The Anarchists

199 Pages·2012·0.88 MB·English

by  Thompson Brian

THE ANARCHISTS

BRIAN THOMPSON
Copyright © 2012 by Brian Thompson

Great Nation Publishing
3828 Salem Road #56
Covington, GA 30016

www.greatnationpublishing.com
email: [email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise without the prior permission of
the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a
review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination. The names Stan Witmore, Mason Conway,
Justin Rochester, Harper Charlotte Lowe, Samantha Wright, Wynter Dawn,
Yvette Sloan, Crystal Cantrell, Madison Marie Coley, Ramsey Mateo, Ellis
Murtaugh, and Kelly Roshenburger were provided by the “Name a Character”
contest winners and released for use with all legal rights. Any resemblance to
actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To: My Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, whose life continues to inspire and
shape mine.
My “number one” Heather: a special thank you for this story’s framework
and your personal sacrifices and my parents, Bradley Harley, Sr. and Barbara
Thompson for their undying support!
Everyone who provided invaluable input, especially: Reggie Alford, Stacey
Bancroft, Adrienne Boisson, Martha Brown, Nakia Brown, Samedia R. Bryant,
Debra Franks, Michelle Hover, Jeff Ransom, Jackie Rodriguez, Jenna Tress, and
Susan Williamson.
All my former teachers who continue to inspire me: Tim Askew, Cindy
Lutenbacher, Sandi Delp-Naso, Sue Posch, Toni Salaam-Butz, Kathy Walsh, and
Linda Zatlin. I appreciate you more than you know.
Steven Manchester, my friend, and brother-in-Christ. Thank you.
The “Name a Character” contest winners (in alphabetical order): Rosa
Batchan, Nick Carita, Carolyn Davis, Lauren Ellington, Jesse Epps, Kristi
Lambert, LaKesha Mills, Barbara Shelton, April Ragland, Lisa Sinnock, Valerie
Strawmier, and Jean Williamson. Thank you for your unique contributions.
My student virtual assistants: Maryann Key, Alex Oshifodunrin, and Lynae
Bogues. Thanks!
Also, to my “Superfriends” Tyora Moody of Tywebbin Book Tours, Tia
McCollors, Kemya Scott, Maria Joyner, Starr Hall, and Jonathan
Brown/Definitive Visions, LLC. You are appreciated.
To my pastor Bishop Eddie L. Long: thank you for teaching me how to
withstand adversity.
Watch for the sequel to The Revelation Gate, Gates of Kuzimu, coming in
2013.
This work is dedicated to those struggling to make things right in the world.
PROLOGUE
Bound at the feet and hands, Noor straightened his posture. A crooked smile
crept across his mouth as his eyes met those of his judge’s heir. “I dared to
overthrow your righteous kingdom and take his place,” he spat with contempt.
“There, I admit it. End this joke of a trial and suffer me to die.”
EL’s voice filled the chamber. “So be it.”
Noor flinched, as blue winds whipped about his body. The floor vanished
into darkness. He looked away, bracing himself for the worst. Swept into the air,
he dropped down. . . down – faster and farther than any flight he had ever
known. As he plummeted, those who supported the coup joined him – nearly
half of EL’s finest. To his surprise, the number included his five, most trusted
lieutenants and secret co-conspirators.
Together, they rebelled against the command to serve. And together, they
would perish for it.
The convicted crossed realms. From their origin in the third, to the second
among the heavenly bodies, and into the last – that of the mortals. The skies
cracked with thunder and lightning. Stars tethered themselves to each of the
beings, giving the brilliant appearance of a billion falling flames, and the
pungency of brimstone filled the air. The collisions flattened the mountains,
raising valleys into new, higher precipices. Geysers of hot water spurted up
through the fissures in the ground and formed boiling pools around the
incinerated plant life.
Noor rolled over to his knees. Indeed, his essence had changed into that of a
mortal female about the age of 20. He was alone, and retained several of his
unnatural abilities.
But this body’s sensations startled him. Small bumps appeared on its skin,
but the flickering yellow bursts nearby abated them. He approached one of them
until the fire overwhelmed him and he jumped backwards onto a jagged stone.
He winced, for the rock pierced the heel of his right foot and drew blood.
Marvel and fascination over the pain excited him. EL forbade His servants to see
blood, for it represented suffering to the mortals. It also possessed an ancient
secret that only humans could choose to understand. Pursuit of that mystery for
himself led to his capture and subsequent dismissal.
Why had EL exiled him and changed his gender? What purpose did that
serve?
After the fire dissipated, a pile of neatly-folded clothes appeared in its place.
Scorning the mercy, he dressed anyway. A few attempts passed before he
appropriately wore them. Surveying the area, Noor recognized the city on the
horizon – he had visited this particular peninsula several times before – and
admired it for its lack of social restriction. Thus, he’d adopt its moniker as his
forename and keep Noor as a surname.
In the remote distance, the smoldering horizon beckoned to be explored.
Noor remembered the divine decrees, which indicated the lifespan a mortal
would not exceed 120 years. He could not locate his trusted soldiers in that time,
not if EL had changed their appearance, as He had to Noor. No, he must recruit
five humans and find them in a century’s time.
“If I cannot rule in EL’s realm,” he resolved, “then I will conquer this one.”
CHAPTER ONE
MICAH AND HARPER

