Verity Rising
A Gods of Deceit Novel
Book 1
Phil Scott Mayes
Copyright © 2020 Phil Scott Mayes
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7351422-0-3
Cover photo by: Josh Hild on Unsplash
Cover design by: Phil Scott Mayes
DEDICATION
This, my debut novel, is dedicated to my dad, Gerry, who motivated and encouraged me through every phase of its creation.
I also owe a special kind of gratitude to my wife, Tanya, who supported me through countless evenings and weekends, carrying my dead weight while I clacked away, oblivious to the world around me.
CHAPTER ONE
I’ve never liked human beings. As their liberator, I work tirelessly, putting myself in harm’s way to set them free, then watch as they race back under the burdensome yoke of deceit. Sadly, after several months of unavoidable contact with them, it seems I’ve contracted their contagious misery. Last night, when I returned from work, I flopped onto my inhospitable department store mattress and lay wide-eyed and perfectly still for over an hour. I may have been vibrating; it certainly felt like I was. For the third time this week I lay that way, staring at the exposed rafters of my industrial apartment until the vibrations faded.
Sometimes, a quiet, dangerous voice assures me that I have the right to hate humanity. After all, by my nature I only ever see the worst they have to offer. That, and nearly twenty years ago one of them killed both my parents by simply being a pathetic waste of life. But I see that hatred is an ugly, emotional, and extreme illness, a disease that would’ve certainly killed me by now, turning my heart into brittle stone and boiling the blood from my veins. No, that little voice is wrong.
The great irony is that, despite my feelings toward them, it’s my pledged purpose to loose humanity from the invisible chains that bind their free will. Desperately, they seek lives of meaning and fulfillment in a system of lies designed for their unwitting enslavement. These ignorant fools don’t even notice as their freedom is ravaged with each headline, each advertisement, each conversation, and each insidious thought. My only consolation is that most of the dirtbags I deal with end up dead.
“That’s thirteen dollars and fifty cents, sir,” the young driver says, interrupting my thoughts without disrupting his discreet headbanging. For almost the entire commute, he’s rather enjoyed the grunge rock station playing quietly on the radio. I’ve mostly tuned it out.
I pay him fifteen dollars and pull the door handle.
“How tall are you, man?” he asks before I can clear the door.
“Tall.”
Stepping from the white Prius taxicab, I shut the door and tip my head to the sky. Milburn Tower, a square building with slightly rounded sides, stretches toward the scattered, wooly clouds that bathe in morning light. From this perspective it has no end, like a country road that shrinks into the distance until it finally disappears. Its nicely proportioned fretwork of steel and glass makes it one of the most handsome structures in all of Port Ellis, especially after the semiannual cleanings to remove the salt and exhaust residue. For the first few weeks, it juts up like a giant crystal shard in the center of the city, cloning every helicopter, cloud, or seagull that passes by. I enter through the heavy glass doors of the main entrance as I have every day for the last six months.
“Good morning, Tyson,” I say with a smile and half-wave to the security guard. I pass his desk near the front entrance at least twice a day, sometimes four or more, so I’ve grown used to the routine pleasantries.
“Mornin’, Mr. Verity,” he cheerfully replies.
It’s not difficult to detect fake geniality. The way the corners of the mouth hesitate to curl upward, the hardness of the eyes, and the comfort of one’s posture offer insights into the true state of a person’s heart. Tyson is genuinely jovial and manages to maintain it with unprecedented regularity, a well-known trait of his Scandinavian heritage, he claims.
I lunge for the closing elevator door and enter to find a rare treat: it’s empty. In a building bustling with constant human activity, a private elevator is an unexpected delight. With any luck I can bask in this tranquility all the way to my floor. The elevator briefly surges upward only to come to an abrupt stop. It was too good to be true.
The shrill squeak of the elevator door assails my ears and strangers cram tightly against me in all directions. I can’t help but feel nauseous. On top of the offensive odors emanating from their various orifices and poorly washed crevices, they’re also toting breakfast from the food court. Egg sandwiches, sweet pastries, and bitter coffee copulate with their natural stench to form a truly grotesque pollutant. Bathing in perfume has done little to disguise their decay, and their repulsive attempts to achieve beauty are pathetically transparent. It isn’t difficult to diagnose the diseases they carry through a few simple observations.
Take the woman in front of me as an example. Her self-consciousness is likely rooted in the humiliating words of a bitterly insecure high school classmate, or perhaps those of an equally insecure boyfriend who made her feel ugly so she’d never realize she was too good for him. The lies she believes have shaped her identity. Her dense makeup, flirtatious personality, and revealing dress desperately cry for validation from everyone she meets. If approval can’t be won, she’ll settle for jealousy.
To the left you’ll see a floppy patch of hair taped atop the head of a man who clearly didn't grow it. His magnificent wristwatch and designer suit suggest that he is a successful and important man, distracting others from the miserable loneliness in his eyes. At home, thick dust collects on the objects he holds so dear with the exception of his $50,000 liquor collection, which now gets the nightly attention he never gave his ex-wife and kids.
