Oculus (Oculus #1) Read online

  OCULUS

  (Oculus Series Book #1)

  By J.L. Mac

  L.G. Pace III

  Copyright © 2015 by J.L. Mac, L.G. Pace III

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by:

  Wicked By Design

  Edited by:

  Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae

  Formatted by:

  Champagne Formats

  Images used under license from Shutterstock

  ISBN: 978-1-942215-34-9

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For our readers and their unending love of the written word.

  "When today fails to offer the justification for hope, tomorrow becomes the only grail worth pursuing.”- Death of a Salesman, Arthur Miller

  MY DREAMS ARE ALWAYS DIFFERENT, but she’s present in every one of them. She’s the only constant.

  I don’t know who she is as I’ve never met her in real life. She’s quite literally the girl of my dreams. What I do know is that when I see her lightly freckled face, I feel whole. She’s one of the few things in my life that makes me smile. I can close my eyes at any moment of the day and picture her. Long, straight hair that is as pale as a field of wheat. Eyes as green as the rolling hills that surround us and something more, dwelling within in them—an intensity that skewers me every time we meet in dreamland. Those eyes not only see me, but seem to see into me…to accept me. It’s such an odd sensation, this closeness that I feel with her, unlike anything that I’ve ever known while awake. Even though I know she isn’t real, I can’t wait to fall asleep so that I can see her again. Tonight, I reached out and could feel the heat of her skin. Just before I made contact, I woke up.

  I stare up into the darkness and by the slight bite in the air I know dawn isn’t far away. I’m too energized by seeing her to lie back down. Rising, I quietly dress and set out into the darkness. Stretching as I walk, I slip quietly away into the woods. When my muscles are warmed enough, I take off running. Settling into a brisk pace, I start the easy ten-mile circuit that encompasses the perimeter of our home. Running always makes me feel better and helps to clear my mind.

  My route takes me to the top of a rise that overlooks an abandoned interstate highway. Pushing myself to go a little further than normal, I jog down the hill to the roadway itself. Abandoned vehicles from a long time ago are spread on either side of the cracked, weed-infested concrete. Dark Landers have picked over just about everything, salvaging anything useful before Corp Security can come along with their flamethrowers and scorch everything.

  Light from the moon reflects from the side of a faded truck and the face of an enormous, red-haired clown leers at me. It stands before a chubby family, stuffing food into their faces, like some macabre gluttony demon. Shaking my head at the unsettling sight, I turn away to resume my journey. In the dim light a heavy stone marker beside the road catches my eye. Twenty-five miles to Santa Barbara. The stone being intact is a testament to our isolation here. The Corporations have worked hard to erase all knowledge of the old world but they haven’t erased everything.

  I hadn’t been born yet when the sky burned and the old world ended. From the stories I’ve heard, the world used to be a chaotic, beautiful place. Full of technological marvels that only an elite few possess today. Where freedom was more than a word, and a man could make his own way. A place where there were no slaves, where you could live in one place and feel safe. At least, those are the stories that are told.

  In my experience, safety is only an illusion. People who buy into that delusion are living in a fantasy world. I prefer to embrace reality, and that’s what keeps me alive. Existence means change. When you’re forced to move at a moment’s notice to stay ahead of a kill squad, you learn to appreciate change. Especially when the alternative is to stay put and end up dead.

  My name is Sicarius, which means ‘assassin’ in Latin, but everyone calls me Sic. Formed inside a glass tube, I was created in a cold, sterile place; a laboratory deep beneath the surface of what was once Los Angeles, California, now known by the Corporate designation of Sector 41, Talpa Corp. Unlike most people, I have never struggled with the meaning of my life. From the moment I came into being, my existence was filled with purpose.

  I’m a weapon.

  I live in the Dark Lands, the wild lands outside of any corporation’s control. The name Dark Lands started as a joke among corporate dickweeds because we’re off the power grid. They assume that means we all squat out here like a bunch of yokels. If they had any idea how much tech we’ve amassed, how organized we are, they would have tried to exterminate us years ago. Their entire plan of luring people into being enslaved is the prospect of technology. Electricity, running water, and a steady supply of food lure people into a web of lifelong servitude in exchange for things that should and could be readily available to everyone. Keeping the Dark Landers desperate is their way of ensuring a steady stream of cheap labor.

  Winding down from my run, I stop at the stream near the house on my way back. I’m drenched in sweat and need to get cleaned up. One disadvantage of living off the grid is that we haven’t got indoor plumbing, or laundry facilities like you would find in one of the corporate compounds like Fenra or Talpa. I will gladly take freedom over machine washed clothes any day.

