Revolution, p.1
(R)Evolution, page 1
(R)Evolution
M.E. Purfield
Published by trash books, 2022.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
(R)EVOLUTION
First edition. September 23, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 M.E. Purfield.
ISBN: 979-8201907679
Written by M.E. Purfield.
Also by M.E. Purfield
Blunt Force Kharma
Blunt Force Kharma: Section 2
Blunt Force Kharma: Section 3
Blunt Force Kharma: Section 4
Kharma's Gatto
Blunt Force Kharma
Cities That Eat Islands
Cities That Eat Islands (Book 1)
Cities That Eat Islands (Book 2)
Cities That Eat Islands (Book 3)
Fish Hunt
Cities That Hide Bodies
Miki Radicci
A Black Deeper Than Death
In a Blackened Sky Where Dreams Collide
Blood Like Cherry Ice
Surly Girly
Bawling Sugar Soul
A Girl Close to Death
Heart on the Devil's Sleeve
Sinking Stones in the Sky
The Ghost and the Stream
Expressway Thru the Skull
Hacker's Moon
Miki Radicci Series (Books 8, 9, & 10)
Miki Radicci Series (Books 2,3, & 4)
Miki Radicci Series (Books 5, 6, & 7)
Miki Radicci Shorts
Miranda Crowe
Bagged
Munki Moo Moo
Munki Moo Moo
Radicci Sisters Mystery
Psychic Sisters
My Dead Body
Saints
Squeezed
Broken Psychic Hearts
The Emptiness Above
The Sludge Below
Doe
Auties (Coming Soon)
Favors
Bumper
Rats In The Cage
Tenebrous Chronicles
Party Girl Crashes the Rapture
Angel Spits
Six Feet
Tweens with Pop Guns
Standalone
Breaking Fellini
Delicate Cutters
Jesus Freakz + Buddha Punx
Buddha Punx + Ghetto Girlz
Natural Born Killer
Peanut Shells: A Short Story
A Sandwich Can't Stop A Bullet
Bagged
Geek With The Numbers
His Alibi, Her Smile
Klepto Pyro Mojo
Limits of Stupidity
MiLK
Whaz My 'Ame
Orange Flecks (Short Story)
Through Tangled Nerves
The Creative
The Morrows
Defective Brain Club (Short Story)
Line (Short Story)
The Van Outside (Short Story)
Doorway Down (A Short Story)
Just (A Short Story)
Short of a Long Holiday (A Short Story)
Joyrides for Shut-Ins
American Standard
The Pick-Up
Auts: Sampler
(R)Evolution
Watch for more at M.E. Purfield’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By M.E. Purfield
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
I am seeking your financial support
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Further Reading: Blunt Force Kharma
About the Author
Deepest thanks to my Patreon supporters who make this story possible. Rebeccah Adkisson, Ann Purfield, N.J. Mvondo, Mike Mallory, and Allen Richards; you are the best!
Chapter 1
He had never seen her in so much pain.
Amelia Smith was on the metal slab, covered with black sheets, and wearing a white medical gown. Sweat covered her pale, soft skin that was now stretched in agony around her skull. Blond strands of hair stuck to her skull and neck. Her fists tightened around Richard Smith’s slender hand. He wanted to scream with her. He was willing to experience her intense pain around the groin and stomach. But that was impossible at the moment.
“Please,” Richard asked. His eyes were wet with tears and his spinning brain tried to stay straight in the situation that they never prepared for, could never prepare for. “Give her something for the pain.”
Doctor Craken who wore a medical black mask that covered his mouth and nose, a mask that matched his gown as well as the nurses’, brightened with a smile in his eyes and peeked between Amelia’s legs spread by the robotic stirrups.
“In a moment,” he said. “She’s just about there.”
Cracken nodded at everyone in the room. A few nurses peeked into Amelia’s groin and grunted in agreement.
Richard kissed Amelia’s face that spaced off into intense delirium. He hoped that she was mentally in a better place, that adrenalin and insanity brought her to a beautiful green meadow or a blue ocean at the beach. Any kind of fantasy would do.
He breathed deep to fight off the invisible vice gripping his throat. Why were they torturing her? Why did they torture all women like this? A woman went through enough after they found out their child would be born defective and part of the eighty percent.
