Attrition of the Gods: Book 1 of the Mystery Thriller series Gods Toys. (39 page)

“You think because I am black and I didn’t have access to all them fancy books that I don’t know anything?”

“Well no, but you don’t know everything…”

“Wrong.”

“Whatever.” Ember can feel her rebellious inner teenager rising to the surface and is on the verge of letting it loose on this idiot. Her education is the one tool she has and now this guy is saying everything she knows is wrong? Feelings of anger and fear of the unknown bubble in her tummy. “There you go again, you just keep saying wrong without saying why.”

“The books are wrong,” shrugs Chamuel. “Yes, there was a miracle at Juarez but Reuben Lupas, the pretend Host, was nowhere near there when it did happen. The whole thing is a twist on the truth and you need to swot up on the truth real quick. I see I will have to educate you. Anyway we are here.”

“Where? I can’t see anything?”

Chamuel takes a small cube from his jacket and it independently rises from his hand. A beam of light emanates from it and soon Ember can see what looks like a huge steel door at least ten metres high with a mass of bars and locks criss-crossing its dimensions.

“What is that?”

“That is the only exit out of the Pitts that the Mackies won’t expect us to leave by.”

Ember can see why they wouldn’t be expected to leave this way. Several gun drones sit on top of the gate, all prepped to fire. In a fit of sass she points to them, waiting for Chamuel’s response.

“Well sure, it looks like we are not supposed to go this way. You would have thought that there would have been a sign,” he says jokingly, much to Ember’s annoyance. She decides Chamuel is the fool and it’s him who needs educating, not her.

“Those things are gun drones,” she says sagely. “They activate by sensor. There must be an e-line or something that sets them off if passed. We have got to go back, and carefully.”

“You’re not wrong,” says Chamuel. “Well not about the e-line, anyway. Only problem is we already passed it, back there when you was busy with the made-up history.”

“What!?” Ember looks up to see the six drones rumble out of their holsters and take off towards them. She hears a volley of shots and instinctively ducks, covering her head. The shots continue as she huddles, sure of a quick, messy death. But she doesn’t die. Instead she can see that the cube floats between them and the drones, the light coming from it cascading down around them. The bullets stop dead on hitting the light and seem to be suspended in mid-air.

“The miracle of Subterrainia! Where’s a reporter when you need one?”

This time his joking doesn’t annoy her as she stands up amazed and in awe. Exhausted of ammunition the guns have stopped. The small cube averts its attention to the large metal gateway. The cube moves around the service of the door emitting digital clicks. Ember watches in fascination as the large bolts and locks slide and turn one after each other until the door stands unlocked.

“Are you ready, Ember Jones, to
Live’ 
la Vida Loca
?
” Chamuel attempts a few steps of flamenco then with a grand gesture, motions for her to step through.

The lake at the end of the east pipe

Adam feels his lungs are about to burst. He is powerless to resist the strong arm that holds him as he is dragged further and further into the dark depths, which he now accepts will be his grave. Too traumatised to even be scared he simply submits to his fate, allowing the darkness in as he feels life ebb away. Not the most unpleasant feeling he has ever experienced, he has to admit, as the veil of death seems to bring with it a feeling of peace and tranquillity.

“WAKE UP MAN! For fuck’s sake! Lisalotte, I think you killed him!”

“Excuse me? I saved his life! Those stupid monkeys are starving. He would have been ripped to shreds and chewed like a piece of bark!”

Adam can hear voices. He feels as if someone is standing on his chest and he dare not open his eyes. Then a hard push on his solar plexus forces him to jump up as he heaves and evacuates what seems like a gallon of soiled water.

“See. He’s fine.”

Adam sits up. He looks around and makes out a heavy-set man with an unkempt beard sitting next to a small but shapely female with long dark hair and not many clothes on.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“You’re okay, you’re safe. Well, you are for now. I am Nelson and this is Lisalotte. She was the one who pulled you under to save you from the Humanzees.”

Adam looks at the tiny slip of a girl and considers contradicting that this girl was the creature that overpowered him so easily and pulled him down through the lake, but then a glance at her back reveals what he can only describe as a shallow shark-like fin.

