Divine Devine's Love Song
Click on image to enlarge.
by S. A. Garcia
Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Romance
Description: In a world destroyed by nuclear mismanagement, a deformed young man named Trill finds an intact Netpad. Once he secures a working battery, he discovers a story penned by Sam Devine, a hacker who led a rebellion against the insane corporation BCM thirty years before. Sam works for BCM out of necessity rather than choice. He despises the company for its lack of ethics and knows the best way to destroy it is from within. When a staff meeting opens with the torture of BCM's captive enemies, Sam sees his chance: he lies to convince his bosses he wants to further degrade one of the warriors, a man named Pokatawer, and once Pokatawer is released to him, Sam finds they share common goals and lusts. But Sam and Pokatawer are up against a hugely powerful corporation, and they'll have to bring BCM to its knees to escape nuclear wrath and make a life for themselves somewhere outside the company's grasp.
eBook Publisher: Dreamspinner Press/Dreamspinner Press, 2011 2011
eBookwise Release Date: December 2011
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [159 KB]
Reading time: 90-126 min.
Hoarse shouts, excited and eager, echoed through the abandoned walls. "What's this over here de roo? Does something sweet hide under the brick pile?"
Hooting sounded. "Heyaya, old plunder hides under here. Come on. Help me dig."
Blast stupid old Sony! Tren halted wandering among the sacred ruins and ran to where his mates pawed through the stony debris inside the collapsed building. "Git away from the sacred zone. You creeps know the interiors are sacred! We agreed in the flame we'd only lookee loo, not loot the dead."
A rude chant echoed through the old walls. "Sacred, sacred, might as well bake 'em, let the debil take 'em." The five young men shrieked in high derision. Sony raised his oozing finger in dismissal. "Tren, run home to Mama and suck her tit to shut your baby gum mouth. We declare nothing's sacred now."
Shatter smiled in his too-perfect fashion. A bony finger beckoned Tren closer. "Come on, sweet Tren. This is fun. We might find something nice and shiny for you. You like the old tech shinies."
Seeing strong-jawed Shatter fall in with the other thieving weasels undermined Tren's certainty. They understood each other, right? Wrong. Bravery shot through his damaged flesh. "No! Lootin' is damned wrong. You know the rules. No plunder here."
Clancy lobbed a rock at Tren's head. He grabbed his crotch and wiggled his hips. "Piss on the stupid old rules. Piss off, ya snotty baby."
"Yer all pissers. May the debil burn ya balls for breaking the sacred rules." Tren turned and ran deeper into the abandoned town. Jeers and lazily thrown stones followed his flight. He hoped someone uncovered a hot blueburn hole lurking under a pile of old bricks. They'd think twice about looting a sacred stronghold. Assholes. Lackwits. Why did he stick with them?
Because of sweet-eyed Shatter. Shatter and his long wet tongue.
The depressed Tren slowed his pace. He examined the deformed forest reclaiming the former town. He had never wandered this far into the decimated expanse. The glowing areas throbbing near certain twisted trees unnerved his soul. The toxic glow irritated his oozing boils. He hated the boils. At least he was lucky; the boils only covered his belly and arms, not his entire body, like his younger sister who huddled on her mat and whimpered all day. Handsome Shatter owned fierce boils in places the sun never touched--well, only when they stripped naked and swam in the hot stream.
He sighed. Tren felt like a prime dodo. He should have never let Shatter sweetpie talk him into coming here, although his kisses tasted fine. This old town deserved respect; worse yet, a town this sacred held haunts and horrors along with the dangerous blueburn holes. The rules told them. Walk but never dig. Respect and never plunder.
Ahead a tall slim shape imitating his home's chimney leaned against a kudzu-tangled oak tree. The nervous Tren approached, slowly, cautiously. Nothing but jagged bricks and three low walls remained. Cutting witchgrass and sticky white blight filled the interior.
