Eden Read online

  EDEN

  NATHAN EVANS

  Copyright © 2015 Nathan Evans

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1511531894

  ISBN-13: 978-1511531894

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to the lost ones.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  She stood in the garden, beneath a clear blue sky that stretched on for eternity. The tangle of tall grass brushed lightly against her naked legs. The comforting breeze kissed her soft, perfect skin. Her silk, black locks danced upon lazy currents.

  He walked beside her.

  His feet gripping the earth with each step, he dug his toes into the ground, enjoying the cool comfort the soil provided. Breathing deeply, he savored the smell of fresh, clean air. Arms outstretched, he opened and closed the fingers on each hand, forming a fist, feeling the muscles and cords work up his arm and across his broad, healthy chest. He placed his palm up before the horizon, content to find it blank—unblemished, just like the path ahead.

  He turned to her, and was free from worry. She smiled, an expression of love meant only for him. Contentment flowed through him and he took her up in his embrace.

  Her lips opened the door to sensation.

  He pulled from her, looking into her green eyes he felt like crying. She reached out, caressing his face, calming him. He gave himself unto her touch. They were safe. They were together…

  The world decided to end.

  There was a loud, metallic chunk; a plug pulled from its socket. The sky shuddered, its very fabric rippling like a tarp.

  Fear found her visage. She grasped him, her panicked grip biting into his shoulders. He held her tight and close, committing every nuance of her to memory. Loving her with the time he had left.

  Her fingers tightened. Her grip turned to mist.

  “I need you.”

  “I need you too.”

  The words reverberated through his mind as he was bathed in her memory. She was gone.

  A moment later, so was he

  …

  “Ak-ee-yoh!”

  The beams of light that penetrated Akio Yowamushi’s pupils died. Gears whirred to life as the visor pinching the bridge of his nose slid back into the helmet. His underarms ached from the pressure of the steel poles that held him upright against the great machine. He grunted as they ground their way home, dropping him a foot to the floor below.

  His forearms connected hard against steel. His stomach lurched. The half-digested remains of his lunch resurfaced.

  “Whoa, pal, that is nasty!” Boots clanked as the voice drew near. “That must’ve been one hell of trip, Aki.”

  Mewling, Akio attempted to gain his wits. The process was difficult. He found himself distracted by his own sickly drab skin; a hard contrast from the powerful bands of flesh he’d so recently enjoyed.

  The thick arm working its way against his armpit didn’t help matters.

  The man known as Plug set him to his feet. Plug was a good foot taller than Akio. His shoulders broad, culminating in two massive, hairy slabs of meat that served for arms. His bulk was shoved into a tight muscle shirt, covered by streams of sweat that dripped from his thick and monstrous face. Two beady, slate eyes, obscured beneath a sloped brow, stared at Akio in consternation; worry for his investment.

  “You all right, pal?”

  Akio felt as if his eyes were going to burn out of their sockets. He blinked hard in a futile attempt to soothe them. His arms cradled his body and his wrists were limp; he leaned into Plug for support.

  “Put… put me back in.” He said, his voice soft—weak.

  Plug reached for Akio’s arm, extending his hand; exposing the red, burned contours of the stress lines on his palm. Plug’s right hand was gloved by black fabric that extended all the way up to the elbow and culminated in tiny glass pads at the end of each fingertip. He held his palm over Akio’s and made, then released, a fist. The pads glowed, forming a hard bar of light that hovered centimeters from the surface of the glove. The light from the glove passed over Akio’s hand, illuminating the snaking maze, decoding the information; his own personal barcode.

  The bar of light shifted from its benign, yellow glow, to an angry, flashing red. Akio scowled as it made a revolution to Plug’s forearm. Projected in the air between them was Akio’s name, a corresponding number, and, in harsh red letters, the word: overdrawn.

  Plug cocked an acerbic eyebrow at Akio before letting his arm drop, “Sorry, Aki—no funds.” He turned away, walking down the valley of the cramped space formed by two rows of helmeted men; their feet suspended above the floor; their torsos lashed against the pod-like recesses of the computer that made up the room’s walls. “Besides,” he said, as he made his way to a steel console at the head of the room, “I credited you that hour as a sign of good faith. That pittance you brought in barely covered what you already owed.”

  Akio stood, rooted to the spot, turning his attention to the men that were still jacked into the Haven system. With envious eyes, he observed them; each one of their mouths twisted into a stupid, serene smile. The man closest to his pod cradled himself, his arms wrapped around his torso as a mother would an infant. Childlike coos issued from his mouth.

  “Aki, you gotta go, pal. Gotta keep this thing movin’.” Plug gestured to a man at the entrance that he hadn’t noticed until now. He was thin and sickly. Dark, oversized sunglasses covered his gaunt face. Though the lenses were wide, they failed to hide the damage around the corners of his eyes. They were cracked and scabbing over.

  He’d been bleeding.

  The thin man flipped Akio off.

  Akio looked to the floor and shuffled to the front of the room; doing his best to ignore the sounds of the others’ pleasure. The thin man rushed past him without a glance, eager to jack in.

