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

by Lars Teeney

  “Hello friend. Welcome to my corner. Looking for anything in particular?” the man asked with a slight smirk.

  “My query is probably not what you are peddling. How is business?” Prescott made small talk.

  “Thank you for asking sir. The people of the slums have certain needs I can provide. My revenue stream will not dry up anytime soon.” The man shrugged.

  “I see. I understand that these ‘needs’ the people have seemed to be replacing their devotion to the Church. Would know anything about this phenomenon?” Prescott pressed.

  “Sir, I am a mere supplier of goods. Matters of culture are left to others. Though I had heard whispers among some my clientele of a movement of sorts. It seems to be a counterpoint to Church doctrine; more philosophical in nature than religious. I suppose they come to me for the party favors,” the well-dressed man explained.

  “Most interesting. Do you know if they resell what you supply them for profit?” Prescott dug further.

  “Come now. I don’t know that much about them. They do come from the South; make the long trek up from Anaheim. They are always saying something about the ’Slum Sage’,” the well-dressed man continued to smirk. Prescott would have rubbed his chin had he not been wearing the H.A.T.

  “Much obliged,” Prescott tipped his head a bit.

  “Not a problem, Prelate,” the well-dressed man said and walked away. Prescott was surprised and turned to watch him walk down the street. When the well-dressed man reached the next block, an armored black town car pulled over and the well-dressed man climbed in. The car sped away. Prescott was more than perplexed, but he had been provided the lead he needed so he went about following it.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  “Yes, sir. This baby is pre-war tech. It features smart, nano-material tires. They react to their environment dynamically. The power source is a combination of solar-powered and a three-dimensionally printed protein brick that is consumed by the motor. If you have a clutch of these “power bricks” you can get cross country easily,” the machinist informed Prescott. They stood in a ramshackle garage that reeked of lubricants, old oil, and three-dimensional printing ingredients. The space was littered with all manner of spare components. Between the two men was a pre-war, olive-drab “Scarab” model motorbike.

  “Say no more. I only need to get to Anaheim. I’m sold. What is your asking price?” Prescott inquired.

  “Five thousand tithes, please,” the old machinist requested.

  “Negative. I’ll give you four thousand, five hundred,” Prescott was firm.

  “Oh come on, you cheapskate. You’re an Ordain Prelate; I’m an old slum machinist that would like to enjoy his twilight years! Forty-eight hundred!” the machinist complained.

  “Fine, fine. Forty-eight hundred,” Prescott relented, “Now, kindly transfer the ownership protocol to my implant.” After several minutes, the ownership transfer was complete. Prescott willed the motorbike to start, and the engine roared to life. He mounted the bike and sped off into the slums, leaving the old machinist to blow his tithes on whiskey and brothels.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Prescott weaved through the chaotic mixture of traffic on the old Route Five. There were pack animal driven carts, rickshaws, motorbikes, pedestrians, and beat-up coaches. There was a closed-off lane reserved for Church and Regime traffic, as well as the rich. Prescott drove his Scarab at fairly unsafe speeds and was not going to let a couple of ‘peds’ slow him to his target. After some miles, he reached the turn-off for Anaheim. He entered the surface streets, which were little better than the streets in the northern slums around Downtown. Prescott stopped his bike along the roadside. He had been directed to Anaheim but really had no more specific lead; it was a huge area to cover. Prescott felt the frustration return. If only he could run into another well-dressed man to point his compass in the right direction once more.

  Prescott cruised down the street and eventually came upon what he judged was a speakeasy, from the fact that many people were going around to the back of the featureless building.He pulled over and parked his bike, then strolled casually around the back of the pockmarked, brick building.

  A large man with a black beard stood guard at the entrance. He watched Prescott approached with folded arms, letting his suspicion be displayed.

  “Hello. Fine evening for a beverage, eh?” Prescott chirped, attempting to charm the bouncer.

  “Take your mask off,” the bouncer ordered.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, friend,” Prescott informed him.

  “Then how do you expect to drink?” The bouncer looked down on Prescott with contempt.

