Dirty Eden

By J. A. Redmerski

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ "A non-stop roar." and "The most imaginative book I've ever narrated." - Stephen Bel Davies, Audible narrator of DIRTY EDEN
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ "...an action-filled, suspense-laden, treacherous piece of storytelling..." - Bob Milne - Beauty in Ruins
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ "A very Gaiman/Bulgakov-esk type novel & I loved every second of it." - Goodreads reviewer
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ "I absolutely love it when I have not a clue as to what might happen next, and this story has those moments in spades." - C.L. Stegall, author of The Weight of Night
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ "UNFORGETTABLE MASTERPIECE." - Goodreads reviewer

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While on his way to the office one morning, Norman Reeves' daily commute derails when a run-in with a stranger makes him question not only the whereabouts of his wallet but also his sanity. The stranger tells Norman he must choose from three bizarre people, to take one of them with him on a journey—and he cannot refuse. The stranger? None other than the Devil. The journey? Find the center of Eden and reverse the Fall of Man.

 

Thrust into a place called Creation, Norman's task is plagued by unimaginable people and events. He must unravel impossible clues to free the Three Trees and keep himself out of Hell at the same time. On this surreal journey, Norman discovers many things better left unknown: the shocking secret lives of people close to him, and the terrible reason why he was chosen for this mission.

 

If Norman succeeds, his rewards will be unimaginable. But should Norman fail, like all visitors to Creation, he will forget everyone and everything he has ever known, becoming part of the madness that was once the Paradise of Eden.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Ann Tacu
• Release date: Jun 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201218089

J. A. Redmerski

J.A. Redmerski, New York Times, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of THE EDGE OF NEVER lives in North Little Rock, Arkansas with her three children and a Maltese. She is a lover of television and books that push boundaries and is a huge fan of AMC’s The Walking Dead.

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, historical events, businesses, companies, products, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 J.A. Redmerski

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole, or in part, and in any form.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without prior written permission is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

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Cover Illustration by Daniele Serra | www.danieleserra.com

Crow image by Pedro Medeiros (deadinsane)

Cover design & interior formatting by Lonely Raven Studios | J.A. Redmerski

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J.A. Redmerski | DIRTY EDEN

Fiction – Contemporary Fantasy

Table of Contents

1 - STUPIDITY 3:8,9 If it feels wrong, it probably is.

2

GREED 5:86 It inflicts the same damage even in small sizes.

3

RAGE 9:6-10 Sometimes, one must accept unacceptable circumstances.

4

INEBRIETY 1:7,8 And on the Eighth Day, God gave us ale and it was good.

5

LUST 6:1-69 Damn you, ADHD!

6

GLUTTONY 4:11 If you must eat it raw, please use a napkin.

7

GAMBLING 2:6-12 Thou shalt not gamble, lest he get more than he bargained for.

8

REALITY 3:44 They lied when they said the truth is always best.

9

COWARDICE 10:8,9 Screw being the hero.

10

VANITY 8:4-10 Oh, the things I see when I look away from the likes of me!

11

DISAVOWAL 6:1 Embrace The Truth and it will set you free.

12

VIOLENCE 2:1-7 Proof that mankind is...well, an oxymoron.

13

REPETITION 9:9-99 The reason why in life nothing lasts forever.

14

AFTERMATH 5:66 Upon realizing, this ain’t no joke.

15

NARCISSISM 1:4-12 Love thyself, lose thyself.

16

HATRED 13:5-7 It is fuel for the dying soul.

17

ARTIFICE 7:9,10 When Man became craftier than the Devil.

18

MASTURBATION 1:1 The only constant in any man’s life.

19

DEATH 1:2,3 He and Time have been competing since the Beginning.

20

THE GARDEN OF EDEN 7:7-9 What the fuck?

21

RETRIBUTION 97:2-9 No form of vengeance ever comes without consequence.

PRAISE FOR DIRTY EDEN

––––––––

A non-stop roar. and The most imaginative book I’ve ever narrated.