She gives him a stern look before addressing him.

“The words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’.”

He colours, embarrassed. “Thank you.” He then looks at the man. “Did you say Nelson? You don’t mean Alex Nelson?”

Adam doesn’t need an answer as he notices the rota blade attached to the man’s arm that replaces his severed hand. Even under all the hair he recognises the face of one of the most wanted criminals in Jinn City; a man accused of murder, theft and high treason and the leader of a band of terrorists known as the Sons of Abraham.

Not many know the truth. Nelson was actually born and bred in the Caucasian section of the city. He grew up just on the wrong side of Utopia Gardens and his father was a respected clerk who worked in the Temple as a quantity surveyor. On Nelson’s twelfth birthday he waited for his father to come home to see what present he was getting but by nightfall he still hadn’t come and when he heard his mother’s tears, Nelson realised something was wrong.

He never saw his father again and the family received no explanation for his disappearance. Nelson soon learned that this was the norm and questions should not be asked. He watched as his mother grew sicker and sicker, suffering from a broken heart and the frustration of never knowing what had happened to the man she loved. It took her four years to wilt from a strong beautiful woman to a frail shell of herself. Only on her deathbed did she dare utter defiance against the establishment that had taken her love away and had not even seen fit to mention why.

“Why? Why did they take him? Where is my love?” she cried as she lay dying in the small living room of the apartment. She had tried to stay strong for her son but the pain was too much and to be held in such low regard as not to even deserve an explanation of what had happened was the worst pain of all. She actually envied the wives whose husbands were publicly executed for poor performance or attitudes. At least they had anger and sorrow. At least they had the truth and not false hope. Mrs Nelson died a painful death. Not physically painful but mentally unbearable.

Nelson hated the regime for what they had done to him and his parents and how insignificant he was to them. He made up his mind that one day they would regret their actions and more, their inactions. Nelson managed to hide his hate and, while posing as a loyal citizen, joined the external guard, or J soldiers as they were better known. These were the brutal troops that patrolled the city to round up and kill any non-chipped renegades and even the odd Humanzee or other mutation who dared to leave the Pitts.

It took four years of watching and partaking in the murder of thousands of innocents before Nelson got his chance to escape and form the Sons of Abraham. It was during an operation into the Oriental District that his sixty-strong company of J soldiers were ambushed by a large group of raiders who had been forced up from the Pitts by hunger. The attacking group outnumbered the J soldiers six to one but they were only armed with stones and makeshift bows and spears against some of the best weapons technology had created. In less than an hour ninety per cent of the raiders were captured. The J soldiers did not actually take prisoners and Captain Andrew Page was no exception. He lined them all up and instructed his most accomplished machine gunner to first take their knees out, let them bleed for a while, and then kill them. Nelson had looked down the sights of the XXX53 as the two hundred-plus survivors lined up, mostly disfigured, all wretched and often mutated. He felt total empathy with their plight and had waited a long time for this opportunity. He noticed that between him and them was the remaining external guard, including his captain. They were all looking forward, expectant of the imminent entertainment, with their backs to Nelson’s gun. A slight twinge of guilt at shooting his comrades in the back was soon overridden as his mother’s dying words sounded through his head.

Nelson cut through the fifty-six men like a knife through butter. They all fell to the floor, bodies in pieces with no time to ask why, just time to die. Now he had to worry about the men and women who he had five minutes earlier been battling. They looked at the bodies in amazement, grateful but confused. Nelson walked away from the XXX53 and addressed the ragtag group.

“I am Alex Nelson. I am an enemy of the state and I wish to join your militia.”

