The Apostates

  THE APOSTATES

  A novel

  By Lars Teeney

  To my mother and sister

  And to Magnet, who always made it interesting

  First Edition, Published July 2015.

  The Apostates. Copyright © 2015 by Lars Teeney. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitten in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a Web site without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Some characters in this book are based on historical figures. Most characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Inquires should be emailed to:

  Lars Teeney

  apostates.feedback@gmail.com

  http://larsteeney.tumblr.com

  http://www.facebook.com/larsteeney

  A DISCLAIMER, AND A NOTE ON RELIGION

  The story contained within these pages, while having some basis in historical fact, at its essence, is a work of fiction. I have taken great liberty with accounts of historical events, and some have been completely fictionalized for dramatic effect. That being said, the overall historical framework is based on fact. Also, this book is critical of America in its current form as well as its form in the hypothetical future of this book. Thin-skinned, authoritarians (patriots) should not be surprised if they are offended reading this book.

  In addition, this story is not a criticism of religion itself. The story does not dispute, deny or admit the existence of God, or any other holy deity. What the story does concern itself with, is criticizing those strains of Christianity that concern themselves with imposing their will and belief on people that do not share them. This story is a warning against fundamentalist strains of religion that seek to usurp power, influence policy and tear down the separation of church and state, within our country. It can be considered a wider condemnation for any religious organization that seeks to establish theocracy in the world today. On a lighter note, enjoy!

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Ch. 1 - THE GLORIOUS LIGHT

  Ch. 2 - THE MOUNTAIN-TOP

  Ch. 3 - BORN AGAIN

  Ch. 4 - L.O.V.E.

  Ch. 5 - THE SHIP OF PRESIDENTS

  Ch. 6 - BAGGERS

  Ch. 7 - THIRTY SILVER COINS

  Ch. 8 - THE SETTING SUN

  Ch. 9 - M.O.S.S.

  Ch. 10 - THE PILGRIMAGE

  Ch. 11 - BATTLE OF THE MOTHBALL

  Ch. 12 - OLD MONEY BLUES

  Ch. 13 - TURKEY SHOOT

  Ch. 14 - WANDERING THE DESERT

  Ch. 15 - INQUISITION

  Ch. 16 - SOCIETATUM PENTAGRAM

  Ch. 17 - ONE LIKE THE SON OF MAN

  Ch. 18 - SAN JERÓNIMO

  Ch. 19 - CELIBACY

  Ch. 20 - WORK SHALL SET YOU FREE

  Ch. 21 - PARTING THE SEA

  Ch. 22 - A SLIVER OF SUN

  Ch. 23 - IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

  Ch. 24 - PARTISANS

  Ch. 25 - BATTLE OF THE LA CHORRERA

  Ch. 26 - DUSK

  Ch. 27 - SEVEN TRUMPETS

  Ch. 28 - THE SKANKIN’ IGUANA

  Ch. 29 - THE GHOST OF TOSHIHIRA INOGUCHI

  Ch. 30 - THE PROMISED LAND

  Ch. 31 - THE FIRST WOE

  Ch. 32 - SAN FRANCISCO

  Ch. 33 - ARMAGEDDON

  Ch. 34 HUDDLED MASSES

  EPILOGUE

  a·pos·tate

  a person who renounces a religious or political belief or principle.

  synonyms: dissenter, defector, deserter, traitor, backslider, turncoat

  antonyms: follower

  PROLOGUE

  Video interlacing lines and snow blurred the dated video feed. Grainy images displayed that fateful day of the first year in the Twenty-first Century. Long forgotten footage played of an event they said would never be forgotten. An improvised projectile with a biological payload was delivered to the target with deceptively professional accuracy. Not one but two projectiles, hit their marks.

  “Terrible; the barbarity of the acts. The people were looking for a strong leader. They looked to President Scrub,” she thought to herself.

