Dante's Disciple

By Marty McKay and David McAfee

Scott Norton is on a mission to rid post-apocalyptic Sunder City of its rampant corruption and crime. In a story that mirrors some of today’s most courageous whistle-blowers, Scott Norton uses his computer as his only weapon against the powerful and elite residing in the city’s underbelly.

Danger finally catches up with Scott and he soon finds himself pulled into a vortex of grief, crime, deceit and fear. He is forced to look inward and reevaluate his own direction, to explore The Seven Deadly Sins and their influence on his life...and to discover the virtues that are waiting for him on the other side.

Follow Scott Norton’s journey to the bottom in this captivating illustrated work of adult fiction. This book is a collaboration between Marty McKay and David McAfee. Illustrated by one of DC and Marvel Comic’s most talented artists, it runs in parallel to the messages delivered in Marty McKay’s original album, Sin’s Disciple.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marty McKay
• Release date: Mar 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311034878

Marty McKay

Marty McKay is a conceptual artist, singer, rapper and writer. He is the driving force and executive producer behind his latest creation: Project 7. His love affair with music began in the early 1990′s which led him to discover some of the greatest rap and hip-hop artists of our time. His favorites include Public Enemy, Ice-T and Big Daddy Kane, just to name a few. After experiencing a few of life’s most difficult challenges, Marty began exploring more aggressive forms of music for release and relief. He began DJ-ing, turntablism and experimenting with different sounds. Feeling a need for vocal expression, Marty added rapping, singing and screaming elements to his musical arsenal. This evolution of his musical journey would lead to the style we know him for today. The sum of all these parts has become the unique and eclectic approach to music that defines Marty’s work and is at the core of his multimedia production, Project 7. Marty has put together a full band, ready to release the high energy of Sin’s Disciple live on stage. True to his work ethic, Marty is already working on future concepts, exploring other subjects, and trying to push the envelope further to develop something even more intricate and complex.

Book preview

Also by Marty McKay

SIN’S DISCIPLE

The concept album and soundtrack to this book

DANTE'S DISCIPLE

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Marty McKay

with David McAfee

Copyright © 2014 by Marty McKay

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Art direction and book design by Sean Mosher Smith

Interior illustrations by Ronilson Freire (pencils/inks) / Gabriel Belluco (coloring)

Published by Marty McKay

Zurich, Switzerland

www.martymckay.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART I: THE ICARUS PROJECT

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

PART TWO: THE FALL

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PART III: FROM THE ASHES

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE:

Eighteen Years Ago

Scott Norton checked the knots around his chest, trying to make sure they were secure. It was his third time examining them, but better safe than sorry, as his father liked to say. The thick vinyl tarp that made up the wings should hold up under the strain of his weight, but it wouldn’t matter if the ropes weren’t tied tight enough. From below, he heard Vince shouting at him.

Come on, already, Scott! Vince called. You aren’t chickening out, are you? Scott peered over the edge of the roof, looking down at the dark brown face of his friend, some fifteen feet or so below. From the ground, fifteen feet didn’t seem that high, but now that he was standing on the roof looking down, the ground sure seemed far away.

I’m gonna die of old age waiting for you, bro! Vince said.

To be fair, Vince had tried to talk him out of this, but now he just seemed anxious to get it over with. I wish he would make up his mind, Scott thought.

I’m coming, I’m coming, Scott shouted down. Keep your shirt on.

Okay, the knots were good and tight. The ropes should hold. Scott gave the wings one last look, then spread them out behind him. This was going to be awesome! The first ten year old to master flight. His dad would be so proud. He’d be like Daedalus and Icarus, only younger, and he wouldn’t fly too close to the sun.

His father had read him the story the previous night. Scott couldn’t believe Icarus had been so dumb. He could have made it if he’d just paid attention. Scott wouldn’t make the same mistake. Besides, his wings were made of wood, a vinyl tarp, and rope. The sun couldn’t melt them. The sea couldn’t soak them. He’d thought of everything.

He sucked in a deep breath, then jumped off the roof, flapping his wings as hard and fast as he could. For a moment, he shot straightout into space. His smile split his face. So this is what it feels like to f ly.

Look at me, Vince! I’m—

At that moment, gravity reached up and grabbed Scott, yanking him downward with terrifying force. He flapped his wings furiously and cried out when he heard the wooden brace of his right wing snap. The wood and vinyl contraption splintered, falling to pieces as he plummeted to earth. Just like Icarus!

Oh, no! Vince, help! Get—

The rest was cut off by the impact.

