Chosen Different_Book 1

by Nat Kozinn

  "I'll be fine. You guys go on. Jenny, it was a pleasure to meet you," I say.

  I can see the relief in the girl's eyes. She's happy to be spared from doing the Lord’s work with me tonight.

  "You're wussing out, I can't believe it. Don't you know you're denying this girl a divine experience?" P-Dub says.

  "Come on, let's just go." Gary says and pushes P-Dub lightly on the shoulder, which sends him stumbling forward ten feet. That's about as gentle as Gary can be.

  "See you later, wimp!" P-Dub yells as he walks out of the bar.

  "See you next week, Gavin," Gary says and stumbles out.

  I'll be surprised if the bar is in business next week, considering how much Gary had to drink to get that drunk.

  Becky and I are alone. She starts clearing the table where we were sitting, and I help. We work quickly and silently, cleaning up the bottles, wiping down the bar, bagging the trash.

  "We've got to take this out back. The closest Hoover is over a mile away. A Strong-Man comes and gets it every other week," is all Becky says.

  We cut off the Manna to the WormLights, making the bar dark, and head outside. She locks the door behind us.

  "You sure you want to do this? I've walked home alone every night this week. I'm sure I'll be fine," I don't think she means it, but she doesn't like being a bother.

  "Of course. I don't have anything better to do." I should have come up with something else to say. I always tell everyone I can't get nervous, but I'm starting to think wanting desperately to succeed is pretty much the same thing.

  "It's this way," Becky says and points down a dark street.

  We walk the first block in silence. The only sound we hear is someone coughing inside a half-collapsed building. He has a large buildup of phlegm in his lungs, maybe COPD. I shouldn't be thinking about this. I should be trying to make conversation. That's the normal thing to do.

  "So, have you lived in the LA Metro your whole life?" I ask, even though I know it’s a cheesy question.

  "No, I was born Arizona. Flagstaff, Arizona."

  "You were born in a Non-Assisted Area? What was that like?"

  "Well, it wasn't a Non-Assisted Area when I was born. It was a year before the Plagues started, or got bad anyway. It was just a regular city back then."

  That means she must be thirty-two, maybe thirty-three years old. I thought she was twenty-eight tops. I guess I'm not quite the anatomy expert I imagine myself to be.

  "Wow, I wouldn't have thought... it's just you don't seem that old... I mean you look great," I say.

  I stretched time to come up with something good to say and even then, that's the best I could do.

  "Oh, come on... thank you. Not a bad recovery for a pup," Becky says and blushes. I guess I didn't do so badly.

  "I can't believe you lived through the Plagues. The way my dad talked about them, it sounds awful. I can only imagine what it would have been like to be a child then."

  "It wasn't so bad. I was a baby through the worst years. I don't remember much. It was hard for my dad..." she trails off. This is upsetting her, but I get the impression she still doesn't mind talking about it.

  "I'm sure. It was hard enough for anyone. I can hardly imagine what it would have been like with a baby. It's amazing that your parents got you through it. I remember reading that less than a quarter of the children born during the Plagues lived to adulthood. They call you the Missing Generation."

  "My dad is amazing. My mom was amazing. She died when I was six. We were living in a government camp outside Las Vegas, and there was a cholera outbreak. It was bad. My mom had just gotten over pneumonia, and it was just too much. It only took a few days. We thought she was lucky. The whole camp was sick, and there was no medicine and not nearly enough food or water. We were all waiting around to die. Then he showed up, the Wandering Angel. I remember him like it was yesterday. He took my hand in his. He was so tall, and his hands were so warm. I woke up a few hours later completely better. He healed the whole camp," she says.

  "He was real? I always figured he was made up to give people hope during the Plagues."

  "He was real and he completely changed my dad. He was just so grateful I was still alive. One of the other guys in the camp had a copy of The Book of Cabot, before it was banned. He started reading from it, calling people who were Differents ‘Chosen Sons.’ As far as my dad was concerned, he had just seen an angel come down from heaven and save his daughter. He was ready to believe anything. He and a bunch of others from the camp formed a group around Cabot. I think they were just desperate for something to believe in."