He scuffed his calloused feet through the snatching weeds. His ma had told Tren before mad ManH launched the final Bigum, a town dedicated to thwarting the greedy ManH bastards had occupied this old forest. The occupants told everyone to run, but too many families feared bolting into the mysterious South. After the Bigum struck, escape seemed impossible. Too much stress on a glowed body caused death. Everyone hated the sucky truth. They remained and survived as best as possible.
Before the Bigum, heroes and madmen who deserved to be worshipped fought against the soulless ManH debils. One name stuck in the shattered collective memory: Pokatawer, a real hero. Pokatawer led his band south. How brave of them to dare the unknown.
Tren's lumpy toes pushed aside a clump of glassine witchgrass. Wait. He blinked in amazement. A battered leather corner jutted from a gap in the chimney's lower edge. Tren glanced around in cautious hesitation. He was alone. His clever fingers tugged and revealed a thin pouch. Inside a dull silver edge winked until he pulled the square free. Here de roo, a Netpad rested in his dirty palm. What a tasty find. Tren recognized the thing since a battered model resided in the tiny museum Butcher Mack guarded in his junk empire.
Mack liked the curious Tren. Tren spent dreamy hours examining the shiny, useless metal beepers and blippers. Most of them were damaged beyond hope. Imagine talking to someone across the sea. Imagine sending thoughts and words into the air. Tren shook his head in longing.
The etched initials SD discreetly filled the lower right metal corner.
Tren fiddled with the buttons. He tapped the intact screen. Nothing happened. Of course not.
Still, how could he leave this prize to sit here for dedangs like his rotten friends to desecrate? If he took the shiny pretty, didn't he also break the rules?
No. He considered his act protection. Tren tucked the treasure into his ragged jeans and raced back toward home camp.
* * * *
Please let this work. Please. Tren had traded his three finest old-school plastic radios, they dug from barren fields, for this one little battery. Please let the old battery work. He hunkered down behind the family shack, safe in his dirt cellar hollow lined with soft pine needles and hay. In the summer the air smelled better out here away from his kin's pus and boil stench. One stubby candle lit his bolt-hole. His talented fingers pried away the stubborn steel covering. Once again he blessed the clean interior. Now to see if Butcher Mack had traded him a real working battery. Mack asked why Tren needed the battery, but Tren acted coy and claimed he wanted one for his collection. In truth he didn't lie.
Soft green light replaced the dead screen. The excited Tren almost whooped in glee but strangled his wonderment. Words emerged into sharpness.
Words from one of the heroes.
Bless his stubborn ma for beating book learning into his swollen head. Tren thought this night turned into the best in his life.
* * * *
What ego; this stupid Brooks rat imagines someone might find this document and care.
Be warned; I decided to return to the beginning to revise events. I fear I muddled up a few parts or added extra details for dramatic effect, but most of the story is true. Reliving such a difficult time is sour but sweet since this is when Po entered my life. Worst of all, my last battery dies. No spares exist around here. I am almost finished. Forgive me for excluding end details. I think I said enough here. I said enough to make me feel happy.
This is where I start.
I start my tale the day I met my warrior savior. I start on the day my eyes opened, when he opened my eyes to salvation. I start on the day my hellish life ended and restarted in glory.
Since I am an egotistical ass, I always threatened to tell my life story. Here goes. Call what I create here a novel, a diary, a whatever the hell you want; I call the words my love song. I spend time writing this little epic as we travel and talk in circles, hide, and decide what to do, wait for the warmongers to bluster and plead their case, wait for the bullshit to sink in. We occupy a small settlement outside of RichM, such a lovely little place, clean and fresh. The gardens and tidy orchards overwhelm me, as does the fresh fruit; I sleep surrounded by the scent. When I rub peaches against my flesh, Po watches my silliness until his rough tongue takes charge. I love his sexy attack.
I want to remain here forever, living in bliss and bounty.
Yet as much as I appreciate the neat brick houses, I tell everyone we need to move. BCM is gonna win. As usual no one listens to me. I shrug and type my little tale.
Dear Po thinks I'm a perfect idiot for obsessing over my writing. He calls me an idiot in the sweetest tone. My stern warrior is correct; what's the point in writing down my words? The point is I want to write my story. During the past months my dismal life changed. I want to write the facts.