It’s not that I know all these details to be exactly true, but it doesn’t matter. Different strains of the same epidemic afflict every person I see, and with every new person I meet I am ever more thankful for my own immunity to this condition. I am different.
As a vapor I weave through the human herd, fully aware of the deceptive forces at work but playing along as I maneuver to strike. My awareness of their trivial reality is the only reason I spare them the soul-crushing awakening I could bring. The elite and the celebrities who have sold their souls to achieve their wildest dreams only to be met with the emptiness of such pursuits serve as prime examples. It’s then that burning sulfur floods their nostrils and the suicidal escape softly beckons. Suicide is not the end I seek, but it’s often the result of my work.
The elevator lurches to a stop as I prepare for my daily marathon. It’s draining to embrace the people with whom I interact throughout the day. My most bothersome reflex is the face’s tendency to display the mind’s contents. Thankfully, with much practice, I have managed to disconnect this inconvenient function.
Joel is hustling down the hallway as I step from the elevator. He smiles and makes eye contact with me, nodding in place of a verbal greeting.
“Hello, Joel, how are you today?” I ask.
I may not like humans, Joel especially, but I was trained to treat others with respect regardless of my feelings. After six months of socialization with humans, I have adapted well to their customs and courtesies and know what behaviors are a
ccepted as “normal” and expected. Beyond that, until this operation is complete, I’m stuck with these people. Making enemies before the appointed time would only hinder my efforts to collect information and get close to my targets.
Joel’s suit pants are wrinkled and hanging crookedly from his hips. His curly ginger hair is more unkempt than usual, and his mangy, patchwork stubble makes it obvious he hasn’t shaved in days and that he couldn’t grow a full beard if he tried.
“Where are you headed?” I ask.
Without slowing down, Joel responds, “I’m fine, Ted,” but ignores my second question.
His stride is subtly weak but not much different from most humans. In a truly Darwinian system, most of them would perish. However, their collaborative spirit defies such a system to their detriment. The weak survive on the backs of the strong and the cancer of society metastasizes. I decide to follow Joel.
Each person has a scent, a combination of pheromones and elements beyond the range of human perception. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. Many people are capable of sensing these elements but can rarely interpret them. It often presents as a gut feeling about a person that can be positive, producing immediate trust and attraction, or negative, producing distrust and a warning. My perception of these elements is honed so that I can read them in detail.
Joel’s trail is that of disappointment and frustration. He’s never measured up and he knows it, but he wants nothing more than to truly matter. This combination of forces makes him the vice president’s lapdog, a role that he believes positions him as the logical successor. In many ways he has become indispensable, but his forfeiture of dignity has cemented this power dynamic. He will watch as his peers accomplish the dreams that have always eluded him.
He looks over his shoulder and sees me five steps behind. “Do you need something from the storage room? I’m grabbing a notebook for Dave.” Joel’s submissive nature is on full display.
“I’m good, thanks,” I reply with a polite smile to soften the rejection.
Soft people need coddling, so I’ve coddled Joel at each opportunity. This has nurtured a one-way relationship that is useful. He is not my friend, but he sees me as his friend, and this allows me to siphon the information I need about the dishonest dealings of this company. If Joel knew the true nature of our relationship I suspect that he would feel betrayed and used. Ironically, his role as my agent makes his life more meaningful than most. He would thank me if he could only see, and he will see soon enough.
Joel turns left and enters the windowless storage room as I quickly scan the hall for witnesses. Only two others are within line of sight, but with both fixating on their phone screens the coast is clear. I turn and casually enter the storage room, close the door behind me, and quietly lock the knob.
Joel’s suspicious eyes meet mine as I enter. “I thought you said you didn't need anything,” he says with a furrowed brow.
“I don’t need anything from this room, but you and I need to have a conversation.” My ominous tone lands heavily on Joel’s ears.
“Okay. What’s up?” he asks, pretending not to notice.
People like Joel are always nervous. Undoubtedly, he’s flipping through the catalog of wrongs he has knowingly committed looking for my name among its thousands of pages. Did Kimberly tell him what I said behind his back? Did he figure out I forged his signature on that memo? What if he knows I stole that box of drugs that was missing during the audit? It’s none of these things in particular, and yet it’s all of them. I want to talk to him about the catalog itself.
I maintain eye contact while slowly moving opposite Joel to the other side of the waist-high metal cabinet. Each step brings a shift in Joel’s expression from confusion to anxiety and eventually to fear. Still staring into his sad eyes, a soothing blanket of peace falls softly over my spirit. This repose assures me that now is the proper time. I press ahead, confident in the necessity of what I must do.
“Have you ever told a lie?” I ask, knowing quite well the answer.
“What kind of question is that, Ted? Who hasn't told a lie by the time they reach our age?” he scoffs.
“So that’s a yes?”
I know it’s a yes. It’s always a yes. Most people tell their first lie within months of learning how to speak. To humans, lying has proven as inevitable as death. They get so good at lying to themselves they can hardly tell when they’re lying to others, the most damaging of which are often never even spoken but simply transmitted from heart to heart. Joel’s scared expression is taking on notes of defensive aggression, undoubtedly due to the notion that he’s being unfairly, hypocritically judged. But I have caught him in many deadly lies, and my judgment is anything but hypocritical.
