Coils Of The Overkill
The final book in the Memory-Camera Project trilogy.
By Steve Hammond Kaye
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Published by:
Publishing for the Twenty-First Century Author
http://www.standardcut.co.uk | [email protected]
Copyright Notice
This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author and / or publisher acting on behalf of the author as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright © law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Published in 2015 in the UK by:
www.standardcut.co.uk
[email protected]
Coils of The Overkill © Copyright Steve Hammond Kaye 2015. All rights reserved.
Front Cover Art © Copyright David Greenman
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s and / or authors prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title (Coils Of The Overkill - Book Three)
© Copyright Notices
Thirty Four Minutes Dead (Book One)
The Scream Of Feyer (Book Two)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Thirty Four Minutes Dead
Book One
Gregory Vain, a pioneering neurosurgeon and part of 'The Memory-Camera Project' is part of a pioneering team that develops the ability to unlock the frozen images stored within the cortex of the dead mind and to read the living, thinking brain. He must also fend-off erotic advances from the vampirical Levene to save his marriage.
Steve Hammond Kaye’s neo-gothic techno-thriller of power, knowledge, violence, treachery and blood-lust enjoy the paginated battleground in this dystopian vision of the near future - Thirty Four Minutes Dead…
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'This is one of those rare novels that can almost burn its avant-garde visuals into your brain.'
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'All in all, this is a thinking reader's thriller that makes one consider the social and political implications of modern developments in neuroscience and the tightening government control. A must-read.'
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BUY Book One and Prequel to The Scream of Feyer and Coils Of The Overkill today from:
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She'll laugh at your fire…, burn in your fire…, die in your fire…
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The Scream of Feyer
Book Two
Twelve years have passed since the neurological atrocities were carried out by the Memory-Camera Project in 1998. The global population are now known simply as the wasted because they have had their brains altered in the womb or as an adult as part of Prerogative Three conditioning.
They now roam the cess-pool that once was modern society. They are simply existing in a hell-on-earth world run by their decadent elite masters crazed and addicted on designer drugs, violence and sex.
The leader of the Memory-Camera Project, Jess Wheeler wants to extend their research into other dimensions such as the occult. Can the human mind store visual information surrounding man's eternal questions? His private research throws up a true apocalyptic thunderstorm.
The Avoiders as they are known to the malevolent Memory-Camera Project members are mankind’s only real hope.
“If Thirty Four Minutes Dead was a 'jolt' to the literary way of conceiving a story, The Scream of Feyer will prove to be a veritable 'thunderbolt'!”
BUY the Sequel to Thirty Four Minutes Dead and Prequel to Coils of The Overkill today from Amazon.
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FUCK CREATION. YOU STAGNANT WASTELAND.
PROLOGUE
Salt Lake City October 25 2040 - 6am:
The bird circled high above the city, letting the desert gusts tear through its wings. It started to drop lower in an effort to avoid the savage winds of high altitude and when it was just a few metres above the ground, it veered toward the city. The smell of garbage acted as a homing device for a creature that had become reliant on human waste. When the disposal sites on the outskirts of the city were reached, the bird turned sharply in the other direction, flying away from the rubbish tips and back towards the sun. Another scent hung over the city that morning - the scent of death.
In the heart of the city a man walked the streets with purposeful strides that matched his determination. He placed a small Lilly - wreath on the shrine for 'The Lost Americans' and then proceeded onward to the churches that dominated the city. A droplet of sweat trickled into his left eye, appearing like a tear for a brief instant, before his gloved hand erased its presence. He continued to walk among the throng of churches, knowing that soon the right one would attract him. After an hour or so, an ostentatious building with a white - marble facade proved to be his calling. Quite alone he walked silently to the ornate doors and sank to one knee in front of another memorial. All these churches seemed to compete in mourning and lavish excesses seemed to be the hallmark of caring. He let a real tear drop from his sunken dark eyes. The doors then opened and a churchman of high office gently spoke to him.
“Each tear will bless their souls my son. We could build a river from the tears of thirty years and our crying eyes will help forge our path to heaven. Who did you lose on that blackened day?”
The man said nothing, staying on one knee with his head respectfully bowed. The churchman gently placed his right hand on the man's head and spoke again in an even softer voice.
“Let me see your face my son. Let me soothe your troubled mind. You have come to the house of the Lord and I will help you build a bridge to him. When our brothers and sisters were lost in Europe, the Lord provided. Lift your head my son and I will show you the light that reached out to them.”
The man stood up to his full height, but when he looked at the churchman it was malevolence and not piety that shone from his eyes. He held the churchman tightly against the ornate entrance door and spoke a few words to him in a voice as deep as a canyon.