  Akio reached for his leather jacket on the coat hook beside Plug. He watched the thin man rush to the pod he’d previously occupied. The man thrust his arms out wide, an eager giddiness marking his face. Plug pressed his ungloved hand against a glass panel on the console. It glowed at his touch.

  The metal arms of the machine ejected from their recesses, forming a harness around the thin man’s torso. Like a child, he squealed with delight as he was lifted into the waiting helmet. The visor slotted into place over his eyes, then glowed with brilliant color.

  Akio scowled; a sharp contrast to the thin man’s stupid smile.

  “Aki.” Plug said.

  “Yeah?”

  Plug’s jovial face lost its luster, “Don’t come back until you’ve got some creds.”

  He glared at Plug. Plug glared back. Akio shrank into himself. His spine curved. Sighing, he put on his jacket, and reached for the door knob.

  He stepped out of the room and into the alley. The abused, grey door closed behind him. The hum and heat of the computers in the Haven Den gave way to the cold night air and the smell of diesel. It was raining.

  It was always raining.

  Akio hung his head, letting his long, unruly mop of greasy black hair absorb the rainfall. He zipped up his jacket and began to walk home. It wasn’t far. When you lived in the city, nothing ever was.

  At the end of the alleyway, he stepped into the spare bustle of peopl
e on the street. Most of their faces were obscured by hats, bags—anything that could protect them from the constant downpour. Their eyes were glued to the concrete, as if they’d once dared to look up and been traumatized by what they’d seen.

  Akio turned to the heavens.

  Even against the pitch of night, a thick, grey fog permeated the air, obscuring the tops of the ruined skyscrapers that formed the canyons of the city. The path he walked amongst was one of the rare places that opened into a wide expanse. The few towers that still remained glittered like wan columns of flame amongst rubble.

  He took in the immensity of the structures; a tribute to his city, a tribute to a past long forgotten. He stared at them, at the broken promises they offered. He stared until it became too painful to. His gaze found the rubble, then turned to the ground with all of the others.

  He walked, and kept walking until the crowds began to thin and streetlamps grew sparse. The already abused landscape became increasingly frayed; the impressive towers of the expanse leveling out into stout residences.

  Here the devastation was no less palpable. Buildings were charred; black streaks of ash scarring their faces. Entire roofs had caved in; the very steel of their structures quietly moaning beneath the strain. The apartments that still had access to power contrasted with the dim, flickering light of the trash fires families used to keep warm. From some far off place, a child was crying. Its wails ghostly, mixing with the rain and smog choked sky; as if the city itself was bemoaning its fate.

  Akio reached his brownstone. The building had fared no better than the others, but it was home. He took the front steps three at a time, coming before a large door he’d imagined had once been red, though now it was impossible to tell. The tough, thick wood was chipped, deep gashes running across its face. Its center had been bored out, replaced with a steel rectangle set in a frame.

  With the butt of his fist, he rapped on the door. He could hear something shift on the other side. It wasn’t long before the panel slid aside, revealing two beady black pupils set amongst a sea of yellow.

  “Oh, it’s you.” The voice was deep and humorless. The bloodshot eyes took a moment to rove up and down Akio’s frame. “Hold on.”

  Akio shifted in his jacket as he waited; the man behind the door taking his time sliding the bolt locks free from their housings. After several heavy clacks, the door cracked.

  The man was tall, but hunched. A thick mustache buried his upper lip and sidetracked attention from his bald head. On his face was a perpetual scowl; the look of a man that did not suffer fools. It complemented his muscular bulk that, in his winter years, was slowly beginning to devolve into pure mass.

  “Come in.”

  Akio stepped past the man and into the stained, dimly lit lobby of his building. As quickly as he could, he moved to the staircase.

  “You’re late.”

  Akio stopped where he was, his grip tightening on the railing. He turned to face the man, “I didn’t realize there was a curfew, Irving.”

  Somehow the scowl deepened. “On rent, asshole.”

  “Right, uh, look—it’s payday tomorrow. I can get you a thousand. Fair?”

  “You owe three.”

  “And you’ll get it. I’ve been strapped lately.”

  Irving cocked an eyebrow, “And why’s that?”

  Akio’s thumb worked itself against the bannister. “You know,” he said, “things come up.”

  “Uh-huh,” Irving rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek, his lips scrunching. He stared.

  Akio turned. “Well,” he said, “have a good night.”

  He made it up a couple of steps before Irving spoke again. “Hey, Akio?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You all right? Yo’ eyes are looking puffy.”

  Akio’s stomach clenched. His legs firmed to the spot. “Ye-yeah,” he said, “it’s been a long day.”

  Irving smacked his lips, his eyes locked with Akio’s, “Uh-huh.” He turned his back on Akio and busied himself with the locks.

  Akio’s gut unclenched. He returned to the steps; his legs shaking.

  The journey wasn’t a long one, but he was frail and weak. He was hacking by the time he reached his landing.

