it was too late.
Rex whirled around, his revolver already pulled and aimed at Bronson’s chest.
Bronson lifted his hands, took a couple of steps back, reaching for the pistol he had pocketed but realized there was no use. Everybody except Rex had used their bullets. He was the only one armed.
Rex’s eyes bored into Bronson’s. It wasn’t quite as intense as the stare-down he’d received from Sergeant DeBakey, but the fact there was a live round of ammunition trained on his chest added a little tension into the mix.
A couple of seconds passed as Rex and Bronson stared at one another.
Bronson considered diving to the side. The man only had one shot, after all. If he missed, it’d be up to hand to hand combat to complete the deal.
He kept his eyes on Rex, waiting for the twitch in his eyes that might signal he was about to take a shot.
“You saved my life twice!” Rex yellowed over the roaring beat of the helicopter, the gun still pointed straight at Bronson. “For that I owe you!”
He then quickly swiveled the gun to his right and fired. Tim fell to the ground, clutching at the blossom of red that started to bubble out onto his stark white jumpsuit.
“Consider us even!” Rex said, throwing the gun to the rooftop.
A moment later, just as the helicopter was completing its landing, Sergeant DeBakey burst out of the rooftop stairway access door.
“Congratulations gentlemen!” DeBakey called out. Despite having been impressed with the man’s booming baritone earlier, Bronson was surprised as how easily it could through the noise of the thrashing helicopter rotors. “You’ve both passed the test. You’re cleared for your roles in the Deadzone.”
The Deadzone.
The way he said it, Bronson could hear the capitalization of the word; a word spoken with power, conviction and dread.
Almost every state had one now. And it hadn’t taken long. Less than ten months. The plague that caused either leprosy-like symptoms or homicidal rage had already consumed almost one tenth of the world’s population. And yet society still forged on. In the same manner that people ignored the effect of pollution and burning of fossil fuels on global climate change or even the obesity epidemic, they let what the media had dubbed the Zombie Virus take a back seat to other matters. There were, after all, football championships, misbehaving teen pop sensations and redneck reality TV stars to pay attention to. Offering up a couple of dozen square miles in which the infected could be sent to suffer a shameful degenerative and horrible death or perhaps devolving into mindless animals of rage; and ensuring that the infected stayed in the Deadzone areas to live out the rest of their miserable lives was all that was needed.
That, and making sure there was proper law enforcement to keep the Deadzone people in the Deadzone and away from the rest of society.
Which had been the offer made to Bronson.
He had nothing to live for; he was already wasting away in prison.
At the very least, in the Deadzone, his skills as a law enforcement officer could be put to use.
“Get onto the helicopter!” DeBakey said, stepping up to the men and clapping them each on the shoulder. “The ammunition and supplies you need are all on board.
Rex and Bronson stared at each other across DeBakey’s broad chest.
“I’m assigning you both as partners.”
Bronson considered it for a moment.
The concept of trying to make up for his wrongs by being an officer in the Deadzone had been, in the grand scheme of what his life had become, something to look forward to. But having Rex so close would certainly keep him on his toes. And for the most part, the only time he didn’t think about Patrica and Sophie and their loss was when he’d been fighting for his life.
In both cases, this could only be a good thing.
Bronson grinned at Rex.
The man grinned back at him, the glint of mistrust obvious in his eyes.
>
Oh yeah. Bronson would never not be on his toes.
THE END
— — —
Want to read more dark fiction by Mark Leslie?
Nocturnal Screams: Volume 1 – Night Cries
Screams echo through the thick darkness of night in this series of Black Mirror meets The Twilight Zone series of short tales...
TASTE OF DARKNESS: Sensory deprivation takes on a new meaning when you let the darkness completely consume your senses of sight, sound, touch and smell, leaving you with the bitter taste of the encroaching darkness. And you'll be surprised what you find lurking there just beneath the surface and the cold, clear light of day.
THE PIZZA MAN: A group of students keep getting pizza deliveries that they never ordered. Is it a strange prank, or is there something more to the mysterious man who keeps showing up at their door?
LITTLE THINGS: Strange little creatures appear in the middle of the night, but Daniel is the only one who can see them. His wife, Joy, becomes distraught at the bizarre way her husband is acting, but, more horrifying is what the tiny little things are doing to her.
If you're looking for three quick jaunts into worlds where darkness mingles with the echoes of cries in the night, you'll want to crack open the pages and start listening for the nocturnal screams.
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About the Author
Mark Leslie would be the first person to admit he's still afraid of the monster under his bed. And he will tell you that is likely why his books tend to focus on things that appear to live in the shadows. He is the author of more than twenty books that include fiction and thrillers, and paranormal non-fiction explorations. He has also edited numerous anthologies. With three decades of experience in bookselling and publishing, Mark is a seasoned and trusted book industryprofessional who embraces both traditional and indie publishing options.
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REBEL
by Jonathan Brazee
Michiko is on a personal mission of vengeance.
Michiko MacCailín is a member of the First Families, more concerned with her privileged lifestyle of ballet, spending time with friends, and planning her wedding than of the injustices suffered by the indentured workers of the all-powerful Propitious Interstellar Fabrication, Inc., the charter holder of the planet.
When her activist fiancé is murdered at a protest rally, she blames the company and embarks on a personal mission of vengeance.
Michi has some initial, if minor success, but when the company requests that the Federation send in the Marine Corps to quell the unrest, the stakes immediately get higher. Undeterred, Michi is not going to let the Marines keep her from extracting her revenge.
WARNING: This book contains some graphic violence that may not be suitable for all readers.