I need to talk about my Po.
One place where I'm not an idiot--I understand you need to start a tale with a dramatic bang. Here's where I start: before my heart experienced the emotional big bang
* * * *
Tren shivered in delight. History from a hero, a hero who termed a "he" named Po as his savior. What an amazing idea. Did this man love the hero Pokatawer? Shivers shook his flesh. Tren smiled and thought of Shatter's deep, hard kisses.
The big dolt might be a flaming dodo, but he still looked fine when he swam naked in the hot stream.
Tren stretched out in the screen's glow and avidly read the first chapter.
* * * *
Howler Hell in Brooks
Five shrill siren blares ripped through the misty air. Impressive. I glanced at the monitor to confirm the aural warning. The turbulent Atlantic delivered us a level-twelve Howler. The Boroughs hadn't experienced a Howler of such lethal magnitude in years. Here in the Outer Brooks, the destruction promised to reach epic scale.
I steered the Zim around the remains of another bombed building. Why did the prisoners feel determined to ruin what remained of the old neighborhoods? No wonder vindictive BCM allowed only one connecting bridge, the mighty Brooks Bridge, to survive. Did they aim for irony? I doubted it. The rebellious Outer Brooks dwellers, a mix of the insane, the criminal, and the determined not to embrace society's rules, wanted to yank everything down to their rank level. Good for them. The approaching Howler might perform the task for them.
A brick thudded against the back fender. Nice aim, asshole. I flipped on my exterior home security cam. A ferocious wind ripped around metal and stone. Damn, I never shored up one wobbly section of outer perimeter wall. The inner protection system made a wall breach inconsequential; my suspicious mind enjoyed a seamless wall around my property's outer reaches. Ha, why not perform a U-turn and head back into the Howler for a handyman moment? Nope. Even my rashness knew its limits.
My boss, Dan, had berated me for living out in what he called the wilderness. Too bad. Living by the ocean soothed me. Most days the sea air captured pre-B-Rain sweetness. Opening the windows appealed to me. Too many of ManH's windows were sealed shut. I hated feeling trapped. Even now in my Zim, the escape option held true. Escaping into this area guaranteed a beating violent enough to shatter my spine, but at least I owned the option.
The idiots performing the beating would find a real nasty surprise lurking inside me. Hit me too hard and watch the fireworks.
The squawker hissed. Nanny Danny had read my worried mind. His concerned image filled the screen. "Sam, you reckless, feckless idiot, where the hell are you?"
More thuds echoed. "Enjoying loud Outer Brooks brick hospitality while motoring my way to my Inner Brooks bunker. I plan to wait out this fierce baby."
His tormented sigh made me grin. "You always find an excuse for your lateness. How many times do I need to tell you today is crucial? I need you here."
"If they want me to motor a little quicker, ask youse kissy friends to give me the remaining Skimmer."
"Yes, why not? Of course I'll seduce Philips into lending you his pride ride." Dan's chill sarcasm created an impressive ice wall.
"Sounds slick to me. Dan, ya know what comes next. Slink away and let me concentrate on my driving. Today my Brooks buddies' brick aim falls into the first-class rank. I think a few former big-league pitchers still draw breath."
"I don't know why I tolerate you, Devine."
"Right backatya, boss."
"Stop talking like a wretched Brooks."
"Youse gotta bad temper, boss."
Scowling Dan presented me the age-old finger salute before he left me in peace. No complaints from me; Professor Dan Rennie shielded my ass from the proverbial fire. I loved him well. I also loved riling him up by spouting silly old-style Brooks patter at him.
The siren continued announcing the incoming danger, the sound pulsing, screaming in greater warning. I had tried starting an educational campaign to instruct the masses about the importance of pulse tones, but BCM deemed education a waste of money. Why not allow the storm to thin out the savage prisoner rabble?
This time they'd receive their deadly wish. The twelve would hit this rubble-strewn area in around fifteen minutes. Time to push the Zim's stately speed and seek shelter in a less desolate area. The Inner Brooks zone stood approximately eight minutes away. Comforting.
