Simmons - Plastic Jesus

Plastic Jesus grabs you by the throat. From the opening paragraph, without warning, it plunges you into a world of fear and confusion and visceral emotion. When it spews you back out again, you are left dizzy, overwhelmed and desperate to read more. And its then that you take your first fearful steps into Lark City...

It is the near future, following a devastating Holy War. Once part of the US colonies, Maalside, the New Republic, now stands alone in the Pacific, separated from the heartland by 200 miles of salty ocean. Lark City is its capital, watched over by a 50 foot, pouting, stiletto-heeled and garter-belted Ms Liberty, a crude parody of the famous landmark across the water.

In this brutal neon jungle, Code Guy Johnny Lyon writes a Jesus social networking AI, to rebrand religion following the war. But something goes wrong; a virtual hell breaks on the streets of Lark a violent, surreal and uncontrollable social breakdown.

Caught in this terrifying web of danger are Sarah Lee, Johnnys co-worker, drug lord Paul McBride who is determined to exploit the chaos to wipe out his enemies, and McBrides junkie daughter, a prostitute called Kitty.

Now, only Johnny can save Sarah, Kitty and the city.

PRAISE FOR WAYNE SIMMONS

Simmons steps out of his blood-splattered comfort zone and makes an indelible mark on the sci-fi genre.

ROBIN PIERCE, Starburst Magazine

Modern, edgy and fascinating Simmons has come up with a book that keeps you working for the payoff... and then some.

SION SMITH, Skin Deep Magazine

PLASTIC JESUS

Belfast born, Wayne Simmons penned reviews and interviews for several online genre zines before publication of his debut novel in 2008. Waynes fiction has since been published in the UK, Austria, Germany, Spain, Turkey and North America. Wayne currently lives in Wales with his ghoulfiend and a Jack Russel terrier called Dita. Look out for Wayne at various genre and tattoo cons or visit him online: http://www.waynesimmons.org

Plastic Jesus

by

WAYNE SIMMONS

CROMER

Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

All rights reserved

Copyright Wayne Simmons, 2013

The right of Wayne Simmons to be identied as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

Salt Publishing 2013

Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978 1 84471 972 3 electronic

For Dug, Jerry and Ty.
Thank you for the music.

People think that I have come to cast peace upon the world. They do not know that I have come to cast conflicts...

The Gospel of St Thomas

PROLOGUE

Becky looked so fragile.

Johnny watched her twisting and turning on the bed, sheets gathered at her feet like crumpled foil.

Shed been zoned out for the last week. She was lucid now, no longer wired, the VR coil hanging by her bed like a dead snake.

There was a nurse in the room with them. She was pretty and Johnny felt awful for even thinking that at a time like this.

A doctor was there too. His arms were folded, the watch on his wrist horribly visible. Yet part of Johnny still waited for a miracle cure: some new and radical medicine to be sucked into a needle and injected into Beckys bloodstream, saving the day. It wouldnt happen.

The nurse bent over the bed, wiping Beckys forehead with a damp cloth. Johnny could see her face now. She wasnt as pretty as he had thought and he felt slightly better for knowing that. Becky was the only one allowed to be pretty. Valiantly fighting for each breath on the bed before them, patchy hair peppered over her skull like ash. Her bones sharp and brittle, her skin like a veil, freckles all but gone. But her eyes...

A sharp gasp escaped her mouth.

The doctor whispered something to the nurse and Johnny realised it was time.

He felt a sudden rush of blood. His pulse was racing.

He hadnt prepared anything. Sure, hed spent the last thirty-six hours at her bedside, but he wasnt ready for Becky to die. Not now. Not here: in this metal bed with the not-so-nice doctor and the (not-so?) pretty nurse.

He reached for Beckys hand.

Her nails, still sharp, dug into his moist palm, breaking skin. She made a noise that Johnny would never forget; a high-pitched whine as air escaped from her frayed lungs. Her arms suddenly spread out wide as if some part of her was trying to crawl out from this ravaged little body, to be set free after weeks of fighting and struggling and suffering.

She was fading fast.

Her eyes swelled, damp but still beautiful. The whining noise was softer now as her breathing paled. And then, after one final gasp for air, Johnny Lyon watched and held on and cried as his wife gave up and died.

Silence.

Johnny kept hold of Beckys hand. Her arm had fallen limp but he wouldnt let go.

The whining noise returned; Johnny realising it wasnt coming from Becky, now, but the machine in the corner. He barely noticed it anymore. It was just another part of the room, like the metal bed or the tall windows or the plastic curtains. But now the machines sound was changing, as if the damn thing had been recording this whole scene for him and was now playing it back. A little something to remember her by , he expected the not-so-pretty nurse to say before syncing a vid marked Becky to his cell.

But she didnt.

She simply looked to the doctor, who looked at his watch before saying something that Johnny didnt hear and didnt want to hear.

It was finished.

ONE

Ms Liberty stood on the edge of Lark City harbour, lips pouting, star-spangled breasts pointing out to sea. At just over one hundred and fifty feet tall (in heels), she was a crude parody of New Yorks classic landmark.

Her face was legendary, one baby blue winking across the water, as if to goad the former US of A. Her right hand pointed to the sky, the left pressed against the hip curve of her garter belt. Shimmering from head to toe, she made a feisty welcome for sea and air traffic alike. An it harm none , her inscription read, Do what you will.

This was Maalside, the New Republic. Lark City was its capital, sprawling across the west coast like a neon jungle. Once part of the US colonies, Maal now stood alone in the Pacific, separated from the heartland by 200 miles of salty ocean and a devil-may-care attitude.

Kitty McBride turned up Tomb Street, Larks Red Light District. She was everything Ms Liberty was not , drifting through the city like a ghost, freak shows and peep shows dancing around her like marionettes.

She moved past the Penny Dreadful.

Kitty knew girls who worked there, knew the work was good. Penny was a reputable place, popular with the suited and booted; men with wedding rings in their pockets whod pay top dollar for a young thing like her.

But Kittys turf was the street, her Johns from clubs and bars where stuck-up broads from Penny wouldnt be seen dead.