Code Helical: Book 1

By J.C. Bell

Earth is an ugly place . . . War, religion and science have run amuck, ravaging the world to the point that humanity is on the verge of extinction. Gathering in secret, a group of human scientist hope to regain control of all three forces . . . to begin a new war . . . to give birth to a True God . . . and to pit their mastery of the human genome against the artificial mind of the robotic god, the

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Bell
• Release date: Sep 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370892044

J.C. Bell

J.C. Bell began writing at a young age. His first short story, Peter and Poon, was a disgusting, offensive, pornographic piece of filth. Unfortunately, his English teacher had no knowledge of its content and read it (thankfully, only the first paragraph) in front of J.C. Bell's sixth grade English class. Peter and Poon gained immediate attention from the Middle School Principle, various faculty members, and of course, J.C. Bell's parents. Despite J.C.'s growing popularity among his fellow students, Peter and Poon was a disaster. Remarkably, J.C. Bell's English teacher managed to set his anger and humiliation aside. And through the ordeal, he somehow taught J.C. to respect reading and writing. After finishing the first two books of his required after school reading, that respect became love. Hundreds of novels later, and that love continues to grow. Some would even argue that, since Peter and Poon, J.C. Bell's writing has somewhat improved.

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HELICAL CODE

PART I

SHEPARD

BY J.C. BELL

© 2015, J.C. Bell

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

J.C. Bell on Smashwords

CODE HELICAL

Copyright @ J.C. Bell, 2016

All rights reserved

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Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

INTRO

I remember dying . . . my enemies closing in around me . . .

The bastards manage to box me in and I know damn well what comes next – the end, a debt long overdue – and in a way I’m glad; no more running, no more hiding . . . and no more killing – eventually even life’s greatest joys lose their luster. I know I’m beaten, but even so, I give em hell, just for old time’s sake. Yeah, I make em fucking earn it – that’s for sure. It’s only after my clip run’s dry that I realize my body’s full of holes; far too many to plug. And there I stand dying, spouting blood like a god-damn fountain. That’s when I see it, the dark shroud, a familiar sight, but this time I’m on the other side.

I welcome it, for once in my life I don’t fight it – I let the shroud fall over me, and finally I know peace . . .

A debt long, long overdue.

But all good things come to an end . . .

I awake.

Somehow I survived, but you can be sure as shit it ain’t no miracle. If any of this was up to God, he would have put me underground a long time ago.

I’m healed, not just the dozen or so new holes; the old scars, the radiation burns, even the cancer, they’re all gone – like none of it ever happened. I still have the memories, but without the proof, even I begin to wonder . . .

Was any of it real?

I take in my environment . . . I’m in a metal box no taller than I can stand, and barely long enough to lay down. Another prison – apparently some asshole deemed my debt not yet paid.

Whoever my captors are, they leave me to stew in my darkened cell. I wonder what the hell they could possibly want from me, and why they would let me live?

My door is outlined in a golden glow and then I know . . .

. . . much later, once more I awaken, back in my cell.

I’m changed.

No, I’m changing.

What have they done to me?

I’ve been in many prisons in my days – some more akin to concentration camps -- but this place is something else.

I begin to wonder if maybe I’m in hell.

Based on the life I’ve lived, it’s a very likely possibility.

CHAPTER I – LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

I’m back, back in the box. Just me, the darkness and the hunger.

The hunger . . .

It’s much stronger than before, and as usual, with each passing second it grows. Raging against my prison is useless, but I do so anyway; my bloodied fists pounding against the thick metal walls, my head – a battering ram I use against my door.

Sure, there’s pain, but when weighed against the hunger I simply don’t give a fuck.

The hunger, it’s killing me. I’m dying . . . again. I feel it in every cell of my body, burning through my blood, my flesh.

I would even say my soul if I believed in such bullshit.

It always starts the same way; I feel like a god, like I could fight anything, tear the very world apart. But I’m trapped, a fucking lab rat made to run mazes, and my captors have made damn certain that God himself couldn’t possibly set me free. So I sit in my prison, passing the time by fruitlessly planning my escape – my mind, drifting in and out of sleep, filling with sweet dreams of beating my captors to death.

I’ve long since given up on any semblance of my own humanity. I’m a caged beast waiting to feast and nothing more – a starving and mangy animal. My hair is matted to my head, a mixture of filth; part blood, sweat and dirt. Normally I’m clean-shaven – not just my face; I