  The video feed wiped to a montage of pre-war news clips, fragmented depictions of the patriotic fervor and rush to start the various retaliatory wars in far-off lands. The talking heads rattled off their inflammatory, editorial tirades—cheerleaders reverberating inside the echo chamber.

  Greta shifted slightly in her bath. “I’ve wondered if the creation and implementation of the [Virtue-net] was ever necessary since pre-war television was all that was needed to sway the populace whichever way the wind blew.” She contemplated.

  “The Virtue Act was passed; none did anything about it. The country was turned into a surveillance state. After decades it all became so routine to the people, ” she completed her thought.

  Greta pushed some wet hair out of her eyes. She was a short woman but athletically built with an amber complexion and dark hair with eyes like caramel. Greta’s skin glistened from the beads of water that hugged her contours. Her arm did spasm slightly at the point where she had injected the ‘Base’. A tattoo of ravens holding a crimson banner that drifted down to a ship at sea, adorned her right upper arm. On her right inner arm she had a name in cursive script running vertically downwards that read “Marco Always”.

  Greta had been on a downward spiral for weeks and recent events had come to a head. She had quite her job recently as a community peace officer because of heat that been generated over some of her side dealings. Her bills were piling up and she had refused to watch the weekly New Megiddo services. This constituted a criminal act.

  The video feed transitioned to higher quality images from a few decades later, the “Turbulent Thirties”. A documentary played, about the advancements in Nano-technology and the development of microscopic neural implants, which broadcast the World Wide Web directly to a neural interface. The documentary hailed the miracle of experiencing a retina H.U.D. within the eye of the user. The narrator heralded the arrival of an affordable operation for every consumer base, within years. A montage of various shows and advertising flashed into frame praising the fashion forward individual who possesses the network enabled neural implant.

  More news reports from across a timespan of a decade appeared in frame, chronicling a brief era of prosperity due to the influx of new economic activity made possible by the neural implant, that by this time in history were mandatory for new-born babies to receive. But all things come to pass. The reports took a darker, xenophobic and cynical tone. Talking heads resumed their editorial rhetoric, denouncing new and emerging enemies—China, a resurgent Russia, and terrorist groups from all over the world. Religion became a major factor in these broadcasts, hellfire and brimstone. Slowly all other programs are phased out of the rotation. Independent content quietly went dark and as the memory files became more recent.

  She picked up a framed photo of a man, on the ledge of the bath. “I was surprised that Marco was able to acquire these media feeds and left some still to be consumed, he was an addict of ‘Base’ after all. But maybe it was just timing?” Greta reminisced.

  “It's no wonder Marco became addicted to the 'Database' news feeds. This banned material is a welcome escape for the Reverend's sermons.” She tried to justify her own usage of the drug.

  She took a sip of home-brewed mead from a dented, tin stein. Home brewing had been a hobby of the couple. “Marco was also a fucking coward and couldn’t hack it in this life, he left me alone here. Doing such a massive quantit
y of ‘Base’ fried his brain.” She dropped the photo of Marco on the white tile floor by the tub. Then she glanced at the straight razor also on the ledge of the tub.

  “His body disappeared after that, no funeral-nothing. The authorities told me the corpse could have been sold to a black market cartel.”

  She picked up the straight razor and turned it in her hand. “I guess I’m a fucking coward as well, I wasn’t made for this world to be alone in it,” She clutched the straight razor tighter in one hand.

  “I don't want to die. We don't really have it all that bad. Could be worse. But there is no happiness here. Life is stagnant. 'Database' is the only escape for illicit information.”

  She stared at the reflection of her own eyes in the blade of the razor. She contemplated what the world could have been like had history played out in a different manner. Greta knew from these news broadcasts that even before the terror attacks that it was common knowledge that climate change was occurring. Previous generations had plenty of time to act to reverse it, or at least to prepare for the worst. She couldn’t understand why the people allowed the Great Collapse to occur. Millions had starved in the West due to crop failure and water shortages. Cities had been washed away by sea level rise. Populations had been forcefully relocated. Undesirables had disappeared.

