Babylon Working - Part One: A dystopian science ficton dark fantasy horror

By Davy Lyons

THE END OF THE WORLD IS JUST A BEGINNING…The year is 2066. The world is embroiled in a perpetual war. The authoritarian Union, a dictatorship that spans from America to the borders of Russia, uses the “Global Defence Authority” army as a replacement for the old United Nations, sending endless lines of troops, male and female, to fight The African Islamic League, a quasi-Caliphate that spans much of Africa and the middle East, known commonly as “The Terrorists”. The Frontline extends from China to the edges of Europe.

Britain is run by neo-Fascist party the B.F.P. and is under the firm control of aging Prime Minster Mark Collins. In London society is downtrodden and lost. Naive seventeen year old Aaron Styles is thinking about his future and has decided to join the Global Defence Authority forces, even though he is a black kid in a society where having anything but white skin severely impacts your life choices. Ghettos, known as Estates, are the common symbol of racial divide, but Aaron has been brought up in secrecy away from the notorious ghetto by elderly guardian Doctor Andrew Forrester, an 82 year old middle class white historian. The Doctor’s life has been one of regrets and inaction against the murderous political thugs that have taken society over, and now he is left devastated by Aaron’s decision to leave. Finally, together with his life long friend and ex-resistance fighter Shirley Barnes, he decides he’s going to do something about it. Meanwhile, on the front line in the Egyptian desert something very strange is happening. Twenty-three year old Californian Jake Kochowski, a Corporal in the Global Defence Authority Marine infantry, finds himself at the heart of a horrifying supernatural event, involving deities, demons and monsters, that will change the world, and its warring occupants, forever.

Using the distinct voices of Aaron Styles, Doctor Forrester and Corporal Kochowski, “Babylon Working” is a dystopian dark fantasy sci-fi horror, with a contemporary take on themes explored by works such as Orwell and Heller with the horror tones of H. P. Lovecraft and a strong dose of the postmodern visionary genius of George A. Romero and Robert Kirkman.

With elements of apocalyptic horror and speculative science fiction, and an underlying threat of Lovecraftian monsters, Babylon Working is a unique story in three parts, set in a world where the armor of democracy and free expression has been destroyed and removed. Enjoy Parts 1, 2 and 3: find them in the store today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Golden Triangle Press
• Release date: Dec 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386053408

Book preview

BABYLON WORKING

© 2016 Davy Lyons

Published by The Golden Triangle Press

http://eepurl.com/cu3prv

Copyright © 2016 Davy Lyons.

The right of Davy Lyons/David Turner to be identified as the authors of the Work has been asserted him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by The Golden Triangle Press.

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

Contents

BABYLON WORKING

Benjamin Franklin

KOCHOWSKI

AARON

KOCHOWSKI

THE DOCTOR

AARON

KOCHOWSKI

THE DOCTOR

AARON

KOCHOWSKI

They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.

Benjamin Franklin

CHAPTER ONE

KOCHOWSKI

JUNE 6, 2066 – SINAI DESERT, EGYPT,

GLOBAL DEFENCE AUTHORITY (EAGLE DIVISION)

EASTERN WARZONE FRONT LINE (SOUTH-WEST).

The armoured vehicle scampered across the desert floor, its large wheels springing up and down as they negotiated the terrain.  The rocks and stones that littered the ground formed a vague path in the orange murkiness of the fading sunset. Camouflaged in sandy brown and black, the body bounced with the rhythm of the large wheels. It was small in comparison, giving the vehicle the impression of a spider scurrying to grab its prey.

Inside, four troops faced each other, sitting on benches moulded into the side of the chassis. The men and women of the Global Defence Authority were silent, unable to converse above the whirrs and grinding of gears and axel rods. The vehicle veered off the path and bounded towards a large rock formation to the east.

Next to the large door on the right hand side of the cabin, Corporal Jake Kochowski clutched his rifle to his chest, squeezing his eyes tight as another violent jolt sent them lurching forward and then back in a second.  Just as he thought his neck would break with the next whiplash, the gears screeched and the vehicle began to judder to a slow stop.

Okay ladies and gentlemen, we are at rendezvous, please remain seated until the lights come on, we hope you enjoyed your ride, please travel by G.D.A. Desert Tours again sometime, a dry female voice buzzed over the intercom.

Fuck you, Greenwood, the girl next to Kochowski said with an eastern drawl penetrating above the fading noise of the brakes. Kochowski laughed and smiled at her.

Good shout, Duffy, he said, and she smiled back. Her pointed mouth formed a cute angle to a small rounded nose, round blue eyes glinting in the haze of the cabin. She’d only been part of the squad for a week, some welcome new blood. Kochowski’s blond hair and boyish, quarterback good looks stood a good chance of getting a smile from the girls, making life in the G.D.A. one of regular killing and fucking. He found himself forgetting the names of them all, having to use the tags on their uniforms to remind himself. Then again, he supposed he wasn’t too memorable for them either.