PART I:

THE ICARUS PROJECT

CHAPTER 1

Scott was late. He was supposed to meet his girlfriend, Adeline, over three hours ago, but instead he sat alone at his desk in his parents’ house, bashing away at his keyboard. His gray tank top and greasy, unkempt hair, combined with two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, stood as a mute testament of his dedication to his task, as did the mountain of newspaper clippings, financial charts and assorted graphs, along with several illicitly obtained emails, photographs, and business documents, all piled in ungainly heaps around his desk.

Outside, the sun began to dip into the horizon, clothing the trees in shadow, but he barely noticed. Somewhere beyond his window, another police siren wailed. Just one of many such sirens he’d heard that day. He squinted in the bluish glow of the monitor, paused to rub his temples, then raised a glass of whiskey to his lips and took a short pull, wincing as the heat rolled down his throat and into his belly.

Adeline would understand. His work was important.

As the siren faded into the distance, Scott caught the sound of two men arguing in the street. He couldn’t make out the words, but the voices grew steadily louder, intruding on his thoughts. He tuned them out, focusing on the computer. If the men outside wanted to argue, more power to them. There was plenty to be angry about in Sunder City. As the hidden face behind the whistleblower website The Icarus Project, Scott should know.

The Icarus Project was Scott’s brainchild. He used it to fight back against the crooked politicians who used the public trust to line their own pockets. He used it to skewer the priests who claimed to be godly while they molested young boys. It was his sword and shield, his only defense against the corruption and greed that ran through Sunder’s streets like oily sewer water. He’d spent years building Icarus, shaping and honing it to a fine point, and most of all, making sure it was completely untraceable. He’d sat behind this very screen for countless hours, examining data gleaned from contacts, security cameras, and hacked computers. Along the way he learned what he’d long suspected—the streets of Sunder were paved with dirty money.

Today’s target was a handful of crooked city council members, but it could just as easily have been any number of others. From dirty cops and politicians who accepted bribes to unscrupulous and abusive businessmen, the city reeked of corruption, rotting away from the inside while those who lived there suffered.

A negative scanner whirred and clicked nearby. The series of photos showed several political figures: a few city council members and a state senator standing with two tall men in expensive suits. All the men were flanked by a handful of bodyguards. By their poses and expressions, they looked to be in the middle of a heated conversation. Scott’s attention was drawn to one council member in particular—a lanky and vile- looking creature by the name of Jack Moore, who had been a particular target of Scott’s for years.

Scott recognized the two suits across from Moore as Antonio and Vito de Luca—brothers and members of a notoriously violent crime syndicate. In a few of the photos, he noted the bodyguards carried wicked-looking machine guns. Scott recognized them as SG 552 Commandos, a weapon commonly used in the United States by the DEA. The fully automatic versions were illegal for civilian use, but that wouldn’t deter the de Lucas. Moore did not seem to be fazed by the presence of such heavy artillery, which supported Scott’s suspicion that Moore was also involved in illegal arms sales. Scott chuckled, tasting victory at last.

I have you now, you son of a bitch!

With no accompanying audio, however, there technically was no proof of an illegal exchange, but just seeing the group together, especially in the presence of highly illegal weapons, made Scott’s heart beat a little faster in his chest. His readership would skyrocket, and his many accusations against Moore would be all but validated.

Political assassination—that was the term he wanted. He would commit political assassination with his words, and Jack Moore would finally be finished in Sunder, and everywhere else, for that matter.

Scott had been investigating the city council for months, hacking personal email accounts and tracing unusual fund transfers until finally hitting a goldmine three weeks earlier. A meeting had been mentioned in one of Moore’s private email accounts, about expanding relations with a recipient known only as the Ant. This had piqued Scott’s curiosity, and he went searching for other mentions of a business arrangement with a character named the Ant.

After only a few hours of computer espionage, Scott had calculated a location—a shell of an office complex still under construction and covered in yellow caution tape, plastic protective sheeting, and miles of exposed wiring and ductwork. Scott cased the structure for two days before finding the courage to break in, but once inside, he was able to secure the building with the help of an expensive camera (and a slightly less expensive infrared motion detector) easily hidden in the fluorescent lighting. For the exchange itself, he’d be nowhere near.

Retrieving the camera was perhaps the most terrifying part. A week went by before Scott felt safe enough the breach the warehouse again, and every second that passed inside the confined space was another second Scott was sure he’d be caught, sure that he’d missed something, and sure that he was under surveillance as well.

By the time he went back for them, the batteries had long since worn down to nothing, but the images were safely stored on the camera’s magnetic media. Once he opened the photos on his laptop, Scott could have danced with joy. The Ant most certainly stood for Antonio de Luca, who had recently managed to skirt accusations of homicide, drug trafficking and prostitution—pretty standard fare for organized crime, even if none of the accusations had ever been proven. Regardless, neither of the brothers were characters any elected official would want to be associated with by their constituents, and Moore had spent nearly two hours conversing with the de Luca crime family according to the time stamps on the photographs.

