Sons of Vice & Virtue: The District Trilogy, #2

By Branden Holder

A man can be many things: Husband, Father, Lover, Fighter, Friend...or Enemy. In a world drenched with corruption, one detective will discover the heart-wrenching effort it takes to maintain the balance between them all.

Facing the chaos of a rising population and a brewing conflict of international proportions, the D.M.D.C.'s reputation as a safe-haven is quickly fading. Behind the scenes, government officials struggle to maintain the status quo and salvage what little remains of the District, while bodies continue piling up on the front lines of an even bloodier States' War.

The line dividing right and wrong, guilty and innocent, becomes fainter by the minute, as "The District Trilogy" continues with "Sons of Vice & Virtue".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Branden Holder
• Release date: Jan 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781502231345

Branden Holder

Born and raised in the Midwest, Branden Holder is a writer and artist from central Indiana. He currently resides in the city of Noblesville with his wife, Samantha, and his adopted feline daughter, a mischievous yet well-meaning calico cat named Calypso. In addition to writing, Holder occupies his time making artwork while operating a graphic design and marketing business. He also possesses a fondness for copious amounts of good coffee, video games, comic books, and reading.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Some folks said he went fucking nuts. Others hinted that the authorities executed him. The media remained dead silent on the matter, just like always. Either way, nobody’s seen or heard from Frank Dawson in six months.

Last time we talked was across the barren, metal wasteland of an interrogation room table. The boys in blue brought him in on trumped up murder charges, but that wasn’t the first time. When the District police finally captured his sorry ass, Dawson had seven counts of murder listed on his warrant. Not that I believed any them.

Okay, maybe just one. I warned him not to kill anybody, though. But how the hell can you stop a man who had his mind made up from the start?

Simple, you can’t.

No charges were pressed. No trials were held. Dawson just sat in lockup, cold and detached, for days upon end. Somewhere around day twenty, I marched upstairs to question him again so the brass would leave me alone. An empty bed and a cold breakfast awaited my arrival. The guys mentioned Dawson in one of their conversations earlier that week, but I didn’t pay it any mind. Then, in an instant, the bastard disappears like a patch of fog.

I know for a fact he didn’t escape, not these days. Security’s been so damn tight since the news of Joseph Porchenko’s death hit international circuits, nobody goes unnoticed. A gift and a curse for everyone.

The only remaining explanation is that Commissioner Wallace ‘relocated’ Dawson, which can mean a whole lotta different things. As far as I know, Dawson’s dead and gone. And for now, that’s all I need to hear.

I certainly don’t mean to be a heartless son of a bitch. There’s just too much going on in the world for any one man to handle.

The States’ War entered its bloodiest season last month (November), with the war torn Midwest reporting the highest number of casualties. Farmers, who once died by the plow, now fall lifeless upon scorched fields that are all too eager to drink their blood and devour their bullets. Maybe their rotting corpses will fertilize the harvests of future generations. Without their manpower and agricultural contributions, though, the approaching winter makes the future look a helluva lot worse.

When the barricades first went up, the majority of D.M.D.C. housing served senators, representatives, and other government hounds.  Only a few privileged civilian families made it inside the District’s concrete ramparts. Eventually, desperate escapees from surrounding states found their way into the city and the South End was born.

In recent months, however, the number of ‘immigrants’ has skyrocketed. One moment, the whitewashed houses of the District’s northern region reflected posterity and affluence, the next, degradation and filth. There’s no longer a North or South End, just one big pile of shit.

With the winter coming on so fast, people in the warring states must’ve thought their government would help them. Damn, were they wrong.

Bony women beg for food outside brightly lit grocery stores with enough produce inside to fill a swimming pool. Meanwhile, their children forage through back alley dumpsters in search of tomorrow’s breakfast. I try my best to help, but even that never feels like enough. Hell, I’d be bankrupt by the end of the week if I started feeding everybody. God knows Linda and I don’t have the money these days as it is.

Nobody does.

Well, nobody who isn’t somebody. The President and his lackeys in congress make plenty of the green stuff since the States’ War began. They’ve got the only resources worth paying for. Problem is, the only way you’re gonna see a dime is by prying it from their cold, dead hands. But that kind of talk can get you tossed in the slammer (if not worse), so I keep to myself and go about my business.

It’s not the most glorious life, but it could be a lot worse. I’ve gotta wife and kid—that’s more than most men. And sure, money’s in short supply, but we make do.  I’ve even got a nice little sign at work with my name on it: STEVEN W. PRICE, DETECTIVE. Who could ask for more?

‘American Dream’ my ass.

THE FAVORED SON OF RUSSIA

There’s a cold wind peppering the air this morning. As December draws nearer, the sunlight hides its warmth and my walk to work becomes an adventure through the arctic wilderness of city streets.  I bundle a jacket around my chest, but no amount of clothing stops the icy pins from shooting through holes in the fabric. Why’d I have to leave the car at work yesterday?

Reaching into my pocket, I remove a small scrap of paper.  Meaningless names sit upon its surface, waiting like a hieroglyph to be deciphered. Only now, the list reads differently than when I first laid eyes on it.

Lamb

Vermin

Jinx

Reaper

Fox

Two fresh lines slash a pair of names with violent pen strokes. Not my doing, of course. I found the list in Dawson’s shirt pocket once upon a time. Figured I did the bastard a favor by taking it away, or else he would’ve been facing eight counts of murder, not seven. Odds are, he got to this ‘Vermin’ character just before his arrest. Now I’m left with two aliases and nobody to point me in the right direction. The chill bites at my hands. I fold the slip and return it to my pocket.

Oh