A Semper Fi Press Book
Copyright © 2015 by Jonathan Brazee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system—without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Acknowledgements:
I want to thank all those who took the time to pre-read this book, catching my mistakes in both content and typing. I want to thank Tom Rogers, my content editor, and John Baker, my copy editor, for catching my many typos and mistakes. Any remaining typos and inaccuracies are solely my fault.
Chapter 1
Michiko MacCailín slowly took off her ballet shoes, grimacing at the bloody mess her feet had become. These were special order handmade Rostov’s, supposedly the most comfortable pointe shoes available, and that had cost her almost 150 credits, but her feet had still taken a beating while she practiced her bouree.
She started removing the bandages that she had wrapped around each toe and used to pad the other pressure points. With the blood, at least the bandages came off easily. Taking some wipes out of her kit, she cleaned her feet off, wincing as the solution in the wipes hit the raw flesh. She took another can out of her kit, and the cool spray of the NovaSkin was a relief. In another three hours or so, her feet would be healed, ready for the next torture session.
Michi looked up from where she was sitting along the wall of the studio. Melinda and Taro were working on their cambrè press lift, Melinda arching gracefully back as Taro lifted her with one hand. Taro was Michi’s cousin, and the MacCailín family size was an advantage to him as he easily pressed the 38kg Melinda.
The family genes hadn’t done Michi any favors, though. She looked past the two dancers to her reflection in the mirror on the far wall, subconsciously slouching as if to become smaller. It didn’t do much good. At 1.85 meters and 68kg, Michi was not a small girl, and for a female ballet dancer, that was not good. As she had matured from a lithe dancing sprite into a woman, she had taken to wearing loose T-shirts to the studio, but those could not hide the swell of her breasts, the widening of her hips. She had been a budding prima ballerina at twelve years old, the best dancer among the juniors in the company. At 19, she was too big to partner with any of the boys and relegated to dancing alone in the chorus.
Michi watched the petite, breastless Melinda being pressed again and again in the air while Artair, the troupe’s balletmaster observed and critiqued.
It just isn’t fair, she thought for the thousandth time.
It wasn’t so long ago that Artair spent a good portion of his day critiquing her. Now, he generally ignored her.
It wasn’t as if Michi could no longer dance. Michi also had the MacCailín family athleticism, and she had adjusted well to her changing center of gravity as her body matured. But ballet was a traditional art, and big girls had no place in it. It had been this way for over 600 years, and it wasn’t going to change on some backwater planet in the Federation.
If she weren’t so stubborn, Michi would have taken Artair’s advice to move on. She could have tried ballroom or synchro, two dance forms in which tall girls were accepted. She could have gone into volleyball, five, or mixed martial arts, all sports in which she had dabbled. But ballet was her passion, and she refused to give up.
The fact that her body attracted the attention of most of the men she met was lost on her. To Michi, her body, that very athletic, skilled body that allowed her to complete even the most difficult ballet move, was a traitor.
She sighed and put on her street shoes. Standing up, she gathered her kit. No one said anything as she made her way along the mirrored wall and out of the studio. With winter still hanging on, the day was brisk at about 8 degrees, and that lifted Michi’s spirits. She liked it cold much better than the hot, humid summer days that could stifle Kakurega. She contemplated running home to change, but a quick glance at her PA told her she didn’t have time if she was going to catch the first speech. Sniffing her armpit, she decided she wasn’t too rank, and her tights and sweatshirt would not be totally out of place. She tried to call Franz, but there was no answer. Michi was not surprised. Franz would be focusing on the demonstration, and his PA would probably be refusing incoming calls.
Prosperity Square was normally only a ten-minute walk from the studio, but as she got closer, the mass of people streaming in made the going slower. Michi was surprised at the turnout. Each demonstration had pulled more and more people, but this looked like a huge jump. Maybe the Workers’ Rights Party was beginning to find a message that resonated. That, or maybe Propitious Interstellar Fabrication, Inc.’s ability to cow their indentureds and other employees was finally fading.
As both a Highland Clan member and a Kaitakusya, Michiko was a free citizen. Both of her families had come to Kakurega long before the charter was granted to Propitious Interstellar. The Kaitakusya had left Tanda for a new beginning on Kakurega about at the same time as the Highlanders came to farm the lush planet, and both groups easily mixed. When the charter was granted to the company, both groups stayed, and now, most of the First Families provided services for Propitious Interstellar. They were dependent on the corporation for their livelihoods, but not under its yoke.
Michi was aware of the issues the indentured, or Class 4 employees, had with Propitious Interstellar. She couldn’t very well be in a relationship with one of the Workers Rights Party’s leading figures and not be aware. Franz Galipili was only 25, but he had quickly taken a position of leadership in the party, his ability to arouse emotions as he spoke a vital asset. Franz was an indentured, so technically, he was breaking the law by speaking out, but throughout history, all revolutionaries were criminals in the minds of their masters.
As a free citizen, Michi didn’t feel oppressed. But she wanted to support Franz, so she showed up at each of his rallies.
Michi made it into the square and slowly worked her way forward to the platform that had been erected in front of the 10-meter-tall statue of the Propitious Interstellar corporate logo. This wasn’t really the most logical spot from which to address the crowd in the square, but the symbolism was not lost on Michi. That had to be the work of Tamberlain Jaderon. The old man had finally worked off his indenture and was a free citizen, but his keen mind was an asset as he continued to support the party.
Tamberlain saw Michi approach the platform and gave her a smile and a nod. He nudged Franz who turned and saw her. Despite the hubbub, Franz quickly came to the edge of the platform and leaned down for a quick kiss.
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