Amelia screamed again and stared at Richard. He saw such hate in her eyes. He knew if she could Amelia would ignore the three years of happy bliss they shared since their union and kill him. Since conception, she blamed him for placing her in this position. He wanted a child. He wanted to roll the dice and hope they would give birth to the twenty percent. Amelia even said that he should be the one to carry it if he wanted one. And like always, he said that he would if he could. He always wanted a child. Daughter or son, it mattered none. He craved to hold a tiny bundle of flesh, bone, and soul in his arms and to inhale its unique scent of fresh skin as he kissed its tiny nose. Amelia felt the same. She said so. But taking the risk always scared her.
“Ahh,” Dr. Cracken said, looking between Amelia’s legs again. “I think she is ready. Nurse, prepare the epidural.”
Richard rolled back in the stool, released Amelia’s hand, and made room for the medical staff. They positioned her on her side and injected the needle into the bottom of her spine. Amelia was in such pain from the labor that she was unaware of their actions. After they returned her onto her back, Amelia’s face melted into a relaxed state.
“Does it feel better, love?” he asked, taking her now limp hand.
Amelia mumbled something. Richard smiled, so glad that her screaming stopped. The doctor warned that there would be pain during labor. More pain than normal labor. It was because of the defects. They were not natural for the womb. The scales caused abrasions against the fetal lining, which led to bleeding the last few months of pregnancy.
“I’m so so sorry,” Richard said to her fluttering brown eyes. “I wish you didn’t have to go through with this.”
If only abortion was legal. It was absurd. It was legal for rape victims within a month of conception. It was legal if the child showed signs in their DNA for mental disabilities, ADHD, and autism. But not for physical defects like this one. Physically abnormal babies were common the last hundred years. No one knew why. Perhaps it was because the sun hid behind clouds the last few hundred years or maybe it had something to do with pollutants in the water. It was a medical mystery that no one wanted to finance a study on.
Many years ago, long before Amelia and Richard were born, doctors tried to abort defective fetuses. Forensics discovered tiny claws along the outer coating of the fetus clinging to the womb. When they tried to remove it, the fetus took a large percentage of the womb with it. They tried to safely extract it. Techniques and drugs were developed. All failed. All the women died. And so did any hopes of abortion.
Gurgling erupted from the other side of the blanket that divided Amelia’s body. It blocked the view of her stomach that they sliced open for a C-section. A scaled baby caused too much damage exiting through the canal. It had to be extracted through the stomach. For some r eason, the hard shell of the outer fetus softened by nine months allowed doctors to cut it open to remove the infant.
“Almost there, Mrs. Smith,” Dr. Cracken said.
The nursing staff nodded.
A scream broke into Richard’s head. His face tightened in pain. It exploded straight into his brain, not his ears. The medical staff seemed aware of it. A few flinched and shook their heads. One nurse mumbled, “Shut up already.”
It sounded like a baby crying into the new sterile world. Past autopsies proved that the infants had little to no vocal cords. So why was everyone hearing it during the procedure? Psychologists theorized that it was a group auditory hallucination caused by guilt. The subconscious compensated for what the consciousness was doing to the doomed life that they were bringing into the world.
Richard sniffled a sob, tried to be strong in front of Amelia. She had to hear the scream, too. He knew it was there. The medical staff verified it for him. Maybe they heard a different one. But they all heard it.
“There now,” Cracken said. “Close her up and send it to Disposal.”
A nurse placed a black-wrapped bundle in a baby gurney and pushed it out of the room. The screaming stopped. But the guilt remained.
Chapter 2
Manhattan’s atmosphere was set for seventy-four degrees that morning. The digital sky above projected sunrise, creating streaks of purple orange, and yellow. The speakers from the wooden trees that lined the street played chirping birds. People still had another hour to rise for their day. Prepare for work in the other boroughs or wake their children up for school.
Richard Smith loved this time of day. He loved his job. Five nights a week, from midnight to eight AM, he operated the street sweeper that floated up and down Park Avenue. The vacuums and spinning wet brushes purified the side of the streets of any human created garbage like cans, papers, and plastics. Even though there were stiff fines for those who littered, Richard and the other sweepers finished their shift with a full compartment of trash.
When he started the job years ago, he was always surprised at human sloppiness. The city had recepticals on every corner of the blocks all over the city. How could one miss? Didn’t they remember how society ended up here?
Long ago nature made good on its promise. The pollutants in the air grew so thick that the smog blocked out the sun and poisoned the water. This affected food growth, energy bills, the economy, and definitely the temperatures. Soon after, the ice caps melted and revealed fresh land for countries to fight over and populate. Governments needed it since the water level wiped out all the shore land and its cities around the world.
Unlike a lot of the heavily populated cities that suffered from the flooding, Manhattan built a half mile high wall of steel and concrete around the island. The mayor and governor took advantage of the time to also build cities in the sky. Four boroughs (Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. No one saw any reason to replicate Staten Island) 1,400 feet above. Each one supported by ten steel and concrete towers and connected by bridges.