“Yeah, of course it’s a yes, but it would be a yes for anyone. I don’t make a habit of it, but everyone lies,” he retorts defensively. “Anyway, what gives you the right to judge anyone, Ted? You know what they say about people who live in glass houses.”
Humans always think the bad behavior of others somehow pardons their own. At the very least, they take comfort in the fact that they are part of a wretched collective and not just a lonely outlier. I lean forward, propping my elbows on the cabinet and interlocking my fingers.
“You are correct. You have lied, like everyone else, but do you know the cost of those lies?”
“Ted, this is getting weird, man,” Joel says with a nervous chuckle. “Is there a point to this?”
“Of course there’s a point to this. After all the frivolous conversations we’ve shared, it’s time to have one of great meaning.”
“Okay. I’m just saying, it’s off to a weird start and you don’t seem like yourself.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Joel. At this moment, I’m more myself than you’ve ever seen me. Are you being true to yourself? Is this selfish, desperate, pitiful, and dishonest human your true nature or are you acting outside of your nature—a victim of forces beyond your control?”
“I don’t know, Ted. How much control do any of us really have? I’m just trying to make the most of the hand I was dealt. I’m doing what my boss says and trying to be who he needs me to be. Don’t we all put our best foot forward and try to be who we’re supposed to be, what people want us to be?” pleads Joel in the hope I’ll be satisfied and the discussion ended.
“Most people do from time to time, Joel. Some people say and do whatever it takes to enrich themselves regardless of the damage of those actions and statements.” Joel breaks eye contact, looking downward and fiddling with the notepad in his hands. I continue, “It’s apparent that you don’t see the harm that your behavior has caused. There would be no way for you to fully know how destructive it has been. But I assure you, you have left a wake of irreparable damage in the lives you have touched.”
Joel pauses, again perusing his catalog of wrongs for some trace of the destruction I mentioned. Finding none, he meets my gaze with a playful smirk and replies, “You caught me, but you know what? I sleep like a baby every night on my thousand-dollar sheets.” His irreverent attitude is an obvious ploy to conceal the fear swelling in his chest.
Sternly, I reply, “You don’t seem to grasp the ultimate importance of this moment.” At this, Joel’s gaze lifts to meet mine. I pause and focus my mind as I glare through his pinhole pupils.
I lift my elbows from the cabinet and stand upright. Already more than a foot taller than him, I stretch my spine a few inches closer to my true form, and as my body extends before him, Joel's face resembles that of a child realizing just how small and powerless he really is. His craned neck and hanging jaw exude both terror and wonder as I reveal a taste of my divine nature. I relax my vocal cords to deepen my voice to its innate, rumbling timbre. I now have his undivided attention.
“Joel, this is not a trial. Your verdict is decidedly guilty. It is now time for your sentencing. I will act as your reflection and you must pass judgment on what you see.”
His tangerine locks tremble as sweat s
eeps from his skin, beading and rolling down his neck. His body appears rigidly frozen in its awkward stance. Only his eyes move to track me as I walk around the end of the cabinet. The fluorescent bulbs overhead begin to flicker as if to match his quivering. I retrieve a small vial of plum-red liquid from my left pocket. Removing the cork, I lift the vial above Joel’s open mouth, turn it nearly horizontal, and give it one gentle tap.
This is my favorite part. The drop has exited the vial. I’m captivated by its graceful descent, intently observing its brilliant red sparkle with each splash of flickering light. The orb warps and wobbles as if alive. Undeniably beautiful and mysterious, Joel’s helpless eyes wet with tears at the wondrous sight. It dives between his teeth and into his empty tomb of a mouth. When the drop meets the back of his throat he reflexively swallows, emits a faint, haunting whimper, and drops limply to the floor.
As I step over Joel’s motionless body, I constrict my stature and tense my vocal cords back to human range. I grab the cold metal doorknob, glance over my shoulder at Joel’s motionless body, and exit the supply room.
Despite the inevitability of that drop entering Joel’s body, the outcome of this moment is still uncertain. As this is only the eighth sowing of my life, I have yet to find a reliable predictor of the human response. Some who I believed would overcome the torment of the truth didn’t, while others who seemed doomed found the strength to prevail. I fully expect Joel to end his life, but this is his sentence to deliver. For the first time in decades, maybe ever, Joel is truly free.
CHAPTER TWO
Freedom is a pipe dream. Humans cherish the illusion of free will but too deliberately compromise each other’s freedom of choice for it to ever be a reality. Take, for example, a big pharmaceutical company like my temporary employer Pentastar Pharmaceuticals. In a sterile boardroom, executives were warned about the dangers of the drug they’ve been developing—they call it Fosillix—but with many billions of dollars invested in research, it’s too late to turn back. Unwitting trial participants, already suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s disease, sign on with renewed hope of relief only to suffer debilitating side effects and death.
Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1) Page 1