The Anarchists

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
Reject High,
the first book in a Young Adult series, 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.