Saturday, January 6, 2018

Neon Gods Chapter 1

Hello everybody, as I run through the editing process and prepare NeonGods for my betas, I've had a few DM's concerning the scene that gets the action running in the novel. More than one of these messages has been cautionary, a few have told me it's hopelessly blasphemous. This story couldn't and honestly shouldn't begin in any other manner. Still, I want to get an idea of what you all think, So I'm posting an edited Chapter 1 of the novel. It needs another run through but the sentiment of the inciting incident is evident. Feel free to message me or find me on social networking sites if you want to discuss. As it is, enjoy! -P-

 Based on true events


Act I
The Moon

The edge of the cliff face jutted out like broken teeth. A long, steep climb, Detective Hank Dolan panted heavily and waved away mosquitoes. Hearing cars on the turnpike, he cursed the morning sun silently wishing he was still in bed. He had received a tip that a body was discovered matching the description of a woman gone missing three months prior. He despised these assignments. They rarely turned out well. Hank closed his eyes and tried to feel the breeze that served as small comfort to the summer heat that would soon be beating down onto them. “It’s supposed to be in this general area.” Gregg said.
A relic from Hank’s better days, Gregg Summers could always be counted on to be there when needed. Round and cheeky, Gregg was the perfect opposite to Hank’s gangly and finch like stature.
Hank stepped into some thorny underbrush and grabbed a tree for support. Contrary to popular belief, not all of New Los Angeles is sprawling buildings, rail lines, and taxi-cabs. Just outside the city is picturesque landscapes and vineyards. As organic as its people, the city is layered with modernism built on the detritus of the past. From above, its symmetry reminds one of an upside down chandelier. Countless lamps and mirrored windows bounce light in all directions. The city sparkles and shines, its luster polished in the night sky.
It’s not all ugly just most of it. Hank thought dryly.
He was positioning himself on a plateau overlooking the expanse when Gregg called out.
“Dammit! Over here!”
Hank rolled down his sleeves and put on some latex gloves as he maneuvered to where Gregg was staring at his feet and glowering.
Just then the smell hit him. Putrid and wan, Hank felt bile rise in his throat. He shuffled over and together they gazed down at the body. There were lacerations on her back from being cut repeatedly. Her knotted brown hair covered in dirt and wet leaves reminded Hank of Ophelia.
“Do you think it’s her?” Gregg asked.
Hank grimaced and held his breath. “Possibly.”
He knelt down and rolled her to her side Her ghostly, barren eyes had been olive. High cheekbones and pouty lips completed a wiry pretty picture. He gingerly lifted her left arm and sighed. There it was. The identifying tattoo that would make her his mark.
“It’s her.” He mumbled.
Gregg walked to the opposite side and leaned down. “Look at her neck.” He said. Dark purple bruising about an inch thick covered her throat. Splotches of blood and serrated skin indicated rope as the probable cause of death.
Gregg turned to stand then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “What’s in her hand?” Her broken, naked body had been turned in a way that Hank had initially missed the scourge.
“What the hell?” Gregg picked it up and scowled. “She did this to herself?” The rope had been braided into three prongs with wax balls at the ends. Each ball was covered in pieces of glass. Largely a Christian practice, Hank knew that flagellation was used as an extreme way for the devout to feel god’s love.
 Hank nodded. “The wounds on her back and legs, maybe.” Lifting her hand, Hank couldn’t help but notice her knuckles were bone white. “She’s still clutching it.” As he laid her hand back down, he noticed a piece of rope not attached to the scourge.
Hidden underneath her body and surrounded in brush, this rope was thicker and probably used to tow cars. “Wait a minute.” He cradled the back of the woman’s head and lifted it just enough to run his hand in the brush under her. They pulled four feet of frayed rope from under her body.
“Could be a cult. The city is nuts right now with all this talk of gods and goddesses.” Gregg remarked.
Hank had to admit that he brought up a good point. The flagellation alone spoke of Christian obsession. Perhaps she was a religious extremist who fell in with the wrong cult. Hank looked up to see Gregg staring at him. “What is it?”
Gregg cleared his throat. “You don’t think...maybe she was one of them?” Hank looked down at her face. They say the gods and goddesses are all beautiful. As if the fall from grace didn’t mar their physical countenance. And she was beautiful. Stunningly so. “It’s possible.”
Gregg circled back and bent down to examine the tattoo on her ribcage. “So she’s part of a cult and she’s doing this-” He points to her scourge marks. “-and her people, what, sacrifice her or something?”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s more likely a suicide. Plus, if there had been some ritual, the brush around here would be all flattened.”
He held up the noose then glanced at the broken tree branch resting next to it. “I think she came here to die.” Hank thought back to what his partner had said about the possibility the girl was Descended.
Gregg searching his face nodded. “They’re human now right? They do die.”
Hank’s eyes lingered on her face. He noticed the sharp contours and wondered if she too should be included in the case file of the serial that had been terrorizing New Los Angeles for the past year.
That would make twenty four now. Twenty four bodies.
“I don’t know that they’ll ever be human. But they’re here nevertheless.”