-Stephen Bel Davies, Audible narrator of DIRTY EDEN

—-

Dirty Eden is a wonderfully epic dark fantasy. It's a very Gaiman/Bulgakov-esk type novel & I loved every second of it.

- Goodreads reviewer

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I absolutely love it when I have not a clue as to what might happen next, and this story has those moments in spades.

- C.L. Stegall, author of The Weight of Night

—-

...this was one of the most original reads I've had the pleasure of experiencing in a long time. and ...an action-filled, suspense-laden, treacherous piece of storytelling.

- Bob Milne - Beauty in Ruins

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This is intelligent contemporary fantasy done right, and exceptionally well.

- Amazon reviewer

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Wonderfully creative and exquisite.

-Amazon reviewer

1 - STUPIDITY 3:8,9

If it feels wrong, it probably is.

––––––––

The city bus squealed to a halt, sucking me right out of my favorite daydream, the clichéd one about winning the lottery and never having to work for Hugh Bastardi again. Or anyone for that matter.

I was just like eighty-four percent of the working population: I hated my job and the tyrant in the suit who paid me; I was underpaid, under-appreciated, in a dead-end career that I didn’t spend four years in college for. I know, I know—no one was forcing me to wake up every morning and go in. Whining about it likely encompassed that eighty-four percent, too.

Still no word on that management position over at Hinkson’s? Martin asked, standing next to me on the city bus with a briefcase clutched at his side.

They hired someone last week.

Bummer, man.

I stepped off and into a swarm of people, the smell of exhaust and cologne engulfing me. Like clockwork, Mr. Yeager bustled by with his nose buried in a newspaper, the same one I would later find abandoned beside the copy machine reeking of bacon and cigarettes. Janice Bates, the nutcase head of Accounting sauntered across the street and slipped inside the pastry store. As always, I was sure not to make eye contact, because with Janice, that was like provoking a gorilla.

You should try out over at the Stanfield Building, Martin added, skittering alongside me.

I smiled dryly. Amanda works on the second floor.

Oh... Martin paused, shrinking inside himself. Well, proof right there that ex-wives are impossible to get rid of.

I laughed quietly, agreeing for once with my unlikely associate. Martin was a shit-sniffer, and Hugh Bastardi’s favorite runaround guy. I knew my job-hunting endeavor would make it back to Mr. Bastardi’s ears by way of the Martin Scovolli pipeline, but at this point, I couldn’t care less.

In a way, I hoped Mr. Bastardi might’ve felt threatened and made the move to set things right.

Fat chance.

Keep moving, Norman, I said to myself. Left. Right. Pause and let the suits from Enterprise Financial pass, or else get knocked over because I’m a peon and in their way. Just a few more steps and I’d be in the clear.

Martin went on and on about how things at the office should be: The break room was too small, he said, the Accounting department was too big; the computers were outdated and couldn’t handle shit for processing large amounts of transfers anymore; employees down the hall in cubicles had it better than we did over in the offices. He was miffed the hall monitors came around and confiscated all of the cordless mice because the office Gods were tired of footing the battery bill. Just like a million paper clips and fancy whiteout pens, batteries had been pilfered in the pockets and purses of employees for at-home use since 1989. Four of them were in my remote control right then.

Finally, we came upon Martin’s morning doughnut ritual.

All right, well I’ll catch you at the office then, Martin said as he opened the tall glass door.

I nodded and continued on my way. After all, if I lingered once, he’d expect me to do it every day and I really couldn’t stand the guy.

A little farther and my pace slowed as I slipped past the coffee shop where Kate worked, barely turning to glimpse her through the window. I knew I’d never have her, but that never stopped me from dreaming about it. Kate came in second next to winning the lottery, for obvious reasons.

Three more blocks.

I waved across the street at John Myers, and two seconds later, Phil Summers, as I did every day. I braced for the intersection at 9th and Main and sure enough, Mr. Davenport was standing on the corner waiting for the bus, a snotty handkerchief crushed between his sausage-like fingers.

Mr. Davenport beamed and raised his fat hand. A fine morning don’t you think?

I squeezed out an uncomfortable smile. Yes, it is, Mr. Davenport. I walked by briskly. Good to see you.

