Resurrection by Steve Alten

Author:Steve Alten [Alten, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 0101-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

* * * * *

Lauren follows Sam through the Art Deco security arch leading to the front entrance. He places his hand upon the SID pad.

A holograph appears—a well-endowed topless blonde wearing a G-string. The model's computerized face has been replaced with Coach DeMaio's, the voice with that of teen pop singer Lacy Wong. "Good evening, Samuel Agler, you hunka-hunka burning Hurricane love. Please enter me so I may please you."

"Uh, thanks . . . Coach."

They pass through the weapon detector's violet indicator beam. The double doors slide open, allowing them entry into a high-ceilinged hall engorged with loud technomusic, neon holographic creatures, flashing lights, and mobs of mostly naked bodies.

Lauren leans over, yells, "It's like the last days of Rome meets disco."

K.C. Renner, who is wearing an aluminocloth shirt and boxer shorts, is the first to greet them. "My bonus baby, gimme some bone." Renner's and Sam's knuckles collide.

"Good evening, Lauren." Renner's voice turns sarcastically stuffy. "So glad you could join us." The quarterback shakes her hand, then licks it.

"You're disgusting."

"Thank you. Food's everywhere, plenty of strange . . . oops, sorry. M'casa es su casa."

The staccato pulse of the bass, origninating from surround-sound speakers strategically placed beneath the porous floorboards is literally sending music vibrating up through their bodies.

"Isn't it a bit loud?" Lauren yells.

"Yeah, great crowd. Hey, everyone's out by the pool. Come on." Renner leads them through the packed hall. Groping blue-and-yellow-tinted hands reach out to touch them as they pass.

A set of soundproof Plexiglas door part, allowing them to escape the noise into a home entertainment holograph suite. The doors hiss close behind them, shutting out the hallway acoustics.

The room is black, backlit by matching columns of ceiling-to-floor lava lamps and a 3-Dominique holographic movie projecting in front of the far wall.

As Lauren's eyes adjust to the dark, she notices movement along the floor—couples, making out in sensory body bags.

K.C. directs them through a second set of soundproof doors. They pass the food prep room and exit into the courtyard.

Humidity and the heavy scent of the pool's ozone filtration system hits them square in the face. The soothing calypso sounds of Cuban heartthrob, Elian, comes from palm tree speakers planted along the periphery.

Cheerleaders, groupies, and prostitutes, most of them naked, lounge in and around the football-shaped pool in clusters, a dozen of Sam's teammates drifting from one group to the next. Lauren spots Jerry Tucker in the hot tub, the enormous lineman sandwiched between two bare-breasted Jamaican-dyed Asian girls. Another teammate is lying on the deck behind him, passed out in a puddle of vomit.

She shakes her head. "Miami's gridiron warriors. Pillaging the village before their next conquest."

Ken Hudak, the team's heavily muscled, pine green-dyed middle linebacker, struts toward them, dragging his date, a Haitian girl wearing only a bandanna around her waist. Lauren stares at the couples' his-and-her hip tattoo, which creates the illusion of two bulldogs doing it doggy style when the pair are making love with the girl on top.

"Mule—we gotta talk, man.

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