New Megiddo Rising: An ‘Apostates’ Novella (The Apostates Book 0)

by Lars Teeney

  “My little Simon...we have technology that will make your life bearable. I promise this to you—and when I succeed my father as President you will stand tall and proud,” she said to her sleeping baby, “I am so sorry my child. I should have been more selective, but I was young and my father insisted on his old friend...” she continued. Her baby stirred, then began to wail, being hungry. She responded by presenting an ample breast from her robe. Simon found the nipple and began to suckle.

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  “Ah, my friend we sure have been through quite a bit, haven’t we?” the slight man with the peppered pompadour asked.

  “We certainly have, Martino. Without you I would not be in the position I am in today. My government and the Reverend—especially—thanks you!” President Schrubb exclaimed. He was dressed in his signature neutral gray suit.

  “Johnny, it was nothing. We both recognized the need for the Reverend to be able to reach the masses in the most efficient way possible, and we solved that problem!” Marino dropped down on a lab stool when he said this and loosened his tie. The loose skin of his neck was getting irritable.

  “We certainly did, Marty,” President Schrubb said, his oxygen supply implant was humming away. The tubes fed purified oxygen to him through his nostril.

  “Boy, I tell ya, life was so much simpler back then. Two stags ready for whatever,” Martino recounted nostalgically.

  “This is about Simon isn’t it? Listen, he’s a Schrubb. We’re tough. He’ll learn to endure with his condition,” President Schrubb proclaimed, ever sure in his family name.

  “Yeah, I don’t doubt he’ll be a tough tyke. He’s not the Schrubb I’m worried about,” Martino confessed, running his hand over his cement-hard hair.

  “Kate? Don’t worry about her. Listen, my daughter has always been strong-headed and fierce but give her some time and space and she’ll come to her senses. Hey—you know what? I’ll talk to her. How about that?” He slapped Martino on the back.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, John,” he protested.

  “Nonsense. I will have a father—daughter talk with her,” President Schrubb said. He stood up and straightened his suit.

  “I want to forget about all these troubles. Let’s go out, John. Like old times. I could use a couple drinks,” Martino confessed. He threw off his lab coat onto a stool.

  “I suppose I have some time in my schedule for some revelry. I’ll ping my driver.” President Schrubb was silent for a moment, which Martino assumed was him sending a message via the [Virtue-Net]. The two left the lab in the basement of the Tower of the One; the Presidential palace of sorts, which used the old White House a glorified porch. They ascended in an elevator to the parking garage, just under street level. A black, ancient, armored personnel carrier awaited their arrival. A man in a black suit stood at attention, then got the door for the men and entered after them. The driver started the vehicle and they were off.

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  The black A.P.C. was very rarely spotted this far into the slums, away from the Divinity Center of New Megiddo City. But, this was a rare, special occasion. The President was going out for a night on the town. L.O.V.E. Rangers were notified fifteen minutes ahead of time and had gone ahead to clear traffic and set up a perimeter around the destination. The A.P.C. cruised down ‘U’ Street until it came upon the cross street of ‘11th’. The intersection was shabby; all the buildings old and in disrepair. It hardly seemed like the atmosphere for a President to fraternize in. The man in the black suit hurried out of the A.P.C. and scoped out the surroundings. He gave the signal for the President and Martino to exit the vehicle. The two walked toward a brick building that looked derelict. The second floor had collapsed. They walked around to the back, flanked by Rangers. They came to a graffiti-covered metal door. The door opened for them almost immediately. President Schrubb and Martino were led down a dingy stairwell. Through a second set of doors, they were greeted with bright lights. A large neon sign hung above an entryway; it read ‘Bohemian Caverns’. A gracious host rushed over and bowed profusely. He gestured for the men to follow, and led them to the Presidential booth. The house was packed, but everyone was silent. There was a band on stage, not playing