  “With a straw, through this hole,” Prescott retorted. The bouncer drew closer for a look.

  “What hol—” Before he knew what happened, Prescott headbutted the bouncer with his metal helmet. The bouncer dropped; out cold.

  “The hole in your head, my friend.” Prescott continued into the building. He was not prepared for the high-pitched, ‘frolicky’ music that he heard blasting throughout the establishment. The lyrics to the song sounded to be snag by a chorus of children and were describing how small their world was. The tune made Prescott’s head hurt. He approached the brightly colored bar. The barkeep was dressed strangely; wearing a stained, pseudo-fur, animal costume, with big, floppy ears affixed.

  “Welcome to Bilsby Bar, where all your dreams come true! What can I getcha?” The barkeep shook his head to get one of the ears out of his face.

  “Information is what I crave, sir,” Prescott confessed.

  “What kind of information?” the barkeep said; puzzled.

  “Where would one go to get something other than alcohol?” Prescott asked vaguely.

  “This is Anaheim. Bilsby Realm territory. Well, at least it used to be. I heard people still gather there for...“viewpoints” you can’t find elsewhere,” the barkeep said. He looked as though he regretted saying so much.

  “Most excellent. Thank you,” Prescott said, tossing one-hundred tithes on the counter, then he walked away from the bar.

  “Hey! What is it you seek?” the barkeep yelled across the bar.

  “For my dreams to come true!” Prescott waved and left the bar.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Prescott approached the massive, dilapidated amusement park on his motorbike. He parked near a rubbish pile and walked over to the patch-work barricade that had been constructed around what was left of the amusement park. Corrugated metal, old garage doors, masonry, steel rebar, and chain-link was used to complete the barricade. Prescott walked along the perimeter, scanning for a breach or easy way over. He spotted hole that had been cut into a portion and slipped through. The sight that greeted him on the other side was that of a nightmare; a decaying carnival of a bygone age. A soot-stained, crumbling replica of a medieval castle could be seen in the distance, across the vast expanse of a weed-infested parking lot. The castle was flanked by various other structures in a state of decay. There were collapsed roller coasters, a massive artificial mountain that looked to be modeled after Mount Everest, and a Victorian mansion that had been half consumed by a fire.

  Prescott jogged across the barren parking lot toward the park. Soon, he found himself surrounded by the freakish world that had been created by a foreign culture to Prescott. He wondered what the purpose of the place had served to the Ancients. He had heard stories of the material wealth of America; that escapism had been a lucrative market. People would spend vast sums of money to be transported to fictional worlds. Prescott wondered why such a materially rich society wanted to escape so much. The same desire for people to escape back to the hay-day of America was provided by the drug, ‘Database’; the highly addictive drug consisting of synthetic proteins that were encoded with banned media, books, films, newsfeeds, and pornography. The answer did not come to him, so he continued his search.

  The remnants of concession stands, cafes, bars, and retail stores lined the pathways of
the park. They had been picked clean for anything of value long ago. He thought the most logical thing to do was to head to the artificial castle in the center of the park. The sun had set below the horizon and darkness had set in, but the night air was hot and muggy. The chaos of the surrounding city and slums was clearly heard in the park. They walked casually down an old, cobblestone path that meandered its way along to the gatehouse of the castle. He kept a hand upon his tomahawk in case of trouble. There was a working portcullis within the gatehouse of the castle; it was up. He walked closer to the castle structure and noticed that it seemed to be well maintained; at least compared to the rest of the park.

  When he gazed around the bailey of the castle he noticed evidence of people living there. Freshly used pots and smoky grills, bedrolls lay in corners, stills were set up for brewing alcohol, and chickens and other livestock were kept in pens. Prescott wondered where all the people who lived here were. Prescott looked at the castle entrance and saw a figure standing in torch-light. He approached the man.

  “Greetings traveler! I haven’t seen you around here. If you are a friend and you seek the truth you have come to the right place,” the man offered. When Prescott drew closer the man stiffened in posture; apparently put off by his metal helmet and being armed with tomahawks.