Scott had taken photographs before for the project—from windows and rooftops and behind tinted windows—but this was his first experiment with breaking and entering, and it had worked perfectly. His most ambitious attempt to gather evidence yet was paying off in spades.

He rubbed his tender shoulders; his muscles were sore after a day on the bicycle. Scott scraped together a meager living as a courier, delivering packages across the wrecked Sunder City, often traveling to areas other delivery services refused to serve. He never had much money—other than his inheritance, which he used to finance his project—despite working almost every waking moment of the day. Watching corrupt city officials like Jack Moore make deals with the mafia never failed to enrage him. Moore was a city councilman, elected to help the people of Sunder. Yet there he was with the de Luca brothers, smiling like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, while his constituents starved in ratty boros and dilapidated tenements. The bastard!

His anger kept him on edge, and the edge was the only place he could function. Scott didn’t trust the District Attorney to keep the city safe by himself. DA Ferguson, as far as Scott could tell, had not been touched by the moldy corruptive rot that infected the rest of Sunder’s officials, but there was only so much he could do when most of the police were on Moore’s payroll. That left Scott in the fields, fighting the war almost by himself. He felt like David, facing off against the mighty Goliath with nothing but a sling and rock. But he would not give up. Who else would fight if not Scott?

From across the desk, his cell phone jangled. Shaken from his thoughts, he looked up from his scribbled notes, momentarily disoriented. The phone rang again, insistent. He expected it to be Adeline. A glance at the clock told him that three hours had vanished while he typed, oblivious.

To his surprise, it was Nathalie, a friend he’d met while traveling in Amsterdam. He answered with a grunt, and the line was silent for a moment. He looked at the phone to see if the call had dropped, but he had full bars. There was a muffled sound, and he realized Nathalie was crying.

Nathalie? He asked.

Nat? Are you okay?

Please meet me at Vince’s. I need you.

What happened?

Please, she said, and then quietly, I may be able to help you.

The line went dead. Scott stared at the phone in his hand for almost a minute before shoving the little phone back in his pocket. What the hell was wrong with Nathalie?

Nathalie knew all about The Icarus Project. She was one of the few people who knew his identity, and she helped him whenever she could. In some ways, she was more involved than Adeline. While Adeline had unintentionally helped found the project, she didn’t actively participate in any of Scott’s activities. Nathalie was willing to get her hands dirty—rooting through dumpsters or shimmying up and down telephone poles, or perform whatever other bizarre tasks Scott thought would be useful. She had even once applied for a high profile job at a brokerage so she could help Scott investigate accusations of money laundering. He had faked a resume for her, and she had worn a wire so he could monitor her conversations remotely.

"Please meet me at Vince’s."

Vince was a childhood friend, and the owner of Extreme, a successful gentlemen’s club on Decoulleur Avenue, also where Nathalie worked. Nathalie had danced there almost as long as she’d lived in Sunder.

Vince also knew about The Icarus Project, but he refused to be involved. He was very aware who was responsible for his fortune. As a businessman in the sex industry, he relied heavily on the underworld of Sunder City. He didn’t agree with Scott’s crusade, but at least he didn’t interfere.

Scott grabbed a coat and powered down his laptop. He didn’t get far before his ringtone sounded again. This time it really was Adeline.

Crap! He answered, Hey babe, sorry, I got wrapped up in something. I’ll be over soon, I promise.

How soon? She asked. You said that three hours ago.

Scott sucked in his breath. As soon as I can?

Look, I have something I need to tell you in person. It’s important.

I’ll be there. I just…have something I have to take care of first.

"Humpf!" Scott was left with silence. He shook his head. The right thing to do would have been to head over to Adeline’s. He glanced at the photo of his parents. His dad would have run to his mother when she needed him. In their final moments together, Scott’s dad probably did comfort her. He was like that.

He felt a small stab of guilt. He couldn’t go to Adeline now. He sat on the precipice of something big. Nathalie was a friend, and while Adeline sounded angry, Nathalie sounded like she was in pain. Plus, she had said she could help him. The allure of fresh evidence was more than he could resist. He started searching through the piles of papers and books on his desk for his house keys.

The books on his desk were a scattered mess; he needed to reorganize, put them back on the shelf. His father’s copy of Dante’s Inferno was in a stack on the corner. It was his father’s favorite piece of literature. As a child, Scott often sat on his father’s lap, and they flipped through the pages together. The illustrations fascinated him, each painting its own little nightmare. Even as an adult, Scott found the images haunting. When he missed his father, he would sometimes leaf through the book and lose himself within the illustrations. And yet, as many times as he studied them, he had never read the book.