  "Sounds like you're not that much of a believer yourself."

  “I don't have time to worry about what I believe in. I do know that the Church probably saved our lives, and it gives us a community, which is not something many people have in this world. There must be something true and good about the religion if it does such good things," she says, almost pleading.

  She doesn't believe what she's saying, but she desperately wants to. If she was like me, she could make herself believe it.

  "I can see the logic in that," I say. I've found people don't like it when I point out what they are really thinking, even if it’s true.

  "And besides, I've got a job because of them. They helped my dad buy the bar, and we're doing pretty well now. If I have to go to church a few times a week and praise God for the Chosen, it seems like a good trade," she adds.

  That part she believes. I nod in agreement.

  She stops walking in front of an old house. It's run down, the paint is long gone and there are B-Crete patches everywhere all over the house. Still, it's in a lot better shape than most of the homes around here. I guess they’re doing okay.

  "This is me," Becky says.

  "It's nice."

  "Look, like I told you before, it was just a walk. I don't care if it's God's command or anyone's command. I am a lady, and I am not doing anything with a kid I just met."

  "I know, I know. I remember. I remember everything. I just like you and I wanted to walk you home. And, I might be a kid, but I'm mature for my years. You can use my friends as a point of comparison."

  "You're right, plenty of guys just like your friends come to the bar every weekend. You are a different Different; you're an old soul. Will you be able to find your way back to the Slug from here?"

  "I'll be just fine. Could I call you sometime? Maybe I could come out and walk you home again?" I don't know where that confidence came from.

  She waits five seconds to respond, and I cannot possibly make time move fast enough.

  “I suppose you earned a second date,” she finally says.

  I go on think.Net and send her a knowledge request.

  “Okay this is going to take a minute. I never use the thing. Nobody out here can afford any call time,” she warns.

  She goes into the think.Net stare. It takes her at least three times as long as it should to accept the request. I remind myself that she didn’t want to be made fun of. Now we know each other on think.Net, that means we can call each other.

  “Okay, well I’ll wait to hear from you then, and I’m not just being coy. My think.Net balance is zero, you have to call me,” she says as she comes out of the stare.

  "Will do. I bid you good evening then," I bow and kiss her hand. I immediately feel cheesy.

  "Thank you for walking with me," she says.

  We stand silently for a moment as she looks into my eyes. I can tell she's going to do something, but I don't know what. She closes her eyes and pouts her lips. My God, she's going to kiss me. I don't know what to do. I just purse my own lips and receive. I feel just a tiny tip of her tongue in my mouth.

  She looks embarrassed when she pulls back. She turns and walks off into her house before I can think of anything to say, not that I have any idea of what to say. I've never been kissed before. I watch the door close then turn and walk away.

  I can barely think straight as I make my way back to the Slug.
I just kissed a girl. Lying in bed at fifteen, trying to figure out how to make my kidneys function, I never imagined I'd be able to recover and get to this place. Maybe Cabot was the tiniest bit right. Right now, I do feel like a Chosen Son.

  A shriek that pierces the night interrupts my bliss. Even without my enhanced senses, I'd have heard it clear as day. As it is, I can tell it is a woman around my age, and she is utterly and completely terrified.

  I take off running toward the sound. I don't even think of what could be causing the scream until I turn onto the next block. The woman is still two hundred yards away, and three young men are after her, howling with laughter.

  The woman keeps screaming as they chase her. They seem to be toying with her, letting her get up and run away before they chase her down and knock her over again.

  "Come on girlie, you were all over me back when you thought I was holding," one of the guys yells. "You only wanted me for my Tranq? Do you have any idea how much that hurts my feelings?"

  She screams again and tries to run, but he grabs her by the hair and drags her down.

  "You may not be getting any Tranq tonight, but you'll be getting something else. In fact, I think we've all got something for you," he says and laughs. His friends laugh too.