  As the President and his companion settled in, he gave a wave of his hand to the host. The host turned to the band and nodded; they hit it. The jazz ensemble began to belt out a tune that would have been at home in the Twentieth Century. The lights dimmed and the room was awash in a red hue. A waiter rushed out an Old Fashioned for the President and Vodka Tonic for Martino, as well as several tapas for them to graze on. The two aged men gyrated awkwardly in their seats to the ‘improv’ beat. Mentally they seemed to have been transported back in time when booze and tail were the only things that mattered. From across the floor, a pair of young women in black cocktail dresses eyed the Presidential booth. Martino shot a glance back and then to the President. The President shrugged. Martino stood and gestured for the two women to join them at the booth.

  The two women slinked over to the booth and Martino stood up to let them sit on the inside of the two men. They were all dolled-up and ready for a round of drinks. The waiter brought over two Long Island Ice Tea for the girls. They finished the drinks fairly quickly. Multiple rounds followed and the music became irresistible. The women glowed and nudged the men to the dance floor. The President was uninterested, but Martino took the bait. The two ladies each grabbed one of his hands and led him like a puppy to the dance floor, where they would dance into the morning hours. The President sat with his drink for a while, and when he had his fill of the music and booze he gestured for his detail to depart. Martino was too busy with the girls to notice the President’s departure.

  The band played on and after another couple rounds the room swayed for Martino. Martino pinged a Regime line, reserved for V.I.P.s, and requested a vehicle. He whispered to the women and they giggled and flirted. The three left the dance floor and moved toward the exit. Tonight, Martino would not be going home to Kate Schrubb and his son.

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  The Mercier bike frame was in near mint condition; despite being ridden often and being over one hundred and fifty years old. The rider heaved and hefted; maintaining a cruising speed of twenty miles per hour. He cut through the deserted streets of Annapolis, Maryland. He had been cycling all day, starting out from the New Megiddo City Divinity Center. Thirty miles later he was near the Severn River. Tops of ancient structures could be seen peeking out from the surface of the water; the old waterfront had been claimed by sea-level rise. He had made it to the former neighborhood of Chesapeake Beach. Cruising passed a series of checkpoints, no one bothered him; his L.O.V.E. credentials were broadcasted to all Regime officials. None would dare badger the new Inquisitor of Law of Virtue Enforcement. Inquisitor Rodrigo was dressed in a L.O.V.E.-themed, spandex jersey, and biking shorts. A curious lion head knob cane was strapped to his side. He rolled up to a sizable estate with no other houses around it. Rodrigo leaned his bike against a stone retaining wall and proceeded up the winding driveway.

  After a short walk, he reached the front door of the mansion. The door opened on cue. Minister Kate Schrubb had been expecting him, “Inquisitor Rodrigo, please come in,” she beckoned. He followed her into the foyer. Rodrigo wiped a hint of sweat from his brow.

  “Minister, I heard the good news. Congratulations on your child,” he said, without emotion.

  “Actually, Inquisitor, that is why I called you here—my son,” she said.

  “Oh? A social call?” Rodrigo was perplexed.

  “Not quite. Please follow me,” she instructed. They ascended the marble staircase and walked down a corridor plastered with Schrubb family portraits. At last they came to a door, and there was a playful, wooden plaque on the door that said, ‘Simon’. Kate opened the door and led them into the nursery. The large room had walls that were covered in murals depicting scenes from the Bible. The room was well stocked with all manner o
f trinkets to mesmerize children. In one corner was a crib that was larger than a twin-size bed. The two walked up to the railing. Within lay Simon Schrubb, sound asleep.

  “Isn’t he precious? Laying there so innocent,” she doted.

  “Yes, very much so,” he said indifferently.

  “One day he will succeed me as President of New Megiddo—but he will have to live a life of seclusion; outside the limelight,” she stated solemnly.

  “I don’t follow, Minister—” Rodrigo was cut off.

  “He did not ask for his fate. It was cruelly handed down to him from his father. He was an ill-suited mate,” she recounted with contempt in her voice.