There you are! He spotted his keys hiding under the edge of a bank chart. Scott snatched them from his desk and bounded down the stairs, wondering what could have Nathalie so rattled. He hoped it wasn’t a ploy for his attention or some completely unsubstantiated claim.

Sometimes Nathalie was a little too eager to please and occasionally wasted his time with stories that had no point or trailed off into nothing. Plenty of millionaires frequented the club where she danced, but that wasn’t really news. Scott didn’t care if a millionaire danced with strippers; he cared about drugs, extortion, and murder. Things he could use. Things he could publish.

Plus, Nathalie’s interest in him far surpassed that of a friend. She had fallen for him in Amsterdam, and moving to Sunder had only reinforced her feelings. Nathalie’s friendship with Scott was a constant sore spot for Adeline. The two women couldn’t be more different, and Adeline had a jealous streak a mile wide. It didn’t matter that Scott had told her countless times that he and Nat were just friends, and that she helped him with Icarus, Adeline still didn’t trust her. He supposed he couldn’t blame her.

After all, he reasoned, both of them called me tonight wanting to see me, and which one am I going to first? Nat.

No wonder Adeline was jealous.

Of course, Nathalie had said she could help him, which meant she had information. That was the only reason he would go to her first. Adeline would be all right once she found out he had new data to use against Moore, although he knew even then that he couldn’t tell her where he’d gotten it. He’d have to make something up, which meant lying to her.

Again.

Scott tried to force the thought out of his mind as he locked the door behind him, but it wouldn’t leave him alone.

CHAPTER 2

Scott’s eyes teared up a bit, as they did every time he opened the shed to pull out his boat. It was a constant reminder of all that had transpired in the city. While the front of his parents’ home stood firmly out of the floodwater, the creek behind the house had turned into a river. Some parts of the city could only be reached from his house by boat. Decoulleur Avenue in particular was almost an island, a fact that served the underworld well. Its only connection to Sunder proper was a thin strip of land known locally as The Narrows.

During certain parts of the year, The Narrows was almost entirely under water— not always accessible by motor vehicles, but Scott found it was always accessible by bike or small raft. Attempts to elevate the roads or build bridges had been lost in miles of red tape, a lack of funding, and diversionary legislation.

But as a courier, Scott navigated the city on two wheels, two feet, or on occasion, his skiff. He had every shortcut, every backstreet, and every alley in the city committed to memory. He could get places on his bike that no other delivery service could access, places where vehicular transit was limited, and he liked to think he knew the city better than anyone. He delivered packages for the major companies still thriving in Sunder, which meant, much to his chagrin, much of much of his work benefited Sunder’s fat cats like Jack Moore. But his occupation gave him a unique perspective of the land, and he found that more than once he’d made his way free of a sticky situation simply by knowing where to run in order to vanish.

Since the storms that ravaged Sunder left much of it underwater, a great weight had settled over the once beautiful city. Real estate developers came into the city and bought property before the displaced owners could rebuild. Jack Moore was one of many such millionaires who were using their influence to swallow the city, one block at a time.

The boat wasn’t heavy, yet Scott dragged it through the dirt and piles of garbage to the shore. Along the way, he spotted a pair of men sitting on a bench in front of a small, ratty building. They watched him as he went along. One of them lit a cigarette, which cast eerie shadows up the man’s face. Scott tensed, waiting for the men to make a move, but apparently his weathered and crappy-looking boat was not a tempting enough target for the two men, and he reached the water unmolested.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he pushed it off the makeshift dock and into the water. He climbed in, lit his lamp, and was on his way to Sunder’s red light district, where any vice imaginable was for sale on Decoulleur Avenue. Sex, drugs, guns, even human beings could be bought and sold in the shadows. The clubs there catered to the fantasies and fetishes of the wealthy, and the wealthy had vast and varying appetites.

The evening sun hung low in the sky, settling across the gray-blue water of the Pacific. The orange and yellow streaks across the horizon were beautiful so long as he didn’t think too hard about the level of toxins in the air required to generate those colors. Sunder City had begun as a busy port and a major industrial hub, and the remnants of smokestacks and massive factories still littered the horizon.

While the paddling motion propelled Scott forward, he found his mind wandering to his travels in Europe. He often wondered what it must have been like in Sunder when the storm destroyed the coastline. Meteorologists had predicted that Hurricane Jasmine would stay offshore, but instead it made an unexpected turn into the coast. Scott was in Amsterdam when the devastation began, taking the year off after high school to backpack across Europe. He returned home an orphan—alone and disoriented. He reunited with Adeline, and she spent months helping him recover from the devastating loss of his family. He had never said goodbye, and worse than that, when he was