Sergeant Dustin Sarge Pickles strode forward, standing in front of the others, and leant forward, hand on knee. He was an imposing Texan, with slits instead of eyes and a thin mouth that looked as if it couldn’t even stretch into a smile. The sound of a pneumatic hiss and choking mechanical clank filled the cabin, and the lights flickered on before the side of the vehicle began to open.

Well, you heard the woman, what are you waiting for, people? Sarge bellowed. The three seated troopers released their seat belts and headed out of the cabin. Kochowski followed on the heels of Sarge, with Privates Duffy and McClaghan behind. The Sinai desert spread out in front of them, a sprawling mass of chunky stone and sand extending into huge rocky hills that circled the valley. The wind whipped up as they stepped forward, the grim surroundings forcing Kochowski’s mind back to the sunny beach of Full Moon Cove, his home town in mid California, where life seemed a different concept compared to this.

He’d been away at the front line for over five years, and thinking of the freckled, geeky cute face of his girl back home, Jeanie, threatened to bring a smile to his lips. The memory of the last night they had together, his eighteenth birthday party, and the night she let him do it, was still embellished in his mind, somewhere beneath the thick fog of war. That was their first time and then they smoked a joint hanging out his bedroom window. His National Service should be over by now, but here he was stuck in the desert and no sign of leave.

Holy Mother of the Holy Motherfuckin’ Lord, Corporal, do you see what I see?

Sarge turned and thrust an eye sight at Kochowski, bumping him out of that one nice thought left in his head. He squinted into the lens. A dark heap on the skyline a hundred yards in front came into focus. The reason why they’d been sent on this recon mission became clear. He gasped. Between a batch of pot holes inflicted by years of shelling and bombing was the crumpled frame of a tank. Although it bore familiar sandy camouflage, common to most military desert vehicles, there was an unbelievable addition.

Holy shit, Kochowski said.

Where the hell d’ya suppose they got that from? Sarge barked, Fucking Terrorist mothers’ll stop at no depths, I’m tellin’ ya Corporal.

Is that a… Kochowski swallowed hard, forcing a bitter residue of moisture up his gammy palate, "…a fucking Swastika?"

The skin around Sarge’s slits narrowed.

Too damn right, Corporal, that is exactly what we are looking at.

That thing must be ancient I thought they had no goddamn tanks anymore, Sarge, Duffy said.

Well I ain’t seen one since the day we nuked Baghdad… Sergeant Pickles retorted thoughtfully. Even then he sounded like a grizzly bear with a stinking hangover.

Nope. I ain’t either, Kochowski said.

What’s up then, Corporal? McClaghan said from behind his shoulder. Kochowski turned to the recruits. They both looked scared and confused.

Welcome to the G.D.A, kids…

Beats me, Private, Kochowski said, Let’s go check it out.

He exchanged a nod with Sarge and began walking towards the tank.

I don’t believe the Terrorists got hold of a fucking Nazi tank, he muttered, sure the recruits behind were out of earshot.

It don’t seem right, that I agree with, Corporal. You know my great, great granddaddy was captured by them Nasti’s in that other war. Treated him like dog dirt, Corporal. Fuckin’ Nastis better stay away from me, Sarge said.

Well I’m pretty damn sure it ain’t occupied by 120 year old Germans, sir, Kochowski said.

Sarge’s scarred face, set in a rigid frown, gave a brief nod.

No fear, Corporal, we’ll show these motherfucking Nasti Terrorist Bastards their bread’s been well and truly buttered,

His heavy hand came down hard on Kochowski’s back,

"On both sides."

Sure thing, Sarge, Kochowski said, deciding to keep the bad feeling gathering in the pit of his stomach to himself.

It took a few minutes to reach the relic, every step they took seeming to bring the wind up a touch more. By the time they reached it, a mini sandstorm was erupting around their feet. The vehicle was buried to the top of its tracks in sand and was sticking out at an angle, so the cabin was facing them as they approached.

Come on people, let’s keep this brief, Kochowski shouted behind him, Duffy, check the cabin, McClaghan, around the back.

Yes, Corporal, they said in unison. Kochowski turned to Sarge, who was brandishing his serrated knife, surveying proceedings with a grim face.

I don’t like this, Sarge, maybe we call Drone Control and get them to… he began.

Sarge, Corporal, I got something, McClaghan yelled from behind the tank. Kochowski and Pickles exchanged a glance then walked over to see what the kid was gawping at.

McClaghan was eighteen, and looked like he was lying about his age. His cheeks were pushed forward under the weight of the GDA Infantry helmet so he resembled some kind of hamster soldier, and his voice sounded like it finally broke last week.

The kid stood wide eyed, gesturing at the side of the ancient vehicle. A huge section of metal was gashed away, as if ripped by super-human hands. Wisps of red vapour glided out, vanishing up into the moist air.

What do you suppose that is, Corporal?