The men and women did not even know they were militia. They thought they were just hungry people tired of dying a slow death. Now they were alive and, thanks to this Alex Nelson, they were armed and dangerous. But that didn’t mean they trusted him. His next act, however, confirmed his commitment as he took the machete he had sharpened every day from his belt and, kneeling down, placed his left hand on a tree stump. The confused men and woman watched in strange fascination as with one swoop he lopped off his own left hand. He had fallen then, the pain and shock pulsing through his body, but he pulled out a bottle of white spirit and poured it over the stump, confirming this was a planned act. Not only did this extraordinary act ally him to this mutilated band of brothers but it also set him free from the hated regime by removing his chip. Alex bonded the group of misfits together and was soon accepted as their leader. Survival and the odd triumph had given them hope. Under Nelson’s guidance they became a hardy group and a force to be reckoned with. High-profile robberies and kidnappings had secured them plenty of food. They grew their arsenal of weapons with every raid and although many lives were lost, a steady line of inhabitants from the Pitts tried to join the SOA.

Nelson, a shrewd operator, also knew that picking the right personnel was the key to survival and that treachery would be their downfall. He hand-picked every member of his band of thieves and made sure they were not only loyal but beholden to him. Lisalotte was his prized recruit. He had rescued her from years of pain and misery when he raided the “Laboratories for Human Advancement” in Old Town. Nelson was aware from his days with the J soldiers that these were gruesome places where experiments were conducted to create human/animal hybrids. She was the most unique and successful specimen to date of an Aquasapian. He would smile to think how cross they were to lose her.

Also amongst his men was Tiberius, who had been treated with a combination of myostatin gene manipulation embryotic and stem cell treatment, as well as been dosed with human growth hormone and steroids from the age of three, resulting in an eight-foot powerhouse who was also, unfortunately, in constant agonising pain. Only Nelson could actually go near him. Then there were the others like Randolph, a more human Humanzee, two less successful Aquasapians, a bunch of radiation victims and many more victims of experimentation or just cruel mutilation. All had suffered at the hands of this elitist regime and none were loyal to the so-called Messiah. All would die for Nelson. Unbeknown to them, they would soon become the pivotal part of a real revolution.

Ember and Chamuel at the entrance of the Hispanic sector

Chamuel and Ember emerge from the tunnel exit and into the Hispanic sector via a service area for an underground train station. They follow the light and find it opens out into the densely populated and colourful Nuevo Favelas. As far as Ember can see there is a maze of multi-coloured shacks stacked upon each other, stretching high up a steep hillside. Tiny dirt-track streets zigzag through the wooden and breeze-block houses, connecting the population to bars, bakeries and street grocers. Ember is once again reminded of the divide in society as she witnesses the poverty-stricken children playing barefoot as their parent’s mill around, keeping a watchful eye. Child abduction is the most prevalent crime in this area. Chamuel takes her arm and guides her to a small hut that houses the local tram station. Ember eyes the vertical track of the tram with awe. It travels straight up the hillside, stopping at several plateaus before ending up at the Plaza de Michel that overlooks the whole district. As they rise Chamuel is aware that they have said very little to each other since exiting the Pitts.

“So, what do you think of Reuben’s great design?”

Ember doesn’t respond. She is not sure what she thinks. She has no doubt that this place reeks of deprivation and poverty but is also amazed at the vibrant and colourful atmosphere radiating throughout.

To fill the silence Chamuel decides to act as a tour guide. “Of course, the name favela has become a name for all the non-white areas but this is what the original slums looked like back in late-twentieth-century Brazil. It is typical of Reuben’s sick sense of humour that he had the Hispanic urbanisation built this way for the Latino people. You didn’t get a chance to see much of the Oriental District but that too is designed to remind the people where they come from and where they belong. Reuben is nothing if not a traditionalist. He planned long and hard to have everything reflect the era before the war for the underprivileged. That’s why there is a void in technology on these streets compared to what you are used to. He was clever enough though to make sure they had just enough not to want to lose it and end up down the Pitts. He learned the hard way that those who have nothing to lose can be the most dangerous enemy.”

Although Ember thinks of herself as a free-thinking and liberal Aryan, she is not comfortable with direct attacks on the Host. Still, she is beginning to wonder and must admit to herself that her empathy towards the non-Aryans in the city is growing stronger the more she witnesses their lives. She desperately wants to discuss these changing feelings with someone and her heart sinks as she thinks of the two people who she could have shared them with: both lost to her. She likes this crazy Chamuel but he has not won her confidence yet. Still, he is making an effort, so maybe she should take advantage.