  “Martino?” he asked.

  “Yes, him. Do you know where he is right now?” Her question was rhetorical, but Rodrigo would answer it anyway.

  “Well, Minister—my tabulations placed him with your father tonight, at ‘Bohemian Caverns’. Fraternizing with some women—” he was interrupted.

  “Yes, yes. The man is a creature of habit and will never change. He is not the father that Simon deserves and his old age has caused my poor son to be born with a degenerative disease,” She was on the verge of tears, and her voice seethed with anger.

  “I see,” was all Rodrigo offered.

  “Inquisitor, you are my faithful servant, correct?” Kate asked.

  “Of course, Minister. I serve at your pleasure,” he confirmed.

  “Good.” She smiled, “Inquisitor Rodrigo, I have a task for you,” she stated, still smiling.

  “I shall carry it out,” he said, ever unwavering.

  “It would seem that Martino Franco is in need of a vacation; an extended one. He is not quite up for the task of being a father,” she said, her voice icy.

  “Most excellent. I will begin the operation post-haste,” he said, then he abruptly walked out of the room without her dismissal. Kate was taken aback that he would disrespect her like that. But, then she composed herself. If he failed in this task then she would take action. It still remained to be seen how effective he would be as Inquisitor. She already was familiar with his ruthless record as a Ranger. Kate had a certain faith in the strange man. Kate looked down at her child, and lightly brushed his face. Soon, when retribution is delivered, she would feel much better.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  STILL IN THE DARK

  Evan was surrounded in the bleak alley. He was pretty sure one of his ribs was fractured. He stumbled but recovered. The five assailants probed for an opening. Evan was a skilled boxer, but there were simply too many. One thug taunted him in an attempt to distract his attention, “Your kind don’t belong in our neighborhood, now you’re gonna pay for it, faggot!”

  A chubby thug approached Evan from behind and grabbed his shoulder. Evan retaliated with a quick elbow to the face. The chubby thug squealed and fell upon his rear end. Evan felt a sharp pain in his side; another strike to the ribs by a pipe-wielding thug. That strike robbed Evan of the last of his will to fight. He dropped to one knee, holding his injured ribs. His shoulder length dreadlocks obscured the painful expression on his face.

  “That’s right, you think you can just come to our territory and fuck men? Now we’re gonna take care of you!” the tall thug exclaimed, swinging a chain around his head, about to land a killing blow.

  “Leave that boy be,” A voice sounded from the entrance to the alley. The group of thugs turned around to see who interrupted their hunt. A burly, red-bearded, man stood casually. He had long hair and wore a duster. Evan tried to get a better view but the soon obscured the man and he was in too much pain to focus.

  “You must have a fuckin’ death wish coming here. You better get out of here,” the thug warned.

  “Negative. I think I’ll stick around a bit longer and even the odds,” the man said. From under the duster, he brandished what looked to be a wooden sword.

  “A stick? You’re fuckin’ dead!” the lead thug yelled. Four of the crew ran at the long-haired man. They hooted and hollered, swinging their weapons. The chain wielding thug swung it the man, who side-stepped the attack. He quickly returned a strike to the back of the thug’s neck. He shrieked and went down to his knees. The long-haired man delivered an uppercut with the stick sword to the thug’s jaw, and his lights went out. Another thug slashed with a knife, in quick, but wild succession. The man parried the attacks with the stick sword, then delivered a crushing blow to the knife hand that fractured the thug’s wrist. The thug let out a yelp then rolled over on his back to show submission, then he scrambled out of the alley when the man’s attention turned to another attacker. The thug wielding the pipe attacked with an overhand swing. The man closed the distance and caught the pipe with his free arm before the swing could gain momentum. He kneed the thug in the midsection, and then put him in a choke-hold with one arm while he fended off attacks made by a tattooed thug. The man in the duster thrust with the stick sword and caught the tattooed thug in the eye socket—a wet squish could be heard. The tattooed thug, half-blind and screaming, stumbled out of the alley.