The billboard, a sprawling mosaic of reds and blues was plastered on the Basement wall just above where Sadie Fuller stood. Lilac and lemon.
That’s what Sadie thought about as she waited for the Basement doors to open. This personal mantra had been hers for as long as she could remember. Both an affirmation and source of strength, she’d repeat the phrase whenever she needed it. It was a part of her, like her phobias, like her dancing. It made her think of sun tea, of purple light and flaxen yellow. Lilac and lemon. She looked up at it. A glossy picture of the headliner. Three accent lights cascaded a dull glow on the face of Jesus Christ and his band mates. The Messiah’s dark sunglasses and grizzled face leered out in the typical rock and roll pose. Around the corner and still thirty minutes before doors open, ushers herded ticket holders in line.
Sadie called herself a fan, which she knew was not wholly true because she had never really heard Jesus Christ Superstar’s music. But the man was a Descendant, a god that fell to earth, along with all the other gods, less than two years ago. Jesus had become a bona fide rock star. Such facts were hard to believe, if belief was even a thing anymore. For Sadie it was hard to tell. Much of the human experiences of myth and religion had become strange or irrelevant after the Descendance. This was a depressing admission but faith had never been something she’d had a strong connection to. And now there was no need for it at all.
Still, she was here waiting in line for the concert. There was clearly some attraction she held with the former god. She assumed it was curious fascination and accepted it as much.
Sadie made sure her gloves were covering all areas of bare skin on her hands. She checked for any holes or tears in the cotton, stretching each finger until she was sure there was no risk of contamination. She seldom had any problems when she went out in public but then again she didn’t attend many rock concerts either. Sadie fingered the backstage pass that hanged around her neck. It would likely be a total madhouse after the show. Who knew how many of these passes had been sold? Patrick wasn’t saying. Her date for the evening, the aspiring businessman had made all the arrangements and refused any elaboration on how much it had cost. Sadie glanced at him then back at her shoes. He wasn’t unattractive. Deep set brown eyes and tall. A tattoo on his left shoulder blade. She supposed they looked good together. The kind of couple you’d see on a sitcom or daytime television show. They had met a short time ago at her job. She had taken his drink orders, an ordinary task she did a hundred times a night only this night she had been lonely and got taken in by his attention. She had agreed to tonight’s date before even knowing his name. Her intuition told her that nothing would come of it. She certainly wouldn’t be going home with him. (He seemed desperate to be coddled and that shit got old fast.) But she was here and rumors were the Messiah put on a helluva good show.
Anticipation grew in Sadie as they moved past a merchant kiosk strategically set up on the way to the Basement front entrance. She put her hands on a t-shirt and key chain, getting a feel of them through her gloves.
“Which one do you like best?” Patrick asked. His voice was a cheery tenor.
“Oh, you don’t have to. I was just looking.” Sadie said.
“I want to.” Patrick replied quickly. “What size do you wear?”
He picked out a black shirt, paid the attendant, then handed it over. Sadie held up a smiling visage of a large black woman pointing to a cross in the sky and saying in bold lettering: ‘Y’all motherfuckers need Jesus!’ Sadie giggled and fit the shirt on over her tank top. She was relieved to be covered a bit. She tied a knot at the bottom showing some midriff but made sure to turn away whenever Patrick’s hands got too close to her bare skin. She looked ahead in line and noticed that ushers had opened the doors. Finally. She thought. She had been doing great working though her phobias but that didn’t mean she was without moments of panic. Patrick had also gotten quiet and she wondered if he was getting bored as well.
As they got inside the vibe changed completely. The drab waiting was replaced with a sulfuric quality combined with the heat of vibrating bodies. The Basement wasn’t a large venue. Designed for an intimate show, the lobby was adorned with band posters and stickers. High bricked walls and three large green lamps overhead spilled a misty fog of neon light in the room. It reminded Sadie of an arcade. The crowd would be jam packed, she knew, hoping that she didn’t get in there and start to freak out. Sadie admitted that she was starting to wish she had stayed home. Am I already contaminated? She fingered her back stage pass. Getting these would be worth the waves of nausea that she could feel churning in her stomach. Directly ahead, she could see people entering the nightclub, inside the clangs of instruments being tuned drifted out into the lobby. Sadie moved that way and peered in, eyes squinting as she passed into the darkened room.