  Stripping down, I scrub my clothes in the frigid water. Dunking myself into the icy depths is much worse, but I manage to rinse the worst of the stink off. Shivering, I lather up on the shore before leaping back in to finish rinsing off. When I emerge I quickly towel dry, struggling to get some feeling back into my body. Tossing my wet clothes on a line we have strung nearby, I collect some dry clothing I had hung the night before. I dress, feeling clean, if somewhat numb. It’s still a few hours until dawn, so I tiptoe into the living room to read.

  My housemate is not a morning person, and has been known to throw boots at me if I wake her up before the sun comes up. I live with my handler, a woman named Anna. She used to be a scientist for the Talpa Corporation, a member of the genetics team that created me. Anna knows all my secrets, and how dangerous I really am. Yet, with her I can be who and what I am without fear of judgment. From the beginning, Anna has never lied to me. No matter how difficult my questions, she has always been willing to answer me. Anna is the reason that I have had the chance to be more than just a weapon. We have a bond of trust and understanding that is my only link to the normal world.

  Since the beginning, she was never really on board with the experiments The Corporation had been conducting. During the turmoil, while mank
ind was fleeing the cities in search of food, she had been collected by the Talpa Corporation. Skilled workers, scientists, and valuable personnel had been grateful to them at first. Droves of people were dying in The Dark Lands with limited, if any, food, water, decent shelter and medicine. Early on, The Corporate compounds seemed like a saving grace to those who were deemed valuable enough to be given sanctuary there. Only when she was completely dependent on them had they shown her what her work would be. Genetic development of superior organic assets or in layman’s terms, ‘go build us some super slaves.’ By then, she was more of a slave herself, indentured to The Corp for all the resources they had expended on her. Disappointing Talpa Corp would have meant exile if she was lucky, a bullet to the head if she wasn’t. In those days, she probably would have gotten a bullet.

  She told me that she might never have acted if not for a fateful decision by the project leader. There had been an argument brewing between the teams working at the lab of genetics versus behavior enhancement. I was made part of the behavioral enhancement test. An old, white-haired scientist handed me a pure white, blissfully soft, young rabbit. The feel of that warm, gentle animal in my hands gave me a feeling of pure wonder. I remember grinning like a fool and talking to the animal as if it understood my words. I couldn’t have been more than three years old.

  They left me alone with the bunny for nearly an hour. By the time they returned, I’d named it Hoppy. The white-haired scientist approached me, his expressionless face unreadable. He thrust the handle of an army knife at me.

  “Kill it.” He demanded.

  “No!” I cried. I was trembling so badly I nearly dropped the tiny creature.

  When I refused, they used cattle prods to administer electric shocks to my body. They tortured me until I finally gave in. In the end, I killed the rabbit with my bare hands, breaking its tiny, fragile neck, in one swift movement. I then used a knife they gave me to cut it into pieces at the white-haired scientist’s request. Something horrible awoke in me that day and killed the innocent young child that had stood in its place.

  When he praised me for my fine work, I sat numbly staring at my blood-soaked hands. Of the horrible things I’ve done in this life, strangely nothing bothered me as much as the death of Hoppy. When the rest of the team departed for lunch, Anna stayed behind. Wetting a warm washcloth she gently cleaned me up. Kneeling down so she was at eye level, she had made sure I looked at her before she spoke to me.

  “It’s not your fault you know?” Her voice was gentle, but firm. I nodded, but looked down at the ground. Cupping my chin, she gently drew my face up so she could look me in the eye. “When someone makes you do something against your will, they’re to blame, not you.”

  Drawing myself up to stand tall, I shook my head angrily and fought the tears back that threatened to fall. “No! I had a choice. I should have let them kill me!”

  She stared at me in horror, shaking her head silently. I thought at the time that I had angered her, but later she told me that this blunt truth had shocked her to the core. From the mouth of a child barely able to talk. A child that had already endured so much horror in his young life. It was the moment when she decided to change her own path, and subsequently mine.

  The light was well above the horizon when a noise from the kitchen interrupted my reading.

  “Sic,” Anna called from the kitchen. “Come and eat. We have a job.”

  I look up from my perch on a pile of contraband books, where I’ve been engrossed in one about the War of 1812. The author has such a romantic view of warfare that I’m having trouble putting the book down.

  Books are one of the few things that bring me joy in the world. Through them I get to see the world as it used to be, and as people used to wish it would be again. They also provide me with hope that I will one day be able to understand humanity enough to fit in among them. Learning about the human condition through literature is less embarrassing than talking to Anna about it. It’s also a lot easier than trying to actually interact with normal people.

  Rising, I take the novel with me to the kitchen. Anna’s green eyes glance up at me from behind titanium framed glasses, then down at the book in amusement. She shakes her head, her more gray than blonde hair rustling against her homespun shirt.

  “Just don’t get anything on that, okay?” Her voice hasn’t changed over the years, and still holds a dry quality that often makes me wonder if she is making fun of me. “I want to be able to trade it back for equal value when you’re done reading it.”