  "Help!" the woman screams out again. I think it is the last one, she doesn’t have any more screams left in her.

  "Yell all you want. Nobody out here's going to help you. This is our turf. Nobody would step to a Ripper," he says with confidence.

  "Leave the girl alone," I find myself yelling in my most booming voice. It sounds impressive.

  "Who said that?" one of the guys yells, and they all turn up the street to face me.

  I'm not sure what my plan is. I don't usually find myself saying things I didn't mean to. It shouldn't be possible. Nevertheless, I said it, now I have to do something about it.

  I've already broken the law. Article 3 Section 1 of the Different Acts of 1996: "It shall be unlawful for any Different individual, regardless of intention, abilities, or classification, to take action against any criminal or crime he or she witnesses or is the victim of unless that Different is protecting himself or herself from an imminent deadly threat."

  They pounded that law into our heads during Rules and Regulations in Section 26. They made sure we all knew about what that moron "Captain Freedom" did in the Chicago MA. Although I'm pretty sure I'm not secretly strong enough to cause an earthquake that kills thousands of people.

  I'm not about to destroy half a city or start some kind of race war. If I act, I could help this woman. On the other hand, I could run away and let these dirt bags kill her, rape her, or both. When I think of it that way, running away should be the illegal thing to do.

  I should try to hide my identity though. I relax the muscles in my face, making everything sag. It will not completely change the way I look, but it should make me look a lot older. These guys probably won't go to the cops, but if they do, at least they'll be looking for a Different who's a lot older than I am. There's only one question. How in God's name am I going to stop these guys?

  "Come on out here and get your ass beat," the first guy yells.

  It's time to go take them up on their offer. I turn off the part of my brain that tells me I have no idea what I'm doing and that they could be armed. Instead, I listen to the part of my brain that says I'm six feet, three inches tall, two hundred pounds, and a built like a brick wall. I can run faster and lift more than any normal man. But it just so happens that I've never really put my athleticism to the test.

  "I told you to leave the girl alone," I say in my most booming voice. It is quite effective. I can see one of the guys shudder.

  I step out of the shadows and whatever intimidation factor I had immediately disappears. The dirt bags’ faces all turn to grins.

  "Take a walk, old man, before something bad happens to you," the lead man says. He twists the woman's hair, making her whimper.

  "Can you believe this geezer?" the other talker says.

  Now I know I successfully changed my appearance. Perhaps I went too far, a six-three, two hundred pound geriatric isn't going to scare anyone.

  "Leave her alone, or there will be trouble," I say firmly and hold up my right hand, making sure they all see the D.

  That's my last card. These dirt bags can't be drunk or stupid enough to mess with a Different. For all they know, I can melt them or make them think they're chickens. They would be crazy not to leave now. The leader starts to laugh. I don't think that's a good sign.

  "We ain't the ones in trouble here, freak. You think anyone cares about another girl getting what she deserves? We tell the cops that some freak was out acting like a hero, and they'll hunt you down like a dog. They won't care what we were doing. I tell you what, how about you get the hell out of here. If you're lucky, we won't tell nobody about this and you won't get your ass thrown in Great Basin," the leader yells at me.

  I'd like to think he's wrong, but maybe he's not. Maybe they would hunt me; maybe they would stop at nothing to track me down. Maybe I wouldn't get a slap on the wrist for a first offense, maybe they'd lock me up for life in Great Basin. I don't want to rot away in an impenetrable fortress built into the side of a mountain, designed to hold Differents.

  My resolve starts to waver until I look the woman in the eyes. There's no question about what will happen to her if I leave. No one else will help her. There is only me with my maybes and her definite pain. I have to choose.

  "I'm not going anywhere. Now, why don't you get out of here so I don't have to deal with three corpses and some real problems?" I say with intensity.

  "Bull, if you could do something, you would have already done it. I bet you're a weak little freak who’s just got a tiny arm growing out of his ass. Or maybe you’re just a scared old man who drew a D on his hand and now thinks he's a tough guy."

