The Zero Patient Trilogy (Book One): (A Dystopian Sci-Fi Series)

by The Zero Patient Trilogy- Book One (epub)

  The Southern Lowers are fond of bandanas instead of the face coverings attached to a person’s clothing. From what Sterling has seen and what he can see now, they’re generally dirtier, scruffier and have their teeth more heavily discolored by red root than do their wealthier counterparts.

  “Just do what I do,” Bolt says under his breath. A draft blows past, kicking sand into the air. He steps behind the group waiting for the motopublic, clasps his hands behind his back. Sterling does the same. No one speaks; most keep their heads down, staring at their feet.

  A rumbling in the distance disturbs the silence. Motopublics are similar to motocarts, aside from the fact they have dual wheels on the rear axle. The sitting portion is larger, enough to fit ten to twelve people. It’s covered as well, which is different from all the other vehicles in the Canyon. The driver, however, rides uncovered, which can lead to some pretty comical things if a big enough dust storm hits the motopublic. Sterling once saw a driver swept off his seat by a big gust of wind. On his knees, the driver crawled over to the covered cabin and used it as a wind barrier. His hat blew off, revealing a bald head five shades whiter than his face. The cabin roared with laughter, much to his dismay.

  ***

  It takes a little under an hour to reach the Church of the South.

  Sterling sits with gritted teeth the entire way, listening to a pair of men talk about their recent trip to the War Zone. The men were discussing the best kill, how the Northerners were bloodier than the Southerners, how they hoped to one day kill a Northerner themselves.

  “They deserve it. Everything about their lives is false. The faceless, evil bastards. All of them.”

  “All of them,” the second man agrees. “The Northern Goddess is a false whore. I can’t wait for the next war; I’ll murder at least … at least three Northerners … going to stomp their faces in… “

  “Rip their guts out.”

  “Piss in their open mouths.”

  “Smash all their teeth in with my clubbing stick!”

  The motopublic stops, and not a second too soon. If the trip had lasted any longer, Sterling would have taken action. He knows not to, knows that blowing his cover is a bad idea at this point, but listening to the men talk shit about the North and the Goddess has really perturbed him.

  “Ignore them,” Bolt says, poking Sterling’s arm.

  The people unload, the women drape portions of their flowing garments over their arms. Some of their wrappings are stitched together poorly, frayed at the ends that frequently drag on the parched soil. Others wear the best clothing they have, freshly washed and covered in small beads made of bone, metal, food wrappers, R Boot buckles, peculiar rocks and mirror shards.

  “It’s there,” Bolt says.

  The Church of the South sits on a large rectangular plot. A wall made of stone protects the front of the structure. Broken glass – a rarity – and sharp metal pieces have been affixed to the top of the wall to prevent people from climbing over. A tower three times as tall as the church looms over the main building and casts a shadow across the courtyard. The gate in front of the church is the exact same type of gate that is used in the North, which strikes Sterling as odd.

  Made of a blackened metal that no one has been able to reproduce, the gate is detailed in lattice work fashioned to resemble an old tree, its limbs stretching to the outermost rim of the gate and its roots stretching to the bottommost rim. Right now it’s closed, and is flanked on either side by two sentries in full ceremonial garb – pants, shirts and R Boots of much finer quality and finish than even the wealthiest Uppers can obtain, large conical hats, and all of it draped and festooned with more cloth than a Lower family gets in two years’ rations. This too mirrors the garb of the Devout in the North, the only difference being the shape of their hats – Northerners have square hats.

  Sterling pulls Bolt aside. A crowd moves past, on their way to circumambulate the structure, something exclusive to the South. “We need two things.” He uses his fingers to illustrate the numbers, just in case Bolt is unable to visualize how many two actually is. “One, we need to get her. Two, we need to have a way to get away once we have her.

  Bolt nods. Sterling can almost make out his reflection in the kid’s eyes.

  “From what I remember, the Goddess usually sees children in the afternoon.”

  “Good,” Sterling says, “That will give us time to arrange transportation.”

  “I’ll check the time… ” Bolt merges into the crowd.

  It only takes a moment for Sterling to feel completely alone. In a foreign land, surrounded by people similar to him but very different, the impossibility of his task looms large in his consciousness. He wasn’t lying when he told Bolt that someone had captured a Goddess before, when he was a child. The man had been swiftly captured and the Goddess returned to the Church of the North. They’d kept him alive for days under torture before he was finally given the release of death, and his family – from the graybeards right down to the babes in arms – had all been eunuched in the Off Limits.

  The crowd swells around him.

  Seeing so many Southerners ratchets up the fear he’s already experiencing. Their garb is similar to those of the North, but they wear things differently, move differently, speak differently. Many are lost in prayer as they billow past him.

  The Devout are many but the true Devout are few. Which are you? The quote from the Book comes to him and he suppresses it with a gulp.

  A hero in one land, a villain in another – that’s what he’ll become if he can pull off the monumental task he’s about to attempt. Getting here is one thing, but actually going forth and plucking the Goddess from her nest is something else entirely. The odds are stacked against him – he knew it was a suicide mission the moment Zander gave him the ultimatum. Still, there’s nothing he can do now.