  “Come now sir. This is a place of peace. No need for weapons. Now, what is it you seek? The truth?” the man asked nervously. He was dressed in a roughly spun tunic; seemingly homemade. His eyes were glazed over and he looked sickly. Prescott wondered what ailed him. He eased off his weapons and spoke.

  “Yes, the truth is what I seek,” Prescott confirmed.

  “Marvelous. Then you have come to the right place. Do you have your own supply or shall you purchase from me?” the man asked.

  “Pardon—oh, yes. I’ll purchase from you.” Prescott quickly caught the meaning. He handed the man the required sum and in exchange was given a bundle. Prescott walked through the threshold, into a renovated thrown room. Many rugs, mats, and cushions had been laid out across the space. People reclined upon them. Some writhed in ecstasy; others in pain and fear. Some sat in trances, and yet others slept. There was a mix of aromas in the air; sweat, incense, food, body odor, coffee, and urine. It was one huge ‘Database’ den set in a castle. Prescott carefully stepped through the mass of humanity; careful not to trip among the ‘tripping’. The throne room was devoid of decoration and in place of a throne was a simple wooden bench.

  Behind the throne was a passage. Prescott moved toward it. The way was lit by torches. He approached a chamber that had something resembling a railroad track running through the center. The space was decorated with dusty, fairy-tale imagery. A man sat on a Persian rug spread out just before the railroad track. He wore nothing but a wrapped loincloth and had assumed a position like that of a meditating yogi. Prescott moved closer, and as he did he caught wind of the man’s ripe odor; smelling as though he had not bathed in weeks. Prescott stood silently in front of the man for several minutes. The man did not stir.

  Finally; lazily the brown-skinned man opened his eyes, to reveal bloodshot whites and dilated pupils.

  “So, Demon, you have finally come. I have been expecting you,” the man said.

  “Come again? You have?” Prescott asked; bewildered.

  “Yes, of course. My visions foretold it,” he said nonchalantly.

  “You do know what my purpose is here, the deed I most do?” Prescott pressed further.

  “Yes, yes. It is the reason I have spent my remaining time communing with my followers and ‘meditating’,” the man confirmed. Prescott assumed ‘meditating’ was a euphemism for dropping ‘base.

  “So, I am correct that you are the one that goes by the ‘Slum Sage’?” Prescott asked.

  “Gah, I detest that title. I am he, yes, but my name is Jyotish Kalburgi,” he said.

  “Jyotish, why does my employer want you dead so? I was expecting an armed insurgency or rebellion, not a drug den,” Prescott unintentionally insulted Jyotish.

  “Excuse me, sir. This is not a drug den. And your judgment is extremely short-sighted and insulting. My followers and I are not simple junkies. What we represent is far more threatening to the Church and Regime than armed rebellion,” Jyotish scolded Prescott.

  “Interesting. So what is that you and your followers represent that is so threatening to the Regime?” Prescott asked facetiously.

  “The idea of personal freedom; a secular personal freedom. We are the masters of our own bodies. We eat what we want to eat, love who we want to love, think and say what we want, and experience the substances that we like to. Our message is spreading,” Jyotish preached. There was a hint of excitement in his voice.

  “You do realize that addicts will say the most astonishing things to justify their drug habits, don’t you? I call a pile of New Megiddo Tithes my freedom,” Prescott mocked him. Jyotish waved a dismissive hand.

  “I do not need to rationalize my lifestyle and my teachings to someone so indoctrinated that they do not realize their freedom is fallacy,” Jyotish hissed, “Database has shown me perspectives and philosophies that a great many will never be privy to under this Regime. And under this Regime I have nothing, and since I had foretold your coming, I had dedicated myself to these principles until such time as my death,” Jyotish recounted. Prescott removed a tomahawk from its sheath. The sharp edge glistened in the torchlight.

  “Fascinating. We’ll obviously you know why I am here, and the time is at hand. Any last requests?” Prescott asked, fingering his tomahawk.

  “Yes. I wish to die on the peak of Everest.”