“Fuck your pity! I have brought you a fucking gift father.”
With that utterance the man tore his gloved hand free and brutally punched the churchman so that the dignitary slithered to the floor. Then he reached inside his black jacket and retrieved a small glass phial from the pocket, before smashing it on the marble surface below him. The liquid ran across the marble with shards of glass arresting its progress. He pressed the churchman's face close to his and with both of them at ground level, he proceeded to lick the majority of the liquid up. The glass shards badly cut his tongue and as he smiled in the direction of the dignitary, blood seeped through his teeth. He made the churchman endure his bloodied, demented smile for a few more seconds b
efore raising the terrified man back up to his standing height. He pinned his quarry against the door once again and gently cradled the churchman's head with his left hand. Just when his victim thought that his nightmare might be abating, a bloodied tongue entered his mouth with glass shards severely ripping his gums. Evil then spoke to him.
“Spread our word Father!”
ONE
Any place that goes by the name Allgood invites speculation and scrutiny. People wait for the tarnishing to begin, to return the place to less exclusive associations. Allgood Alabama was about to experience such a transition. It was about to regret having a name that was rooted in perfection.
Pastor Henry Sane had established the Allgood Presbyterian chapel as his regular preaching venue some eight years previous and now he was ready to alter his mode of delivery a notch or two. Allgood had been one safe haven where nothing out of the ordinary happened. The Pastor had waited his time and now his true colours were ready to take roost. Heaven help the God fearing folk of this backwater venue. Sane was going to unleash a new dark radical awareness in his teachings and his sermons would be the front-line oratory of his intent. As the Allgood believers took their pew positions, Sane began.
“The Lord has started to laugh at you my brethren, as you extol glutinous ways behind your false moral propriety. As obesity consumes you, vile stains are left on the pews of a tell-tale nature, of longing and lusting. In many ways it seems that you need to free your bad side. Even God is becoming bored with your apparent obsession with do-gooder ways. I say apparent because we all know what lies underneath - don't we?”
Sane paused for eighteen seconds whilst he scanned the congregation with his piercing eyes. He then continued with his polemic of insults.
“When God sees your clothing he despairs. One dreamcoat was allowed, but your gaudy lack of cohesion is an insult to him. Wise-up and heed my message. For eight years, I have swallowed and said nothing and now I must break this silence. You see, after eight years, a Pastor feels the flesh of his congregation and he knows the leaders and the losers. He can tell aspirations and motivations but he can go deeper than that, much deeper than that.”
The next pause was very deliberate, because Sane's hammer-blow was approaching. In a mocking voice, he continued.
“I know that Lilly slept with John Richardson, who in turn had suppressed feelings for his sister and mother. I know that Glen likes guys and that Molly spins a trick with dogs! I know that Coryn can only cum if she plays the dominatrix and that Sheryl Hunter is actually a guy. I also know that Edith Erskine is addicted to cocaine and Bobby Larson to Icerlyxx. I know that most of you have bad dreams despite your rather ordinary exteriors.”
Before continuing, Sane mopped his brow.
“This all makes me think, why the facade folks! All your happy colours and fixed smiles are just an illusion really. Why don't you let your bad side show more often with a truer representation of yourselves. Nice, nice boring is a dull drum beat of folks marching along to sterile conclusions and tethered fantasies. Time to grow a second skin my congregation, a second fucking skin!”
A hush fell among the assembly after the expletive was uttered by the Pastor. Then the sermon continued.
“Allgood has a current population of a shade under 700. Soon that will change my gentle people of Allgood. Thousands of young revellers are going to brighten the social horizons of this place. As a leading young Pastor of thirty years I say that this is good.”
He then screamed this is good again and asked for an echo from his congregation.
“This is good, this is good” came the reply and the chant echoed around the ornate little chapel.
“God has told me that he will meet us in a new black and purple promised land - with Allgood as a new nirvana! I say this is good.”
There was no need to prompt an echo response this time as the congregation were feeling a new found awareness and so responded as a matter of course.
Some of the crowd started to sway and Sane took this as a cue to build a frenzy among the worshipers.
“The young legions will bring an upbeat new tomorrow fuelled by the the dance of trance selection and they will deliver us away from the shackles of normality! They will rejuvenate our spirit and lift us to a higher realm of reality.”
Sane looked as though he was going to continue speaking, but instead he released a high wining sound that grew in terms of intensity as it reverberated around the building. His eyes took on a manic quality with an electrifying gleam of intensity. He then arched his head upwards and reached out to some of his throng. The meat of his sermon then was laid bare for all to hear.