The Zim's rolling tracks crunched jagged debris remaining from the last Howler's assault. The majestic twelve approaching promised to make my return trip into an adventure in steering.
The hollow thump of a well-aimed brick chunk hitting the narrow open windshield band demanded my attention. I needed to stop monitoring the weather sensors. Stupid bastards. Piss off already. A steady brick barrage hammered the Zim's triple-reinforced outer body. Brick throwing did nothing to my modified combat vehicle. I suppose the silly act made them feel empowered. If they dared step too close, my zap shield ensured their empowerment's end. I felt sorry for them, but their criminal behavior brought on their own problems. No shit, who did like BCM's ruthless corporate takeover of the good old USA? The greedy bastards probably didn't like themselves.
I gunned the engine into greater speed. The Zim rattled in protest. Time to tuck into my custom bolt-hole. I rolled through the Inner Brooks perimeter as the light flashed yellow. My fingers switched off the lethal zap. Around me Inner Brooks dwellers owning legal authorization scampered inland from the badlands toward their proper zone. The constant Howler threat told them buying contraband or illegal weapons crafted in the prison badlands flirted with death. Behind me chipped prisoners sans authorization dropped to the filthy asphalt. Bodies twitched from the jolt applied to their nervous systems. Did they think BCM had suddenly developed sympathy? Did they think their neck microchips magically transformed into positive status? Good-bye and good luck surviving under the flimsy external Storm Shield.
A faint whine disturbed my sensors. The tingle slipped past the metal surrounding me. Always a pleasure to know your contribution to humanity still worked. Throwing stones and bricks at me wasn't clever. Without my expertise--in fact, without my life--the activating Storm Shield would fade away. Not bright to wish such a dire fate on this Howler-lashed area.
Time for a left turn, a right, and bingo, there stood not the prettiest escape hatch, but one suitable for my needs. The Storm Shield lessened the Howler's true force, but as the cliche goes, better safe than sorry. What if the level-twelve Howler intensified? The corrugated iron door slid up. Quick back-and-forth maneuvering guided my clunky vehicle's ass-end into the small metal bunker. Sensors told me intrepid Brooks dwellers who had strayed too far from their homes clung to the Zim's rough sides. Let them enjoy the protection.
I waited to close the door. Ten more people darted in. The door slid down, but five more bodies rolled inside. I closed off the small visible windshield patch. Tentative knocking sounded on the Zim's side doors. Weird. Did they think me a trusting fool? Granted the Inner Brooks dwellers weren't savage crazies, Sud addicts, or prisoners like the Outer sickos. Many of them were artists and tech-head dropouts. They despised the current world. If given the chance, they'd knock me out and steal my ride.
I understood the people huddled around my vehicle. Imagine, I once lived in the angry Inner Brooks realm. A few years ago, I regarded the ManH elite as wicked, slime-sucking demons. A few years ago, the angry tech heads who resented BCM's greedy monopoly regarded me as a faithful friend.
I deserved a break. Even as I accepted their support, I still regarded the ManH elite as wicked, slime-sucking demons.
My head ached.
The knocking ceased. I settled against my padded seat and switched on the hidden exterior camera installed at the bunker's top left corner. Trash, the majority plastic bags and colorful Sud wrappers, danced and swirled in the advancing wind. The filmy refuse created oddly pretty shapes against the filthy brick buildings huddled at the narrow street's mouth. My modified bunker stood alone, the structure removed from possible tumbling debris danger.
Three people ran past, rattled the bunker door, and hastened to seek other safety.
My home cam recorded black, wet chaos. The desolate sight confirmed my outpost's continued existence. The speeding Howler had already struck the coast and now slid across far Outer Brooks. Digital readings still reported the storm as a twelve. No chance of its feral power declining into soft dismissal.