Repetition. It was the same thing every day of my life. The same faces, the same stress-inducing sounds, the same pointless routines. But like most everyone dissatisfied with their lives, quietly complaining about it would be all I ever did. God forbid I actually attempted to break the cycle, or else that would’ve been unconventional, and humans were genetically programmed like army ants, moving incessantly and without change over the time that they exist.

Finally, only one block from work, I came upon the mouth of the same alley I always passed without so much as a glance. But this time I stopped.

Legs.

Nice long legs with black stiletto heels on their ends. Short skirt, leather pushed up the thigh, one heel propped against the red brick wall behind her.

I looked over each shoulder warily, expecting to see a police car any second come to carry the hooker off.

Peering back down the alley, my eyes passed over every inch of her naked skin, but ultimately, I took a moral step away and back toward the street.

Where are you going? said a voice.

I stopped and turned around to place the face with the voice. A man stood on the corner. Tall and lanky and obvious.

Excuse me?

Why don’t you go talk to her?

Huh?

The man made a face, mocking my response. Go talk to her, he repeated, waving me along as if I needed the extra boost of encouragement.

Not my thing, I said, walking away. And you might want to go back to the Southside—cops’ll have your ass over here.

Though my back was already facing the strange man who I assumed was the woman’s pimp, I couldn’t help but turn around to look when there was no response.

The man was gone.

I looked all around me, over the tops of moving heads and across the intersection before shrugging it off and rounding the corner.

I’ll give you five hundred bucks, said the man standing with his back against the building. Cash money. Right now. All you have to do is talk to her.

Instantly, I was taken aback, trying to figure out how he got out ahead of me so fast.

I pressed on past him. More goddamn nuts in this city every day, I mumbled under my breath.

Suit yourself, said the man. "Guess I can’t blame you for wanting to get to work so you can process all those life-fulfilling invoices." He gestured his hand in a dramatic fashion.

I kept on walking. The need to understand how exactly he knew what I did at work all day was evident, but the need to get away from him was more imperative.

Break the repetition, Norman Reeves, he said from somewhere behind me. You’ve nothing to lose. Not anymore.

The man disappeared this time it seemed for good. I couldn’t move for what felt like an eternity. People passed me by, some taking notice to the only unmoving body on the sidewalk, which threatened to break the rush-hour procession like a stagnant domino. I was turned here and there as a different shoulder brushed against my own, as a thousand Excuse Mes’ finally moved me out of the way and into a safe zone underneath a fancy awning.

Gently gnawing on my bottom lip, I gazed across the busy street and up at the towering building where I would be late in just minutes if I continued to linger. A whistle blew somewhere to my right. An elevated train buzzed by overhead to my left, rattling the tracks in a vociferous rage.

I looked up at the building again, searching for a particular office window overlooking the city, the one I put in for last November but lost to Patricia King. And then I saw Hugh Bastardi’s office (born Hugh Westardi, but nicknamed by Martin and myself last year before Martin turned into a brown-nosing douchebag). Six years with the company and I was still stuck with the dinky office steps away from the restrooms. A few inches smaller and it could’ve passed for a utility closet.

What can it hurt? I said aloud to myself.

After a few moments of justifying and convincing, I turned on my heels and headed back the way I came.

It baffled me how much that man knew. Maybe the pair were schemers, who came to prey upon a fresh breed of Gullible. Perhaps it was a good thing I was onto them, ahead of the game; that way I could nail them before random charges started showing up on my credit card statements.

I reached down quickly then, feeling for my wallet to make sure it was still in my left pocket.

Shit! I punched the air with my fist. My collection of business cards, my expired driver’s license, the cheesy Portrait Studio photo of Amanda and me—all gone.

At first, I thought about calling the police, but that would take too long.

Gritting my teeth, I rounded the corner and marched into the alley, clutching my briefcase tighter in my hand.

Slowly, I approached her, one hand in my pocket absently fumbling the few ones and fives I had borrowed from the petty cash box at the office the day before. I moved between the scaling brick walls, feeling the smooth concrete of the sidewalk change to broken asphalt crunching under the soles of my dress shoes.