The government tried to mimic the original borough the best it could. But developers took advantage of the construction and avoided recreating 1700s - 1800s architecture of the original neighborhoods and forced clean and reflective modern designs instead.
After completion, all money gathered through state and federal funds were used to maintain the supporting towers under the cities in the skies and the wall was forgotten. Slowly through the years, cracks broke out and leaks sprung as the water pressure and waves grew stronger. But so what? All the population that mattered were in the islands in the sky.
The population that didn’t matter were sent down to the wastelands of an empty city long forgotten. Government and developers felt that prisons would have wasted the space and rejected many of the growing borough population so they sentenced criminals and terrorists below to fend for themselves and live with the threat execution by drowning.
At the end of Richard’s shift, he parked the sweeper in the 75th Street yard where a crew emptied and cleaned it for tomorrow. He met up with his partner Thomas Jones, a heavy man the same generation as Richard. Thomas barely fit in the the box cart he drove that ticketed the cars left in the way of the sweeper. Some owners never paid attention to the signs on the street that instructed him when the sweeper was coming. These drivers were considered idiots by the Sanitation Department and deserved the three-hundred dollar ticket.
“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with these people,” Thomas panted as he locked up the sliding door of the cart. “I think I broke a record this morning.”
Richard stopped near his friend and co-worker and stretched his arms and back. The boss continued to ignore Richard’s request for a back cushion. He might have to go out and buy one for himself.
“Weird,” Richard said. “Wasn’t a holiday yesterday.”
The digital sun shined brighter now over their heads. The temperature blowing out of the street vents felt warmer. Thomas wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief but the sweat from his shaved scalp immediately replaced it. Richard rolled up his long sleeves and opened the neck of his blue work shirt.
“Feels like summer today,” Thomas said. “I swear, they want to bake us. Must have been ninety degrees by the end of yesterday.”
Richard smiled and shook his head. He wanted to tell Thomas it could be worse. It was always over ninety degrees all year long down below. At least, that’s what they were told since they were kids.
“I kind of like it,” he said and walked with Thomas to the gate that led onto 6th Ave. “Better than suffering through the winter. Plus, the snow machines always mess things up for us.”
“Only you, buddy,” Richard said, rolling his eyes. “Only you would go with the flow.”
“Well, submit a complaint to the Climate Department.”
“No way. Then they’ll do the opposite.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“I’m woke!”
They walked down the wide sidewalk. Richard purposely moved slow so Thomas could keep pace with him. Delivery trucks and cars filled the streets and blew their horns as the traffic built. The two men walked the few blocks to the Flavour Diner where they always had breakfast.
“Amelia like the heat?” Thomas asked. “You two always seem in sync. I hope I can find a woman like that.”
“She loves the heat,” Richard said. “Days like today she would bring us up to the roof of our building to soak in the rays.”
Thomas flinched. Rays?
“Well, you know what I mean,” Richard said. “We enjoy the heat and relax in it. It’s...relaxing.”
“Then the two of you can knock yourself out today,” Thomas said as they stopped at the corner with a few other people and waited for the light to turn green.
Richard sighed. “I doubt she would do it today.”
“She still sick?” he asked, concern obvious in his voice.
Since the birth a few months ago, Amelia developed post-partum depression. She sat around all day and night in the apartment and spaced out on the couch or slept. She hardly ate or talked.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. She fell into her routines of cooking and cleaning around the house since she couldn’t return to her job at the greeting card store until her stitches healed. But then Richard found her in the kitchen with a knife in her hand and the blade on her wrist. Amelia was frozen like she had no idea what to do. Richard carefully took the knife away from her. Amelia broke into tears and fell to her knees. She didn’t want to be touched or watched. Richard left her alone and called her OBGYN Dr. Cracken. He prescribed mild antidepressants and urged Amelia to take up hobbies. That was a month ago and so far Richard had seen no improvement.
“Yes,” Richard said. “I don’t know what to do for her and the doctor is useless. She has no interest in anything we used to do. I even tried suggesting new things. Expensive restaurants. The latest shows. Weekend getaways. All kinds of stuff we can’t afford. But I’m willing. You know? I would do anything to make her happy again.”
The light turned green. Everyone crossed and took over the street.
“Shit,” Thomas said, puffing as he walked. “I feel bad for the both of you. I like Amelia. I love those Boston cream pastries she makes. Have you tried having her make those? Say they’re for me?”