  As he shuffled to his apartment at the end of the dark hall, a flicker of light caught his attention. The door to his immediate left was flung wide open, revealing a cramped living room and a lone occupant; his neighbor, a man he’d never spoken to, sat ramrod straight on a stained, tattered sofa, staring straight ahead.

  The front of him was bathed in the dull pink glow of a holoscreen projected on his wall, casting the rest of him in deep shadow. Two plastic pods cupped both of his ears. A pair of thick, coke bottle glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose; the surface of the lenses reflecting the hard light he stared at. The flashes of red and blue indicated the news.

  Akio leaned against the doorframe. On the holoscreen was footage of the Authority dragging a string of thin men and women, eyes cracked and bloodshot, from a dilapidated tenement. Though the audio from the screen was being fed directly to the pods, he didn’t need it to discern what was happening; the frail appearance of the perpetrators did the job just fine.

  They’d raided yet another Haven Den.

  He shivered as he watched the officers stand outside of the building, clad head-to-toe in white armor. Their helmets obscured their faces completely. A hard plastic ridge formed a brow that jutted out from the curve of their heads. A glowing red strip ran beneath; the effect ominous.

  The thought of a squad of blank, glowing red faces, rifles leveled, coming for him while he was nestled deep in the recesses of his own fantasy flitted through his mind.

  He found it difficult to stare at the screen any longer.

  He made no attempt to quiet his steps as he moved away from the doorframe. It didn’t matter…

  His neighbor was a slave to the machine.

  As Akio shoved his key into his apartment door, he couldn’t help but feel like he was too.

  CHAPTER 2

  Cellophane packages of rotten meat, withered veggies, and stale bread thudded against the truck bed. The truck was ancient, resting on bald, too small tires. It resembled some odd, disproportionate beetle. Splashed across the side was a logo of vibrant color; a contradiction to the chipped, puke green paint job of the rest of the vehicle. It read: Buffone’s Deli, Fine Dining, and Delivery!

  Akio stood at the edge of a loading dock, shielded from the rain by its extended canopy. He was tipping a hand cart, doing his best to shake the last couple stubborn sandwiches loose from the metal surface; the simple task a desperate struggle because of the pounding headache he’d been experiencing all morning.

  Letting the cart drop, he rubbed his eyes. They burned—they always burned after a session at the Den. The pain was deep, a burning sensation that seemed to bore straight through the pupil. It caused the surface of his eyes to itch, and sent a warbling pulse that jackhammered his skull.

  He grew agitated as he rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his thumbs. Frustration building to the point that he had to resist the urge to jam them all the way through the thin shutter of skin. A familiar bark tempered the feeling.

  “Akio, what are you doing? Hurry it up!”

  “Huh?” Akio turned to find his boss staring at him; an incredulous glare, his hands on his hips; the stance intimidating; the effect undermined by his bulbous, grease stained stomach, bald pate and drenched arm pits. Akio was slow to respond. “Sorry, Mr. Buffone, I’ll get a move on.”

  “You better. You show up twenty minutes late and want to stand around while we have orders?!” Buffone thrust an accusing finger. “Get there on time. I don’t want another call from Han complaining. If I do, I’m docking pay for the week.”

  His mouth slack, Akio nodded a quick assent. The gesture was enough for Buffone, who, shaking his head, made his exit through the double swinging doors that led to the deli.

  “Asshole.” Akio muttered. He
turned to move for the truck when he noticed something slick against his fingers. Eyes still bleary, he looked at his hand. The tip of his thumb was slick; the clear, gel-like residue shot through with traces of pink.

  Closing his eyes, he inhaled sharply, then exhaled slow. When he opened them, it was to rust stained raindrops washing a street that would never be clean.

  Sighing, he reached up for the leather strap that hung from the bay door. He dropped five feet to the pavement below and latched it shut. The truck’s trunk followed.

  Soon he was behind the wheel, tires whining as he turned onto rain slicked streets.

  …

  Tattered windshield wipers worked furiously against glass, doing a better job of spreading grime than clearing the moisture pounding down on the truck. Akio watched a splintered bit of sponge, freed from the rubber of the wiper, as it was beaten mercilessly against the windshield. He paid the road no mind. It didn’t matter; the avenue, spread four car widths wide, was devoid of traffic. As long as he swerved to avoid the occasional pedestrian, he’d be just fine. It was the kind of ride where his mind could turn to the negative space that rested below conscious thought.

  He snapped free from his daze as he wheeled the truck before a skyscraper that was more mirror than building. The gear shift protested, but he managed to slam the lever home. With a turn of the key, the rumble of the engine ceased, and for a moment he was still. He rested his forearms against the steering column, craning his neck below the windshield, staring up.

  The tower rose, defiant against the perpetual downpour, rain sluicing off its surface. There was no telling how tall it was, the roof was obscured by the thick fog that shrouded every inch of the city. He always found himself stricken by the immensity of the structures on this end of town. They gleamed in a way the others didn’t. It helped that this area had avoided the countless calamities that had worn the rest of the metropolis down like an eraser. Everything here was new, held together by currency that somehow never seemed to circulate through the city’s outer rim. Projected on the high-rise’s face was a twenty story tall testament to that currency.