  The Old World did have its attractions. American citizens had valued rights that New Megiddo citizens could only dream of possessing.

  “At least the Old World had a semblance of choice and freedom, even if it was a facade. People respected the idea of the separation of church and state.”

  She tried to retain the memory of the images that had flashed before her for as long as possible, but felt them fading. She stared off at the white tile wall of the bath for some time.

  “I can feel the ‘Base’ wearing off, all those images are fading away and reality is slipping back in.” She pressed the straight razor into her right wrist until she saw that she has drawn blood. Deeper it went. She pulled it downward in motion across several veins. Her life’s blood spilled down her arm offering the liquid to the water of the bath, slowly changing its hue.

  “I thought it would hurt more going this way. I feel light headed. I feel elated knowing that I will never again have to suffer through another Reverend Wilhelm broadcast, or have to make another pilgrimage.” She slumped slightly, her vessel nearly empty.

  “The only thing I regret is not living to see the Regime topple and feel change...it was close...so close—”

  The light faded and she slumped lower into the bath water. As thought left her body she faded peacefully into unconsciousness, with a sigh of relief.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  THE GLORIOUS LIGHT

  The video feed began with rapturous choir music, and funk bass guitar began playing. The church organ joined the melody. The curtain raised and white, woolen clouds blew through the illuminated space. Bright stars illuminated the dome-shaped sky. Pixels floated from the periphery into a spiral formation that converged on a single focal point. As the church music increased in tempo an obscured figure took form from the chaotic mass of digitally-rendered bits. A face emerged out of the tempest: a goatee-clad, bulldogged, and red-hued face. The head was wearing a western style, white cowboy hat. The figure that coalesced was wearing a matching white suit and Rattle Snakeskin boots with a matching belt.

  A curiously robotic sounding voice announced, “Flock of the One, please welcome your Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright!”

  The figure began dancing like a pre-war, Southern Baptist pastor on the virtual stage. “This day is His day! I said this day is His day!” The Reverend Wilhelm shouted.

  “Can I get an Amen?” the convulsing Reverend asked excitedly.

  A chorus of a million synthetic voices answered back, “Amen!”

  “No sir, that won’t do! That won’t do at all…I said can I get an Amen?” The Reverend intentionally repeated himself, forcing the captive virtual audience, symbolized by millions of programmatically-drawn ghostly avatars, to reply back with increasingly forced enthusiasm.

  The virtual congregation cried back, “Amen!”

  This back and forth continued on for a few more minutes before the crowd was whipped-up into cheers, then all the pomp and circumstance faded. The Reverend Wilhelm prepared to start his sermon to the congregation.

  “Little, lost lambs of the Lord’s flock, hear my words, for the Lord speaks through me! Y’all know this already—Y’all know me well. I am God’s representative on Earth. He alone has entrusted me with the miracle. What miracle is this, you may ask. Why, it is the miracle for myself to reach on into the heads of each and every member of this flock, and deliver unto you the light and the truth and the message of the one true God!”

  The Reverend paced the stage and wiped digital sweat from his brow before resuming his rant.

  “I say to you now, y’all are a bunch of sad, miserable sinners. Y’all have covered yourselves in dirt and done wallowed around in the mud like pigs. Now, are the whole lot of you humans—made in His image? Or are the whole lot of ya just a bunch of dirty vermin?”

  He paused, then, paced the stage, intently staring out at the vacant representation of followers.

  “Well, of course, y’all ain’t vermin. You and I know this. He...knows this! That’s why He gave you an out. He gave us all a way to save our sorry behinds. The only way! You see, the Lord knew that with all his little, dirty creations scurrying around the planet like vermin-He knew he was gonna need to come up with a way—The Way—to raise us all up. But, it was going to cost something because ain’t nothing in this whole thing we call existence free. So, you know what the Lord went and did?”