Her eyes were perfectly painted by a heavy dusting of eye shadow and thick mascara. Her golden-brown hair covered her shoulders and fell upon her breasts, barely hidden by the skimpiest leather top that I had ever seen. I thought those only existed in magazines.

I’ve been waiting for you, Norman, she said.

My chin drew back just a little and I felt the creases tighten in my forehead.

Everything about this felt...off. Completely apart from the whole wallet-stealing ordeal, something just didn’t seem right.

Yes, the woman added with a grin, I saw you watching me, could sense the jolt in your pants. Her propped foot came down from the wall. Is that what it does, or does it swell? I don’t know these things; perhaps you could show me?

I was at a loss for words. I thought about the strange and rather forthright question, but hardly found it conversation material.

Against my better judgment I moved closer, passing a stinking dumpster piled high with large cardboard boxes and trash from the businesses on the other side of the walls.

I stopped—the hooker was not alone.

I gazed clumsily down at a boy. Next to the boy stood two men wearing top hats and holding silver canes. The boy bounced a tiny colored ball on the asphalt in front of him, his legs crisscrossed. His grin made me uneasy. Something about that kid just wasn’t right either.

The longer you look the more you see, said the twins at the same time, the more you see, the less you are.

Shut the hell up, said the boy. Gonna give me a damn migraine. Besides, he’s mine.

He saw me first, said the hooker.

She looked back at me, as I stood motionless and confused. Because when something doesn’t feel right, no one ever really runs. No, we stand there sucking down a good dose of Idiocy.

And I’m no hooker, so stop looking at me like that, the woman added. You know what they say about looks and deception.

I...uh, apologize—ma’am, I said, much as a child might address someone else’s intimidating mother.

I heard noises in the dumpster beside me. The ruffling and rustling of paper, the squealing and squeaking of rats, but also there were strange little voices:

That’s mine you imbecile! You got the Teriyaki chicken yesterday!

No, give it to me!

The side of the dumpster banged and clanked and vibrated.

"I said give it to me!"

I tried to shake the voices out of my head; the paper rustled some more and then the voices were gone.

Just because he saw you first, said the boy to the woman, doesn’t mean you’re the one he’s interested in. He never failed to bounce the ball precisely the same way each time. Each was a perfect duplicate: the rhythm, the timing, the distance from the asphalt near the golden jacks to his hand. I’m the most interesting. Always have been, always will be.

But he’s a man and I’m a woman, said the woman who was not a hooker. And I’m the most desirable. She smirked at the boy from above.

"What are you people talking about? I demanded, finally able to form words that made enough sense to speak aloud. What is this—the alley for carnival rejects?"

The four looked at one another and shrugged. I realized then that the twins, beneath their dated black suits, were conjoined at the hips, sealing the carnival freak-show theory in my mind, which had been only a lame joke before.

I took two steps backward as the four pondered over my questions.

Never been part of any carnivals, said the woman.

Nope, said the boy, can’t say I have, either, though something like that would sure as shit beat standing in this fuckin’ alley.

The twins hobbled forward. Freaks and dames and boys and things; drinks and bones and shiny rings, said the twin on the left.

Ashes and earth will imprison the frail; blood of love will lift the veil, said the other.

I took two more steps back.

The boy tossed the ball at the twins, breaking his perfect sequence. It hit the twin on the left between the eyes, bounced against the asphalt, and then went back into his waiting hand.

You confuse even me with that shit, said the boy to the twins with an aggravated grunt. He stood up, slipped the ball in the pocket of his khakis and then sauntered over, stopping in front of me.

Look, the boy began, you don’t waste our time and we won’t waste yours. We want you to meet the Devil, and in turn, free one of us from his bonds.

"What?"

You heard me, the boy added. Eventually you’ll figure out why you’re here. Unfortunately, none of us can tell you.

We would if we could, but we can’t so we won’t, the twins said together.

I turned to the woman. Okay, let me get this straight...you all want me to meet—I laughed this part off inside—"the Devil—you’re on crack, all of you. Now where’s my wallet?"