Sadie stepped away from the low gate separating her from the band and turned directly into a kiss from Patrick. His hand on her behind, he smiled down at her. Just feet from a cabinet of speakers, her ears rang. She fixed her attention back to the stage, marveling on the Descendant. He was sinewy, tan and wore only a ragged pair of shorts. His long hair covering his face as he played, he seemed in trance or perhaps praying. Sadie probed ahead and could feel stage lighting warm the base of her skull. The band had kicked into a slow, melodic tune. Rising scales built in intensity until reaching a tone of exaltation then were improvised in peculiar phrases. Sadie saw the adoring reverence in Patrick’s eyes. The crowd’s reaction was similar. It was like being at a religious revival. Hundreds of arms reached out to the stage, trying to pull the Savior towards them. Audience members stamped their feet and shook their heads. It was the Lord’s prayer. It was a sermon on stage. The front rows felt like being underwater. Sadie’s ears popped and she swallowed to relieve the pressure. She straightened and put her hands out to the stage. Christ lifted his head for a moment, bringing his eyes level to Sadie’s. A crooked smile came to his face. Sadie blushed. She thought of the many people that traveled with the band, attending every show they performed. She could understand the attraction. No other concert was quite like this. And she knew it wasn’t just the music. They wanted much more than music.   Hope fell like falling snow and made everybody who bore witness something more. The power of Jesus Christ was unknowable even as it came into your soul like milk and honey. We want you to save us but we don’t want you do die for us. Not again.
This is what the concert was designed for. It was a religious ritual meant to increase our comprehension of faith itself. And Sadie did feel redeemed. A new peace flowed through her. She closed her eyes, her body vibrated with a deep bass that rumbled through the venue. She took a deep breath and it was as if the noise of the crowd had disappeared. She was alone with the music and it was glorious. 
The halls backstage are dusty. Sadie Fuller thought as she meandered through the corridors of the Basement. Under blinking fluorescents and throngs of drunken groupies and roadies, the otherwordly quality of the music had penetrated into the chipped plaster and peeled wallpaper of the venue interior. 
Her long raven hair matted down in places, Sadie could feel sweat beaded on her forehead and neck. Her evergreen eyes darted up and around not settling on one particular thing for too long. At her side, Patrick walked a little too close, his arm brushing up against her as they wove their way backstage.
Spread out before her was every facet of the rock and roll experience. Half-naked women mingled here and there while booze addled fans and friends waited for the messiah to emerge from his dressing room. 
The area was a large open space littered with a bar and fold out chairs. To Sadie, the word ‘red room’ came to mind because blood red accent lights hanged haphazardly to the walls. She smelled stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer and resisted the onset of a headache. She tucked her hands under her armpits and cringed as people were shoved into her. There are too many in here. Fans swarmed the dressing room door. Their patience growing thin as it got hotter backstage.
Approaching a lanky, clearly inebriated Sid Vicious lookalike, Sadie turned away as he grabbed her bare arm just under the t-shirt sleeve and pulled her towards him.
“You wanna candy flip babe? I got some pure liquid if you party.”
“Get off me.”
She pulled out of his grasp and looked down to see dirt marks on her arm and  her cotton glove torn at the left thumb exposing a tiny bit of creamy skin. She gagged and felt her forehead get hot.
“Is there a bathroom around here?”
“We can go there if you want.” The man replied. Sadie turned to go and bumped into somebody that had basically been on top of her. “Fuck!” She turned back and he was within kissing distance. Sadie recoiled, pushing his head away. Then she noticed that what she took as dirt on the man’s forehead was actually a round tattoo. She pulled her hand away as he grabbed the sides of his face. The man doubled over and cursed, staring up at her through hate filled eyes. “Bitch! The gods are impotent, who are you really here to see?”
“Bad batch?” She replied and ducked under a taller man’s arm toward the restroom.