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Prescott was riding his Scarab on the highway. With the deed done he had departed what once was Bilsby Realm. He recounted what Jyotish had said to him before he had split his skull with a tomahawk, atop the summit of the artificial Mount Everest.

  “I have seen your demonic face in a vision. You have come with fire and brimstone, from the depths of a Christian Hell. Beware the misfortune your demonic appearance will bring you,” Jyotish had warned him. Prescott did not know how the ‘Slum Sage’ had known what his face looked like beneath his H.A.T. But, despite this peculiarity Prescott had fulfilled his contract, and he had informed the Deacon of his success. The Church had authorized the full amount of the reward for completing his contract. Also, he had received confirmation that he should be fully healed from his operation and that the H.A.T. could be removed. He was anxious to gaze upon himself soon.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Today when Prescott awoke he could hardly believe that it had marked six months since he had removed his H.A.T. He had been hugely satisfied with the results of his “cosmetic surgery”. Since that time, he had accepted a number of contracts from the Deacon. He had been successful in completing a number of contracts with exceptional cruelty, using his ashen gray skin, unholy eyes, and sharp, beastly teeth to instill fear into his targets before he dispatched them. In a number of cases, Prescott had to conduct interrogations, using torture. These contracts he took extra pleasure in completing. He had become extremely wealthy from these contracts and was riding a wave of euphoria.

  Prescott had received a message from the administration of Deacon Robertson. He was to receive an official recognition for his service to the Church and was requested to appear in person today. Prescott was eager to gloat about how he had put the fear of God into the enemies of the Faith by utilizing his demonic appearance. Prescott was sure to impress the Deacon. He left his modest warehouse space in the Hollywood hills and navigated his Scarab toward the downtown Church of New Megiddo Deaconess building. When he pulled over to the curb, he was greeted with shock and fright from the pedestrians that laid eyes upon him. By now he was used to this reaction and casually greeted each person as if nothing was amiss. Prescott entered the Church buildings. The guards starting making moves like they would detain him, but his biometric data being broadcasted by his neural implant checked out. Finally, he entered the Dea
con’s chamber, which sat slumped over in his throne, suffering from “food coma”. Deacon Robertson perked up when he heard Prescott’s footsteps.

  “Ah, Prelate Zimmerman! Glad you could make it. I have great news. The Arch-Deacon of the Church of New Megiddo is considering granting me a promotion due to your success for ridding us of our enemies,” the Deacon exclaimed, trying to stand upright but giving up due to his girth. Prescott moved closer to the throne.

  “I brought you here because I would like to keep you on retainer as—what the devil? Prescott, what kind of joke is this? Take that mask off,” Deacon Robertson demanded with a frown.

  “Deacon, it is no joke and no mask. This is my appearance now. I underwent surgery so that I may put the dread of Hell into the enemies of the Faith!” Prescott announced proudly.

  “What? You can’t be—who in their right mind would...Prelate Zimmerman, you had better be joking! Take it off!” Deacon Robertson’s shouts echoed through the hall. Two Rangers came running into the hall from the next room; guns drawn.

  “Deacon, sir...I assure you—I meant no disrespect! It is to foster a reputation of terror among the Apostates—” Prescott was interrupted.

  “Apostates? Apostates! You’re an Apostate to assume such a ghastly guise! Rangers seize this Apostate!” the Deacon ordered; red in the face and wheezing from being worked up. By this time two more Rangers had appeared and surrounded Prescott. He thought about trying to fight his way out but decided against. He threw down his tomahawks and was taken into custody by the Rangers.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  When Prescott came to, he no idea how long he had languished in this cell. Had he been here for a week or a month? He reckoned that the cell was located in the sub-basement of the Deaconess building. He had seen it once, when he delivered a target to the Deacon alive. The cells were little better than a medieval dungeon. The cell was pitch-dark, but Prescott’s optical implants allowed him to see in low-light. He caught a glimpse of the graffiti-strewn walls, the filthy and rusted toilet in the corner and the cockroaches that scurried around the cement floor.