The boy rolled his eyes about in a goaded fashion and then turned to the woman. Thought Lucifer was supposed to make him more accepting?

The woman shrugged.

The boy shook his head, disappointment twisting his features. Look, man, he said looking right at me again. I hate the part where we have to spend thirty minutes trying to convince you that you’re not crazy. I’d like to skip that entirely if you don’t mind.

I scoffed. "That I’m not crazy? No, I’m pretty sure I’m not the crazy one here."

Of course you are, the boy said, rolling his eyes again.

Just give me my wallet—I held out my hand—and we’ll call it even. I won’t involve the police.

The boy crossed his arms. Well, we don’t have it.

I gritted my teeth.

If you do this for us, we aren’t the only ones that get something out of it, the woman put in.

Yeah, the boy added. But that’s the part we can’t tell you.

You’re all serious...

This is stupid, I thought to myself.

But strangely, the longer I stood in the alley with the woman, the boy and the twins, hearing the voices of rodents in my head, the less any of it seemed so unbelievable. The only thing stranger was why I couldn’t bring myself to laugh it off and leave.

Idiocy.

Well, I can tell you one thing, the boy said. No matter what you do, you can walk away from here right now and it won’t change the fact that it’s his way, either way. There really is no turning back. The boy walked to and from the dumpster and the red brick wall in a bold, proud strut. His small fingers caressed his suspenders up and down. Anyone who ends up on this particular path always gets a much better deal, so, my advice is to meet the Devil willingly, listen to what he has to say and happily adhere to his wishes.

He stopped, turned and eyed me contemplatively. We can give you some time to think about it, just tell us how much time you need.

Yes, we’re in no hurry, really, the woman said stepping up closer. We’ve been standing in this alley for decades—a little longer won’t hurt. Secretly she winked at me, still trying her best to charm me in her favor.

"And do you have anything you’d like to say?" I offered the twins. Of course, I wasn’t actually entertaining this bullshit.

The twins’ expressions never changed. They didn’t seem to know emotion of any kind, or to understand the meaning of conversation.

––––––––

"Sickness of the mind comes and goes;

daggers it carries near its toes.

Tossed about voices within its head;

in its path, the living become dead.

It is certainly kind on the eyes,

but this red fox is a master in disguise.

Trust not the things you do not know,

lest you blindly become friend of your foe."

––––––––

Ah, yes, I said. "I understand that per-fectly." I turned my head at an angle, pursing my lips in a bewildered and stupefied sort of way.

The sounds behind me toward the busy street faded back into my awareness. I watched people drift by in their suits, clutching briefcases and cell phones. A city bus halted at the corner, the squealing of its brakes pierced my ears. In the distance, the roar of another obnoxious train whizzed by and I could taste the city pollution on my tongue, never noticing how evident it was before, or how poisoned by it I had become over the years of my meaningless existence.

I didn’t know what was happening, or why I was still entertaining it at all, but in the moment, it seemed the better alternative.

One hour, I said looking back at my strange company.

I really just wanted my wallet and I had a feeling that the man from before, the mastermind behind this whole goddamned thing, was the one who had it.

I would play along for now, at least until I had the thief in my sights again.

The boy nodded, his face serious and even professional if one could call it that. The woman licked her lips and smiled a hooker sort of smile, apparently still trying to buy her way into my decision—I really felt like I’d fallen right into a looney bin.

An hour it is then, the boy agreed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ball. Then he took his seat again on the ground, crossing his legs carefully so as not to disturb the golden jacks placed strategically in front of him. Back to the eerie bouncing he went.

The twins hobbled back to their spot a few feet away, canes propped to steady their awkward, uneven weight.

You’ll need this, said the woman stepping up. She held out her hand, placing a folded slip of paper into my fingers. Don’t open it until you’re ready to meet him.

I tucked the note deep in my suit jacket pocket and left the alley.