  The man laughed at his handiwork, then realized he still had a hold of an attacker who was choking. He let him loose. The thug fell to the dirty pavement, gasping for air. The man swatted the thug in his ass with the stick sword. That was enough to send him scampering away in fear. The man cleaned the blood and saliva off his stick sword and stowed it, then he walked over to Evan who was still crouched on the ground.

  “Are you okay there, boy?” the man asked. Evan looked up and saw a red-haired, middle-aged man, who was thick like a tree trunk.

  “M-my ribs are busted I think,” Evan said, struggling to speak.

  “Are you able to walk?” the man asked, “Also, why were they beating on you like that?”

  “I-I think it because they caught me and my lover,” Evan said, with shame in his voice.

  “Now, why would that warrant such a beating?” The man was perplexed.

  “Because man, they hate gays—that’s why,” Evan snapped.

  “Oh! Now I get it,” the man said, slightly embarrassed.

  “Well, listen. You should get those ribs checked out—” the man was interrupted by Evan.

  “Please don’t go. They may be back. I’ll do something for you if you protect me—surely there must be something? Know what I mean?” Evan was desperate. He knew that he could not go to a Regime hospital and he was an orphan from the slums of Santa Cruz. He knew that being left wounded in an alley was a death sentence. The thugs had probably killed his lover and he couldn’t go back.

  “Nope, not interested in that. Listen—what is your name?” the man asked.

  “Evan,” he answered.

  “Okay Evan, I saw that you have some skill in fighting. There’s no reason you should be so afraid that you would whore yourself out to a stranger in the slums,” the man stated coldly. The man began to walk away. Evan started to panic.

  “But—you don’t understand! I’m dead here like this. I have nowhere to go!” Evan shouted, then winced in pain; holding his side.

  “Calm down, calm down. I’m not leaving you. Look, it just so happens I run a H.E.M.A. school,” the man said, trying to console Evan.

  “A what?” Evan was confused.

  “Historical European Martial Arts school. I can teach you to defend yourself. But, first things first, my name is Craig a Briuis. Now let’s get you out of this alley and patch you up. My school ain’t far from here,” Craig said, as he went to Evan to help support him.

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  Craig a Briuis had brought Evan to his H.E.M.A. school. It was located in an area outside the slums, off of Bay Street. The school wasn’t awash in downtown money, but he had plenty of paying pupils to make a comfortable living. Craig had set Evan up in a back room of his school and helped mend Evan’s ribs. After a month and a half of inaction, he healed up nicely. Craig had given him light chores to
earn his keep around the school during his convalescence. Evan had never known a safe atmosphere like it since he had been a child. Evan was now seventeen and had been living a ragged existence in the slums for the last ten years. When Craig was away from the school Evan would go into the floor, where the fencing strips were located. The rooms walls were covered in racks containing wooden practice weapons, blunt sparring blades, and sharpened weapons alike. At the head of the room was a massive bookcase filled with manuals on various techniques from the past.

  On days like this, Evan would pull a sword from its scabbard and swing it around; practicing with no real technique. In Evan’s mind, he was convinced that he was mastering some nameless technique. He had been traumatized from the abuse he had taken over the years. This train of thought made Evan feel empowered and gave him a false sense of security. Evan began to develop an ego. And so it was during one of these secret training sessions that Craig decided to surprise Evan. Unknown to Evan at the time, Craig had nano-cameras throughout his school that were linked to his neural implant, and so he had been watching Evan with his amateur training. He recognized that Evan did possess a certain amount of innate talent, but Evan had no idea what he was doing.

  “Evan!” Craig yelled out, making Evan fumble and drop the sword. He had a foolish look on his face, like a kid that had been caught stealing cookies.

  “S-sorry Craig, I just wanted to handle the sword for a bit; to get a feel for it. Won’t happen again,” Evan offered.