  The leader steps right in my face, trying to stare me down, and I see his lackeys moving in, surrounding me. I haven't been in many fights before, but I don't have to be Sun Tzu to know you don't want to be surrounded. This is about to go south, fast. I turn on my adrenal gland and have it pump full bore. I can feel the surge almost immediately.

  "I warned you," I say.

  I cock my hand back and make a fist, aiming at the leader. I make sure my tendons and muscles are as compressed as they can be. Then I let go, surging my hand forward. I can feel my bones aligning, generating just about as much force as my arm is capable of. This is a beautiful punch.

  The problem is, my aim is not beautiful. I was focusing so much on aligning my fist that I didn't realize my target moved. My punch connects directly with his shoulder. I feel my wrist snap as three bones break and a couple of tendons shred. Nerves fire, making sure I'm well aware of what happened.

  The blow to the shoulder pushes the leader back, but it's hardly more than a shove. Meanwhile, my wrist is hanging limply. I'm not exactly Mohamed Ali.

  "It looks like what this freak can do is shatter like glass," the leader says.

  I see one of the other guys lunging at me from the corner of my eye, trying to tackle me. I step to the side and give him a shove in the back as he goes by me. He crashes into the ground, hard.

  I turn just in time to see a fist from the third guy flying at my face. All I can do is close my eyes. The punch connects in the middle of my cheek. I feel some blood vessels burst, but there's no structural damage.

  The guy has his hands up, ready to deliver another punch and covering up his jaw pretty well. I decide to kick him in the shin. It hurts like hell and few people are prepared for the pain. There are a ton of nerves in the shin for some reason.

  As soon as I kick his leg, he drops his hands. I use that opening to deliver another beautiful punch with my good hand. This one connects directly with his chin, snapping his neck back. The neck snap is what causes the knockout. I remember my dad telling me that when he taught me about boxing. The dirt bag goes down for the count.

  "Run!" I scr
eam at the girl, which snaps her out of her shock. She gets up and takes off running down the street.

  "You done it now," the leader says and comes at me, swinging his fists wildly.

  I cover up, trying to make sure he doesn't get a good hit on anything important, and his fists bounce off my forearms. I try to step back to buy some time to think, but he keeps after me. One of his punches catches me in the nose, busting a whole bunch of capillaries. Blood starts spurting out of my nose like a fountain.

  The sight of my blood gives the thug confidence, and he winds up for a big punch. He throws a haymaker right at my kidney, which connects squarely, and I can feel his knuckles causing hemorrhages all over the organ. If I were a normal person, I'd double over in pain. Luckily, I'm not normal.

  The thug's punch was wild. Even though it connected, it made him lose his balance and stumble. I see his clavicle exposed and punch it as hard as I can. I feel the bone snap under my fist and the man screams in agony. The blow also broke my ring finger. Now, both my hands are hurt, but I don't think I'll get any sympathy from this guy. He collapses to the ground, writhing in agony.

  I taught three punks a lesson, and I'm still standing. Not too shabby. I have to say I impressed myself, maybe I'm not crazy, maybe I can make a —

  8

  My new race is blessed, but this does not mean life will be easy for my Chosen Sons. It will not. Much hardship awaits the Chosen in this new world. If they are righteous, if they persevere, the wonders they create will be worth paying any price.

  Chosen Sons: 53

  Tom looked back at the football field and saw his path of destruction. He was not a teenage boy going through a growth spurt. He was not a gifted athlete. He was a Different. He was a freak. He was a tool of the Devil. He looked at the crowd and saw their faces and their fear. He felt his own fear. The beast in Tom started running, and his body moved of its own accord.

  Tom jumped over the stadium fence, then ran as fast and as far as he could. He ran away from the stadium, out of his neighborhood, out of the entire Metro Area, and into the swamps that surrounded Houston. Tom ran for six hours straight until he could not run any longer. He looked around and finally realized he was safe. No one was going to find him so deep in the swamp. He was exhausted and scared. He ended up falling asleep propped up against a half-dead tree.