Outside the bunker the sky turned the unhealthy purple color signaling the Howler's aggressive advance. Blue lightning skipped across fetid darkness. As it powered up, the soft glow from the Storm Shield washed a faint green tint across the scene. When I designed the system, green appealed to me. I wanted to make the safety look organic, fresh, like the long-defeated green movement. After years of Howler abuse, the hue looked sickly, yet I feared to modify the color. The green shade told people the Shield worked to protect them. Not the time to change the color.
Never the time to tell anyone the Storm Shield already rotted. The strain on the delicate spider-web power structure grew greater and greater since BCM wanted the final inner ManH system to work at full capacity no matter what force struck Brooks. If a catastrophic level twenty approached, the first two Shields would not activate.
Not my design.
Not the time to fret over the problem.
I leaned forward in objective examination. The camera told me no humans moved in the streets. I hoped everyone reached a safe place. The abandoned subway stations offered shelter except for the wild crazies who enjoyed living underground full-time. Not everyone who escaped to safety in the dormant stations returned topside. BCM ignored the problematic fact.
Why not? BCM ignored anything aside from their guaranteed comfort and preservation. I slumped back and sighed in disgust. I wondered why the demons wanted to speak to me in person. Dan usually handled our communications. I remained secreted away in my remote bunker and created my tech in glorious quiet. I modified Zims for the fat cats. I lived in sinful comfort.
I tried not to think how I sold my soul. I sold the cheap concept for the greater good.
Right, spin more lies. Spin more fairy tales to help me sleep in my comfortable old-school feather bed.
Low roaring echoed from the left. Familiar quaking teased the ground. Time for a ceremonial, caught-in-the-Howler bourbon shot. Lovely to enjoy the real deal, not the watered-down cheap synth crap supplied in the ManH clubs. The intrepid Katenn natives still brewed the nectar, but they didn't want to share the legendary brew with ManH.
I didn't blame them. Happily the greedy smugglers still supplied the BCM stronghold with glorious treats.
I raised my bourbon shot to the morons who sanctioned the secret dumping of nuc waste in the cavernous Puerto Rico Trench. Right, smart, upset the ecology to a shattered degree. Welcome to the creation of an insane continuous weather system traveling on a destructive north-south pattern, the pattern pulled north by a strange weather pattern locked over the mysterious Sargasso Sea. Occasionally the ill-tempered hypercyclones, nicknamed Howlers by the world, veered west. Hello, instant destruction. Hello, death.
The vibration reached alarming quake. Fuck, my sensors indicated the monster crept up to a thirteen. How? The storm intensified on land? No. Why? The horrible lightning flashes hurt my eyes. No more watching.
Halting the Howlers defeated BCM's expensive expertise. The greedy monsters understood remaining in ManH defined unwise. Their constant arguments sounded hilarious. I remembered an ancient last-century TV comedy called Green Acres. The story involved a wealthy husband and wife moving to a rustic farm. Talk about a domestic disaster! No wonder the BCM fat cats resisted moving. Aside from ManH, only the uncorrupted West Coast offered true creature comforts. No Howlers attacked their coast. No one had dumped radioactive shit into the Paci. BCM had never bombed them.
The MidWaste prevented easy western migration. The deadly B-Rain broke open the touchy Memphis Fault into rampant earthquakes. New chasms and chaos ruled the MidWaste. Reports of cannibalism and mayhem abounded; BCM owned flicks taken before the airborne Roboskims had failed. The damaged land looked like something from a bad horror movie. Airplanes no longer entered into the escape equation. Limited fuel and destroyed runways spoiled flying the friendly skies.
Did I mention NeEng? Why bother?
Running southwest provided the only safe exit strategy. What a shocker; the proud Pamavirgins didn't savor the concept of BCM conquering their territory.
Damn, I needed to stop thinking. Thinking made me drink. I consumed another shot.
The camera told me the compromised Storm Shield held firm. The green intensified in power across the web. The customary outward flare blasted into the howling darkness. The field around ManH determined the time to destroy the Howler. The Inner Brooks field supplied enough awesome power to disable the storm.
The winds dropped. The purple cast faded away into sullen dusky hues, depressing but safe.
I shivered in relief. Another win for the Boroughs' humanity.
Compliments of me.