  “Escape vehicle,” Sterling whispers under his breath as he watches the crowd dissipate. His eye catches a few motocarts along the streets that lead to the church, all of which belong to Southern Uppers. A motocart would be the easiest to get, but what about the kid?

  As if merely thinking the kid’s name actually summons him in fact, Bolt steps out in front of him, disrupting his thought pattern.

  “It’s at five,” Bolt says.

  “Don’t step in front of me like that.”

  “I didn’t step in front of you. I approached you fair and square.”

  “There’s nothing fair and square about the way you approached me. Suddenly and shockingly, sure, but not fair and square.”

  “What’s got into you?” Bolt asks.

  The immensity of the task that lay ahead, Sterling almost answers. Instead, “We need a way out.”

  “After?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s always a moto in the lot, North or South.”

  “Well, I don’t think anyone is going to be interested in playing a game of rocks in exchange for their vehicle … ” Sterling’s eyes dart left and right. “Although I suppose I could ask.”

  “Who said anything about rocks? I have a unikey.”

  “Damn, where did you get that?”

  Bolt sucks his cheeks in, pops them.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No questions asked, no questions answered?”

  “Well, as long as you stole it fair and square.”

  Dust sweeps through the streets without any warning. Swirling debris becomes projectile weaponry as the terrible gust kicks into high gear, blows off face covers and wrappings and knocks over motos and anything else that isn’t latched down. Sand sprays into Sterling’s face, into his eyes, his nostrils. He struggles to get his face cover up when he feels arms wrap around his waist. Sterling doesn’t have to look down to know that Bolt is holding onto him as tightly as possible, his face pressed into his chest.

  ***

  Time to kill, time to slaughter.

  The hours are passed in the shade. After they’ve traded someone half an
R Box for some water, Sterling teaches Bolt some tricks he’s learned in the game of rocks, mostly ways to juke out the other player through sleight of hand as well as other things you can say to confuse and distract.

  “One thing you can do,” Sterling tells him as they crouch in the shade provided by a depot, “is to mention numbers as you play. Nothing too blatant … keep it casual. Talk about what you did yesterday at a certain time; how many children your brother has; a way to prepare mush that includes portion amounts; the amount of times you prayed the previous day.”

  Usually, a talk on the finer points of legerdemain would bore a kid to death. Not Bolt – he’s practically taking notes in the sand as Sterling relives his glory days through embellished stories of his wins and smoothed-over stories of his losses. He’s still not ready to explain to the kid the loss that led him to the South; no one wants to admit utter defeat. Besides, Bolt knows enough as it is.

  The two chat for most of the afternoon, both skirting around their individual backstories and focusing more on things that have happened to the pair, such as Bolt’s almost kidnapping or the time Sterling won them three R Boxes through a game of rocks. Bolt nods off at some point; Sterling uses his face cover to protect Bolt’s face from the warm afternoon draught.

  Time passes and what lies ahead isn’t completely forgotten, it’s merely overlooked for the time being. At some point Sterling takes his shiv from its sheath on the inside of his R Boot, and polishes it with his back turned to any people that may see it. He returns the piece of sharpened metal to its sheath, adjusts it so it’s tucked deep into his boot but not deep enough that he can’t reach it, and ruffles his pant legs around it.

  .7.

  The moment arrives for Sterling and Bolt to queue up. Halo waits in the innermost chamber of the Church of the South, ready to receive the line of sick children that have been gathering for the last few hours.

  To the people of the Canyon, and especially those who reside in the South, medicine and faith are at odds with one another. Prayer has never helped as much as the advanced medicine available on the borders, but this fact is rarely mentioned. Even if it were, the words would be swiftly suppressed or, more likely, ignored by all but a few Uppers who have enough political power to question the bizarre confines in which they’ve all found themselves. Sick, or sick enough children await their chance to meet the Goddess of the South, as they have for as long as anyone can remember. This is the way things have been done since time immemorial – why question the innate logic of the past?

  From bandaged eyes and broken arms to extreme sniffles and festering wounds, Lower Southerners champion youthful injury to the point where some mothers actually harm their offspring to hasten the opportunity to meet the Goddess. The first meeting is the most important, a rite of passage known as The First Blessing. Other instances of sickness aren’t usually treated with such reverence.

  “Act sick,” Sterling says, giving Bolt a nudge with his elbow.

  Bolt coughs.

  “Sicker than that. Sell it.”

  Bolt stoops over, clasps his hands over his stomach.

  “Make it look real or I’ll take you back behind the depot and trim you myself,” Sterling hisses, fury racing across his face.

  Bolt gets to coughing until he’s red in the face and spittle flies from his lips.

  “Good.”

  He barks and hacks and shakes with fits of violence. His eyes are bloodshot, tears carve runnels through the dust on his face; he’s created enough commotion that the sentry standing at the front moves a few of the less injured back to call Bolt forward.

  “Name?” the sentry asks, staring down at Bolt through a slit in his cone-shaped headdress. His nose and mouth are covered by a dark perforated material, obscuring his face.