New Year’s Eve morning, 2049

Prior to committing what some considered murder, Micah Darrion James held a
high resolution photo of his family. Meanwhile, Harper Lowe, his always
punctual girlfriend, changed from a fire engine red, v-neck sweater shirt and
grey dress slacks into a knitted top and jeans.
Harper was a slender and leggy Caucasian, with shoulder-length blonde hair
she ponytailed and obsessively dyed black to mask the premature gray. For the
picture, she let it down at Micah’s urging. Christian, then six months old, had
been propped up between his father’s thick legs, a smile squeezing from his fat
cheeks. Two-year-old Gabrielle, his ebony-skinned daughter from a previous
relationship, held a plush toy. Still tanned from the vacation, Micah laughed. His
natural curls were cut low. It was his 38th birthday, about a year-and-a-half ago.
Last night, he happened to coerce his mother into entertaining her
grandchildren for a few hours on New Year’s Eve morning. He and Harper
needed “couple time.” Otherwise, the former scientist would question her son
into the ground about their doings, asking “where are you going?” and “why
can't the family go with you?” A two-time divorcée, Laverne James heavily
scrutinized the relationships of both her sons – especially this interracial one.
She informed him that Harper’s enlarged breasts signaled pregnancy. He
explained it as the effects of a push-up bra and hoped she left it at that.
Micah and Harper did not speak en route to the facility. It was their least
expensive option, shoddy in more than a few ways, and situated in a dangerous
location. Words had been previously exchanged on the subject, but nothing
constructive. Harper was “irresponsible” and “forgetful.” Micah, who had gotten
downsized months ago, was “jobless” to his face and “basically worthless”
behind his back. Because of their collective gross inadequacies, they agreed to
end it. A third-party’s involvement meant neither had to dirty their hands in the
deed. The decision itself would remain a joint one.
Their transport rattled, halting at a traffic intersection where it moved no
more. Micah cursed and authorized the ignition again, but the engine failed.
Jupiter, an American auto giant, specialized in practical vehicles, but this one
passed its prime 50,000 miles ago.
Harper started the vehicle’s warning lights and expectantly looked at her
boyfriend of three years. We should have traded it in years ago, like I told him
we should do.
“I’ve got it.” He cursed again before entering the pouring rain without
Harper’s umbrella, protected by his stained, black leather coat. Beneath the
hood, his patchwork had not held: a critical hose hissed steam from a tiny split.
Wrapping the crack to the best of his ability, he reconnected the hose. This time,
the hydroelectric engine sparked alive.
“Piece of junk,” she snidely remarked. “We’re going to be so late.”
Completely drenched, Micah cranked the heat to high and cut his eyes at her.
“At least we own it. We’ll get there in time.”
“These people don’t wait. It's not a drive-through window, Micah. You can’t
just get there when you get there and expect a D&C like a Happy Meal.”
I'm not the one who changed outfits. “It’s New Year’s Eve. We’ll be waiting
anyway.”
Micah tuned the satellite radio to something he could listen to and drown her
out. When the station played a classical song he liked, Harper shut it off.
“Do you have to be like that, Harp?”
She crossed her arms. “I love the sound of falling rain, and I can't hear it over
that.”
He knew that but did not care. Silence forced him to dwell on his lingering
drowsiness. Micah lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
“Really?” Harper shook her tousled hair, which showed hints of gray and
blonde at the roots. “Of all the things you can think of to do. . .”
Micah exhaled smoke. “You shut off the satellite, I'm soaked, and you want
to piss and moan about a cigarette? Listen to your rain and leave me alone.”
Harper’s hands cupped the bottom of her growing belly. Micah noticed it.
“It’s not a ‘him’ or a ‘her’ yet,” he said, his voice trailing off. “It doesn’t matter.
. .not now.”
“It’s a boy,” she ventured. “I know it, and it matters to me. You would too if.
. .”
“C’mon.”
She turned in her seat. “Your great-grandfather. . .”
“It didn't happen. And you can’t have faith just because someone in your
family did. That’s part of why church is so fake now. . .”
Here we go. “There were articles, pictures, eyewitnesses. . . what about all
the people he healed?”
“. . .and you’ve got people pretending to love God, or even know him, or her,
or it. People get leadership roles because they know how to work crowds. They
put together shows with God slapped on them somewhere. I don’t understand
how you can believe in that. It’s a con. I won't even get into the money thing.”
“My faith lets me sleep at night,” she shot back, “and I know that even after
we do what we’re about to do, God will still love us. Faith isn't a scientific thing,
Mike.”
The allusion to his insomnia irritated him. “God will forgive you, if you
know it’s wrong and you do it anyway? That’s weak.”
“That's love and mercy.”
They said no more on the subject until Micah stopped at the clinic. Despite
the rain, a line of silent but hostile-looking protesters blocked the entrance. A
pang of fear hit his stomach. “These wackos make me nervous. Wait for me at
the curb. I’ll walk you in.”
“Why, so we can be even later?” Harper opened the door, umbrella in hand.
“Just park. I don’t care where those people post up our pictures. We had a nine o'
clock and it’s 9:11. After 20 minutes, they cancel you, and I’m not going into the
New Year without ending this.”
“Ending what exactly. . .us, or the pregnancy?” He suspected the answer.
“Just wait.”
She departed without responding. Micah watched the canary yellow oval
approach the gathering dressed in all black. If he abandoned the Jupiter in the
unloading area and it got towed, that would be another financial burden. And
then they would not have a way home.
Harper tried to circle the line, but a gaunt woman with a face painted like a
skull blocked into her path. “Consider your options carefully,” she warned.
The irony of options humored Harper. “Snap a picture and get out of my
way.”
“Give it up for adoption. Let a relative raise her. Take responsibility and
raise her yourself. This isn’t just about you and how you live your life.”
Harper cursed Skull Face. “Then, who's it about: my unemployed boyfriend?
The bills we can’t pay? What do you even know about anything?”