  The chorus of ghosts shouted back, “Jesus!”

  He paused for an eternity. Silence set in with the occasional and obligatory, “Praise Jesus!”, from out of the crowd. The Reverend emphasized dramatic pauses like a seasoned actor.

  “That’s right! Jesus taught our sorry, little butts to abandon our sinful ways. He raised us up to be men. Taught us how to use tools, how to make things, and how to fight for what we believe in. He taught us how to stand up to Satan, who was happy to have all of our lost souls under his thumb. See, Jesus was a fightin’ man. He wasn’t going to let old Satan corrupt his Father’s children any longer. He came down to takes names—you hear me?”

  The digital crowd cheered at the mention of Jesus as a fighting man. The Reverend resumed his sermon. He spoke of God sacrificing his son Jesus, at the hands of the Romans, to pay for the sins of men. Soon, the Reverend began to tie himself into the story of divinity.

  “My friends, clearly the Lord was at a quandary. His Son was sacrificed for our salvation, but this was not enough. God needed a long-term solution. He needed something that would protect his children well into the future. He needed a solution that would insulate them from continued threats and temptation that would lead his children to utter destruction! So, I tell you this! God sent his angel, Gabriel, to me. Gabriel revealed God’s plan for me. He told me that I was to be the next prophet of the Lord. He said the burden of being the Shepherd of His Flock would fall square on my shoulders. And, I confessed to him that I was not worthy of this privilege. And, he proclaimed to me that this was nonsense. He told me that I would find the strength to carry this mantle because I was chosen by Him!”

  The Reverend spent the next half hour recounting his struggle against the wicked of the Old World and the gradual creation of the current Regime. The Reverend justified the implementation of the [Virtue-net] as a means to keep Satan at by and sin away from the devout. Some apparitions of the virtual congregation made euphoric gasps like they had just experienced an epiphany. Others touched their hands to their heads.

  “And that, my flock, is the Lord’s plan. He ordained that I should be with you always and not but a thought away. This is what we have achieved and more…all in His name! Although I have told you all that we have succeeded in implementing the Lord’s plan, it would be d
isingenuous of me to tell you that we are out of danger. No—threats are ever present.

  “My children, there are those in our land that refuse to accept Jesus and our Lord God. These heathens live in sin and vice. They reject our traditions and values and actively work to destroy our way of life. Now, these sinners are continuously being rounded up and brought to see the light by the brave men and women of Law of Virtue Enforcement. Under the capable leadership of Inquisitor Rodrigo, we have dented the numbers of these—Apostates. However, even as we make great strides in combating the forces of the infidel there are those who find ways to evade detection. The Apostates are the gravest threat to the dominion of our Lord. Therefore, I call on all devout to stay vigilant and report any information to L.O.V.E officials!”

  The congregational audience began to boo and hiss for a time before the church music kicked in at full tempo.

  “Enough of unpleasant subjects, my flock! We didn’t come here to be brought low by the negativity of the wicked! We are here to celebrate life and to raise Him up on high! We are here to praise his name! Bask in the light of the Lord! Amen! Let us dance and sing a hymn!”

  The video feed abruptly cut out, replaced by a black screen.

  “Sorry, I had to turn that shit off. Drives me fucking nuts,” said a red-bearded, middle-aged man, who wore battle-scarred, ballistic armor and brandished a pre-war assault rifle. To his side, on the ground was a hiking pack with a bedroll and a few extra magazines of ammunition and rations. He had turned off the flex-screen monitor that was playing the Reverend Wilhelm service.

  “That music gives me flashbacks to when I was still hard-wired to the system,” the man stated.

  “Yeah it's a pain in the ass, but that's our mission. We have to monitor these services for intelligence,” a woman with a pale complexion responded. She was in her late twenties and had dark brown hair, which was worn in an asymmetrical style where the right side was shaved almost to the skin and the rest was long. She was busy stripping and cleaning her assault rifle.