  “Bolt Southrope,” Sterling says, averting his gaze. “I’m his uncle.”

  The sentry looks over a few mothers’ heads to his counterpart, who stands guard on the other side of the gate. Both have clubbing sticks at their sides.

  “Any weapons?”

  “Nope,” says Sterling.

  Bolt coughs again.

  “Raise them.”

  The guard touches his arms and is just about to move south when he stops.

  “You’re good to go,” he says, his expression strangely neutral. Sterling can hardly believe his luck as he is sent to the front of the line alongside his newfound nephew. He doesn’t know what he would have done if they found his shiv. They make their way to the front, amidst the jealous glares and gimlet stares of waiting mothers. The two keep their heads down, something Bolt had instructed Sterling to do once they reached the gate.

  “No one can be taller than anyone else,” Bolt explained earlier. “This is something different about the Church of the South. They do this because of the passage that reads, Heads held high incite eyes ablaze. Raise your face to become faceless.”

  “And they think facelessness is bad … ”

  “Yes.”

  “Idiots.”

  They pass through the gate and Sterling is instantly glad that he listened to Bolt’s advice – all the Southerners inside have lowered their heads and murmur incantations as they await their brief audience with the Goddess. Incense made from dried vegetation adds a smoky sour tinge to the air, masking the Canyon’s dry, dusty scent. A sentry signals for a woman to step aside, allowing Sterling and Bolt to move ahead of her. As soon as the sentry has returned to his position, the woman curses them under her breath.

  Bolt glances up at Sterling, anticipating a response. He receives no such thing. Sterling is too focused on the task that lies ahead. He takes in the narrowness of the exit point and the number of sentries he’s seen – two at the main gate, four so far in the courtyard. Six clubbing sticks in total, six ways to see stars before sunset. The weight of impossibility returns and he suppresses it with a deep breath.

  He’s made it this far.

  The line moves in fits and starts. The faithful file up stairs of carven rock that are worn in the middle from the passage of countless feet, under a pergola adorned with rare flowering cacti and through an arched doorway. Sobbing meets Sterling’s ears as soon as he passes under the pergola. The Southerners inside weep; children, women and men alike. It’s at the threshold of the door that he gets his first glimpse of the Goddess.

  Situated in the center of the room, atop a carven dais, Halo stands with a single hand stretched in front of her body, the cloth from her arm hanging freely in the air. She’s covered in a sea of dark gray cloth, her shoulders free of the binders that Sterling assumed she’d be wearing. Her short hair, a light blonde color, is held tightly to her skull by wrappings that cover her eyes – Blinders – similar to the way the lover was dressed.

  “She’s really blind?” Sterling whispers to Bolt, just to cover the anxiety he’s feeling upon seeing her.

  “I told you so.”

  ***

  The wait drags on interminably. Sterling keeps his head down, watches her by turning his head to the right, training a single eye on the Southern Goddess. She never speaks, and for a goddess, she’s not particularly comforting or welcoming. A crying, fearful child is led to her dais. She extends her hands, the child prostrates itself and is then hustled away by the Goddess’ two sentries.

  “Are you sure about this?” Bolt whispers.

  “No question; do everything as normal. Follow me out if you’d like, or stay.”

  Three people in line ahead of them now – Sterling feels an overwhelming sadness wash over him. The proximity to the Goddess is affecting him, he knows this, but he’d like not to give this thought any power. Her shoulders are bare; the expression on her face is indecipherable. There is a strange luminosity about her; she’s stunningly beautiful, unspeakably powerful, subtly frightening in a way Sterling has never seen or felt before.

  A voice hits Sterling, whispered in his ear or bloomed from the epicenter of his mind – he’ll never know how to adequately describe its derivation. />
  You’ve come.

  The voice is female, barely audible yet strikingly distinct; the voice seems to talk at him, from behind him, over him, through him, from leagues upon leagues beneath the troubled soil of the Canyon. Inside his bones, his veins, his heart. It is intoxicating. Aphrodisiactic. The nectar of life and of everything that is holy.

  He gasps, almost falls to his knees, but stays strong and focused, amidst the sheer euphoria prickling the hairs on his skin and razoring through his nervous system.

  You’re strong.

  “Goddess?” he asks, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

  Bolt’s turn.

  The kid steps up. Sterling maneuvers around him fueled by a manic energy he’s never experienced before. The lapse in existence, a blip of reality, a stone cast into the center of a pool of dust, is enough time for him to arrive at a point behind the Goddess.

  He crouches, grabs his shiv from his R Boot, springs up and snags the Goddess around the waist with his free arm. She falls back into him as he puts the point of his shiv up under her chin.

  It is over in a heartbeat, executed with the perfect fluidity that flows from constant practice, yet this is the first and only time he’s ever done this. The gathered faithful shriek their shock, their horror, their utter, uncomprehending surprise at this egregious act of sacrilege.

  His shiv dimples the Goddess’ throat and Sterling states his demands in clear, ringing, unmistakable tones:

  “Clear a path or I will kill your Goddess! ”

  .HUNTER.