She took out an old 35mm film canister. She felt its cool smoothness and popped the lid. Inside was a small mound of cut white powder. It looked soft as snow. She went to the bath stall and didn’t bother sitting. She stripped off the glove and dipped a blood red fingernail into the canister. A hard pull, delicious warmth on her face. Her breathing sped up, a gorgeous lucidity seeped through her pores. She dipped the finger in again, sniff, delicious warmth. She replaced the lid on the canister and dropped it into her bag.
The glove had a tear in it. Sadie thought as she furiously scrubbed her hands at the sink. The glove had a tear in it. It was probably torn all day. The entire time I was out. I’ve picked up something. I’m sick. It was torn all day. She frantically scrubbed until her thumb was grazed and raw. Her own words echoed through her skull like a curse. It echoed and echoed. An admonishment of her carelessness. Somewhere in her mind, she knew she was in the grip of an episode but couldn’t change the channel. Sadie clasped her hands in front of her and gritted her teeth. The voice never stopped. Had it happened during the show? Before? How could she have not known? She tried to calm her breathing, going through every exercise her doctor had recommended but the dizziness made her feel out of body. She thought she might vomit.
Sadie dug into her pocket, clutched a bottle of paroxetine and pried open up the cap. She tasted chalk in the back of her throat, popped a handful chewing them like candy.     
The glove had a tear in it. The glove had a tear in it. Sadie ripped herself away from the sink. How long was I standing there? Twenty minutes? Half hour? The glove had a tear in it. She went rigid and slowly turned the water off. There. Sadie counted to five then exited the restroom but knew she’d need to wash again soon.
Just then the dressing room door opened. As Sadie turned, a panting and soaked through Jesus Christ emerged carrying his acoustic guitar and followed by the band in tow. The decimal level backstage shot to deafening. The reddish hues backstage looked strange on the Messiah. With his hair covering his face, the darkened room made shadowed sockets where his eyes should be. Sadie shook her head.  In a fraction of a second, Sadie saw Jesus fall back, a reddening polka dot on his chest began to grow. Sadie blinked, unable to process what she was seeing. Suddenly, a panicked shout rang out in front of her. Then another and another. The crowd in front swelled and ebbed and flowed. It suffocated her, swallowed her in hot breathing and shrieks. She felt herself pulled in all directions. A hard shove sent her to her knees.
Anguished onlookers covered their mouths in disbelief. Out of the corner of her eye, Sadie caught a glimpse of shadows, dark silhouettes on the walls and floor. On a raised platform, she stood motionless. Her hands trembling. Finally, somebody yanked her arm, tearing the glove from her left wrist all the way off. She gasped and began to scream soundlessly. An inaudible wail. She tumbled forward and felt a sharp blow on her head then right leg. Her body burned but her thoughts were on the exposed hand that was now dirty, contaminated. She could feel the parasites worming into her skin, boring through muscle and into her blood. She fell. Her face slapped against beer soaked concrete. Then she was up and kicked again as somebody tumbled over her. Sadie scrambled to her feet and made her way down the long winding corridors of the club. She stepped on her own shoelace and veered hard into a wall. Groaning, she turned left and nearly ran over a young man holding his head and moaning. She made another left and was calculating her chances of actually getting out of the club in one piece when she saw a crowd of people at the exit climbing on top of one another like ants.
She could see outside light just feet in front of her but was unable to move in the jam of bodies. So close. I’m almost out.
By the time she reached the exit, Sadie was shaking violently. Her phobias jolted into something inhuman, she gasped in short choppy wheezes. She began to lash out at everything around her. A roaring in her ears told her she was close to passing out. She could feel herself getting lightheaded and spots were appearing in front of her eyes. There was no sign of Patrick. Had he made it out? She looked down at her new t-shirt and noticed it was torn and soiled. She gagged again, vomited in front of her.
When she burst out of the club, the cool air kissed her cheek. Sadie tried to focus on getting away from the doors but it was too late. Darkness was coming. She stumbled into an intersection adjacent to the club entrance and felt herself begin to fall. Then there was nothing.

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