“My touch will purify, my eyes look further inside you. Let your evil seep out and I will usher your demons underground. I am your sanctuary and will lead all afflictions away.”
Sane's eyes darted from person to person as he rhythmically moved his feet. His whole form started to writhe whilst standing and as his face glistened with beads of sweat his tongue briefly flickered across his lips. A sharp - eyed observer would have noted the forked nature of the said appendage.
“I seek one of you for curing my friends. This is no Jim Jones conjuring trick. Let me heal you.”
A blind man stepped forward.
“How long have you been blind my son?”
“From birth sir. I am a Prerogative - Three victim.”
“I'm going to spit in your eyes son. Do not worry. your god is at hand. Just take my hands as I anoint your eyes with my saliva. What is your name my son.”
“Thomas Sir.”
“Thomas, I will proceed. When I have given the spittle application, Laura will escort you to an alcove to contemplate the success of my work.”
The congregation pushed forward as Sane applied his spittle. After the brief application Laura took Thomas away and the Pastor continued with his address.
“Decent people of Allgood, before we see Thomas again, I want to introduce you to a very special person in my life - my brother Troth.”
All of the congregation looked to the back of the chapel where the angular features of Troth the first-born could be discerned. The dark-haired brother offered a cold half-smile as a return gesture for the congregation. He said nothing.
“My brother is a wanderer doing his work from state to state and we will see him here quite often in the future. He simply loves Alabama and what could be better than Allgood. Troth spreads our love across our beloved America and we have one final loving son in our triplet family. Scope is his name. He is a military man based in Vermont. Before we move on folks, give Troth one last hearty Alabama greeting.”
The crowd extended another burst of applause…
After some more mundane sermon duties, Laura brought Thomas back to the pulpit area. Sane cut straight to the chase.
“Welcome back my friend. Tell us your story - do you see now?”
Thomas nervously pulled at the altar cloth and with a trembling voice said.
“Is this what you call red?”
Most of the congregation went wild with backslapping or high-fives. Another chant was started.
“Pastor Sane - Miracle man.”
After a short time Sane then asked for a brief period of calm, before continuing.
“Hey guys, Thomas has two eyes you know. Anything positive in the other eye my friend?”
“No just black as always Pastor Sane.”
“Well I suppose a half-miracle will suffice for now my congregational friends! Christ did the whole ticket didn't he? Well I will live with being a half-Christ for the time being! Small milestones my brethren. I love you all.”
With that line Sane let his throng depart. Most of the people were singing Sane's praises. The half-miracle left them on a high after the rather uncertain darkened entry. Sane was left alone to contemplate his success. His tongue flickered once more across his parched lips. He smiled when he contacted one of his handmaidens later that day. His tongue sent the woman into raptures as it simultaneousl
y entered both the anus and vagina. This was one party trick he would never tire of!
He adored his Satanic status.
TWO
The fog swirled around DC like a choke- hold blanket that smothered the city. Kellerman was nervous. The President was going to hate the news that he was bringing with him. He drove to the appointed White House entrance and he turned into his designated parking space. Drizzle flickered across the windscreen. It was 21:09 and a cold sweat glistened on his brow. When he parked up his car, he was immediately escorted by two security officers. No names were exchanged. Everybody just knew their role and places. Kellerman merely followed in the footsteps of the silent pair. The trio then dipped down to a sunken area close to the parking lot. Here a fourth security officer took the lead and ushered the others to follow him.
When the trio entered the White House, Kellerman was blindfolded and lead upstairs towards the Oval Office. In the corridor next to the Oval Office, Kellerman was scanned via iris recognition. He was searched again and frisked top to bottom one final time. Eventually the blindfold was removed and the man was allowed to enter the hallowed walls of the Oval Office.
Martin Kellerman was a germ warfare expert who had met President Hudson twice before. He had on his person copious details surrounding the smallpox outbreak in Salt Lake City. He already knew that the doomsday clock that was hanging over the Utah venue was pointing towards the most sinister conclusion. He wondered if the President already knew of the ultimate endgame awaiting them.
Hudson greeted him and then began one of the most significant conversations in American history.
“The smallpox crisis happened in Salt Lake City thirty-three days ago. It is defined currently as a localised epidemic. You are the expert Mr Kellerman. What in your opinion, is the current state of play pertaining to this outbreak?”
“A nightmare Mr President, far worse than I thought it would be. When we covertly released some of the same type of smallpox spores in Tokyo four years back, the virus was not fully bedded in or established. That was just our primary stage test phase. Only a few people died and it was quite easy to decontaminate the area. That was then, but our spore modifications have radically changed the situation this time around.”
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