Repetition. It had been broken. I thought about it heavily as I walked away from the prison where I spent five days a week. Work was a distant memory. Marjorie, the butch security guard who waited to scan my employee I.D. at the lobby of my building, would look down at her watch in exactly thirteen minutes and wonder where I was. And in fourteen minutes, my absence would be forgotten, replaced by Carlton Finks who always arrived at precisely 8:15 a.m., scanned his card and never looked anyone in the eye all the way up to the twenty-third floor.

I didn’t know why, but for the first time since I left home at age twenty, I felt different, alive, real. As I walked past the doughnut shop again, I noticed cracks in the sidewalk I had never seen before, street signs with Sharpie graffiti I had never read. Someone’s phone number. I wondered who they were and where they’d been and if anyone had ever called them. There were faces everywhere that I never had the opportunity to study, people who I only then realized existed outside the colony. And as I neared the lake, I couldn’t help but stare out at the vastness of the water and be completely awed by its presence.

I shook the metaphorical sleep from my eyes and examined everything around me with a new understanding. All the way to the park, I deliberated my life and how much of it had been wasted by conformity and repetition. But I knew too that something was incredibly amiss, and that my missing wallet had nothing to do with it. I felt something looming, picking at my mind like a fingernail going over a scab, but I chose to ignore it, kind of like when you just know you’ll regret the morning after, but you sleep with Rebecca Hines anyway.

Reluctantly reaching into the pocket of my suit jacket, I pulled out the folded slip of paper the woman had given me in the alley. I held it between my fingers for a moment, leery of it, like holding a spider by one leg. Finally, I opened the message to find it written in black ink, in a scrawl I had never seen before:

LOOK BEHIND YOU

Nothing happened. I didn’t expect anything to happen really, but was itching to see what the note contained, nonetheless.

To entertain myself, I waited for the Devil to make his grand appearance, but apparently, the Devil was not one for being on time.

A roller-blader whizzed past, and then a man in a blue jogging suit, headphones glued to his ears. I wondered if any of the seemingly innocent people could be the Prince of Lies. Yeah, it must be him over there, I said sarcastically to myself about a homeless man sifting through the garbage.

I laughed under my breath, shaking my head, ready to admit gullibility and be done with it, but was then startled by a familiar voice.

So, you agreed to meet me, said the strange man from earlier. Wise choice.

You—I pointed at him—stole my fucking wallet and I want it back.

The man disregarded my demand and gave his clothes a quick once-over. His slacks were pinstriped; the yellow-checkered shirt he wore reminded me of a 60s-era tablecloth. His long, black hair rested disheveled on his shoulders with tiny twigs and leaves stuck in it. A toothpick dangled from one corner of his mouth.

He moved toward the bench and sat, crossing one leg over the other much like a woman might. He spread his arms out behind him across the back and sighed a long and heavy sigh.

I felt an odd pang of fear all of a sudden, though having no real idea about where it came from.

Umm... I swallowed nervously. Okay, what’s going on here?

Really, I needed to get to work and forget about this entirely preposterous misunderstanding, but curiosity and retribution won this battle an hour ago.

I watched intently, waiting, wondering how this strange meeting was going to end. Or begin, even.

So, let’s talk business, he said.

I stepped toward him, the unfolded piece of paper still wedged in my fingertips. I sat with him on the bench and began to speak, but he held up his hand and hushed me. An ambulance rocketed by, followed by a roaring fire truck on the other side of the fence separating Damier Avenue from the park. I paused to let him have his moment, briefly turning toward the commotion too, though whatever was happening was too far away for me to see. Coils of black smoke rose above the trees. Sirens, fire, someone else’s chaos. The man sat on the bench listening fixedly, as if it were important to him. And for reasons unknown to me, I dared not interrupt.

Finally, he turned back to me. Business, he went on. You agreed to meet me. Your curiosity, your desperation. I was surprised by you, I admit.

Desperation?

I was only humoring him—if this guy was the Devil, then I would admit desperation. Might as well add it up there with gullibility and idiocy. I was on a roll today, after all.

The man nodded once. Well yes, he said, you agreed so easily, asked few questions, presented no concerns. He laughed, his shoulders bouncing gently underneath disheveled dark hair. You, my friend, are one of the dumbest sheep I’ve met in—he glanced down at his