  I nod. “What are we having?”

  Without preamble, she pushes a can of beans in front of me. I grimace, but dutifully take the can and shovel the fuel into my mouth. It takes a lot of protein to keep up with my high metabolism, and meat is hard to come by. I eat three more cans before cleaning off my fork and putting it back in my pocket. As I finish, Anna pulls out a stack of papers and motions me closer.

  “This is our next target. Hector Benson, Supervising Manager of Sector 36. Fenra. His favorite thing to do is make families trade young children to him for medicine. A real sick fuck. The Resistance is paying a premium for this one to be messy.” My expression is normally hard to read, but she must have seen my surprise. She gives me a knowing look and nods.

  “I know, it goes against rule number 1-Make it look like natural causes. But, this one is different. They want to send a message so that the next Corp jackass that comes down the pike realizes that this shit won’t fly. They’re paying triple.” I stare at the picture of the man in the stack of papers, committing his face to memory, and nod.

  “Triple…how messy?” I ask, hearing my own husky tone, I swallow hard. I’m not squeamish about causing havoc, quite the opposite. I just want to know the parameters I’m operating under.

  “The exact wording was ‘take the bastard’s manhood and stuff it in his mouth.’” When I laugh in response, Anna’s crinkled eyes shoot to mine sharply. “You think that’s funny?”

  I blink and nod. “Well it’s not sad.”

  After all the assassinations I’ve done where it had to look like they dropped dead on their own, it’ll be nice to put some of my other skills to use. And that kind of order comes from a lot of rage. I can relate to that.

  Anna gives me a guarded glance and then looks down at the picture of the target with a heavy sigh.

  “Look, even though this one is supposed to be obvious, I don’t want you taking any chances. Find a place outside the grid, away from the cameras. Far enough out that no one will hear him screaming.” She pushes the stack over to me and gets up from the table.

  I pick up the papers and start reading. There’s a lot of fragmented information about Mr. Benson’s schedule. One thing stands out, he often visits a remote shed on the edge of the compound, in an area without surveillance. My initial attack might take place there. If he’s alone, it might prove an ideal place to finish the entire job.

  I brief Anna on my working plan and then grab my gear. Everything I need, I keep stowed in a backpack light enough for me to run with over long distances. Lacing on a pair of heavy boots, I wave to Anna before heading into the woods. Our current shack is pretty far off the beaten path, and has served us well for the last month. We built it from scrap we’d found around the area. It keeps the rain off, but we will need to move on before it gets much colder with fall settling in. I run the perimeter of the property, making sure it’s still secure before leaving Anna alone.

  Travelling to The Corporate compound takes about two days of running on forest trails, and the occasional roadway. The travel is hard, but I don’t mind. Exercise has always been something that I feel compelled to do, and running is one of my favorites. Anna told me the desire to work out is something that had been designed into me. After all, what good is an out of shape weapon? Since I was very small, I remember training whenever I was left alone. I’d circuit through push-ups, sit ups, anything that raised my heart rate and moved my muscles. Despite my irritation with this compulsion, my co
nditioning gives me an advantage in the new world. In the Dark Lands, vehicles draw unwanted attention and those that do take the risk of operating a motor vehicle usually don’t have it long. If someone has something worth having, they never have it very long. If the corps doesn’t seize assets that are considered contraband, the dregs of the Dark Landers certainly are not above thievery. While a good portion of Dark Landers merely want to not just survive, but thrive without The Corps interference, there is also a good portion of Dark Landers who are bent on raising hell for the sake of raising hell.

  Once I arrive near the compound, I keep to myself, not bothering to attempt contact with the local Resistance. As a stranger, I’m not welcome, even among the general population. The Resistance would just as soon shoot me as talk to me, and The Corporations would do worse. I remain a ghost, camouflaging myself so people pass right by me without noticing my presence. I remain hedged between the two entities, working for one only out of my great disdain for the other.

  I’ve cultivated patience, and at times like this it serves me well. Living off dried meat and fruit in my backpack, I silently bide my time until my target shows himself. The intel, as usual, is lacking. Mr. Benson shows up, not alone, but with a thick bodyguard who busily scans the area in an unsettlingly competent way. One bonus is that the bodyguard doesn’t follow Benson to the shed, nor does he check the interior.

  Interesting, Mr. Benson. What do you keep inside the shed that you don’t want even your trusted protector to see?

  After they leave the area, I slip through the trees and creep up to the building. The locks on the front are serious and there is a heavy-duty security system on the door. Whatever is inside, Benson wants to be the only one to have access. Intrigued, I check the building for any weaknesses. On the back wall I find what I’m looking for. A panel bolted to the wall where an A/C unit can be connected. Taking a small toolkit from my pack, I have the opening cleared in minutes. Leaning the panel against the wall, I slip inside.