by Josiah Upton
“Differing levels of ability...” Mr. Neal repeats mockingly, turning his gaze to the audience. “I am well aware of the drastic differences between the few Hybrids who may be considered 'civilized' – such as yourself – and the overwhelming majority that cannot. You come out here with your handlers in tow, donning your best formal wear and fake smiles, trying to pass this image off as the real Hybrid.” Mr. Neal turns to the audience. “Lies. Deception. I will show you all the true nature of the Hybrid.”
He speaks to two teachers standing next to the stage, who nod and walk off to the right, where a large canvas stands erected. One of them flips the switch of a projector, casting a bright light on the white surface, the screen glowing with the title “Hybrid Reanimates: The Consequences of Human Apathy.” Looks like I’m not done with school just yet.
“I was hoping to save this presentation for the end, to leave you all with a sobering reminder before you go back to your lives tomorrow. But it seems our surprise guest has prompted me to show it prematurely.”
He nods to the projector operator, and the image changes. Everyone gasps. The picture is of a Hybrid Reanimate, her dazed face covered in blood. I keep telling myself this is some sort of deception by Mr. Neal, that this doesn't represent the boy I love. But even Zaul told me over and over the violence someone with his condition was capable of, and I can't deny how real this picture is.
“This is the APA photo of an unregistered female Hybrid, just moments after her discovery by a team of agents. Her grandparents thought it was a good idea to keep her at home, instead of turning her over to the authorities. And here is a picture of her grandparents.” The image changes, and screams escape from the crowd. It's hard to tell what I'm looking at, but I think it's a kitchen. And there's no mistaking the blood and mangled body parts.
I look away, fighting back the gagging in my throat. That's not Zaul, I tell myself. That's not who he is, or what he would do.
“Tell me, Benjamin,” Mr. Neal says. “Would she be eligible for your foundation?” Mr. Rigg shakes his head, his smile completely gone. “And do you think this is exclusive to unregistered and unregulated Hybrids? Here's another one, inside the home of a guardian.”
The image changes to a bedroom. On the bed is a half-naked woman, bruised and beaten. In the background is a Hybrid with a hole in his head, resting against a wall stained with dark liquid.
“This one had been in the guardianship program for years, with not a single incident of violence. But one night, the parents invited a few old friends over, who considered themselves 'open-minded' enough to attend a dinner party with a Hybrid in the house. Everyone had a little too much to drink, and when one of the women left to use the bathroom, she was cornered, attacked and raped by the Hybrid. As you can see, justice was served on the spot, and the woman survived before his desire for human flesh took over. But I imagine that poor woman was never the same after that nightmare.”
Mr. Rigg raises his hand. “Truly despicable, and my condolences go to the victims and their families. But this is only...”
“And here's another,” Mr. Neal says, the image changing again. “And another. And another. And another.”
The pictures keep coming, bringing scene after scene of bloody horror. Heads in the crowd turn to each other, shaking in disgust and exchanging cries of anger. I feel myself wanting to join them. These are truly monstrous deeds, and the perpetrators of such acts, whether they were human or Hybrid, deserve swift and severe punishment.
But this can't be the whole picture. Zaul would never do things like this. He's had the opportunities to, but he didn't take them. And surely there are others like him, willing to resist their nature and do what is right. There must be some legitimate justification for my ridiculous scheme of getting a Hybrid Reanimate out of containment. Justification other than the burning in my heart. There has to be.
Just as the crowd gets restless with indignation, and the members of the Benjamin Rigg Foundation looking nervous, a loud hollering rises far above all other noise. It's coming from the school. It's Dalton. He finally got out of that closet, and past Gibbs. The nightmare is over for him.
“HYBRID!” Dalton yells frantically. Dried blood stains his chin and shirt, and as he screams I can tell a few teeth are missing. Zaul really knocked him out good. I can't seem to find much sympathy for him. “There's a Hybrid!”
“Well, of course there is,” Mr. Neal says over the microphone. “I've been talking with one for the last ten minutes!” The crowd laughs, momentarily forgetting their fear and hatred. Mr. Neal's eyes squint through his thick glasses lenses, looking more closely towards the school. “Dalton? What happened to you?”
“No,” Dalton says, gasping for breath. “I mean, there's a dead one inside the school, and another that's out loose! You have to find him!”
The crowd becomes agitated, and several APA agents around the perimeter start talking on their radios, some moving towards Dalton and the school, while others converge on Rigg and his companions. They all hold their hands up, just as confused and frightened as everyone else.
“Find who?” Mr. Neal asks. “What does he look like?”
“It's Zaul Jarreux!”
My heart jumps in my chest. By now, Zaul is already captured, and locked up tight in Colorado Territorial Containment Facility. There is no fear for his safety anymore. But at least until this moment, no one knew his secret, knew that he was a Hybrid disguised as a student. Now they all know. Now they think he's a monster, just like the ones in that slide show.
“And Ms. Womack,” Dalton says, shaking his head. “She's... she's dead.”
“Dead?!” Mr. Neal screams. “Did Zaul...”
“No. It was Mr. Jensen. He ate her!” He collapses onto the steps, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shuddering. That sympathy I couldn't find a second ago starts to make an appearance. As horrible of a person Dalton is, no one deserves to witness that.
“I... I...” Mr. Neal stutters, before dropping the microphone, sending horrible feedback through the speakers. For once he's at a loss for words.
A team of agents climb up the steps with raised rifles, poised to storm the school, but before they can, the door opens on its own. Gibbs's motorized chair slowly wheels out and stops before the agents, his one hand in the air. I turn and wade through the crowd, back to the bus stop. This is the end of the ordeal, and there is no reason for me to ever come back here.
Chapter 8
Zaul
I’m not sure how long I've been in this place, trapped in between Caesar's unbridled physical attack and the agonizing shocks of my collar. For all I know, this will go one until it kills me. And if it doesn't kill me, it will go on forever.
But it doesn't. Suddenly the blaring music stops, and so does the electricity pulsing in through my neck. Even Caesar's foot has stopped its assault as his tight, bitter face looks upward. I roll over, and my eyes follow his gaze up to the door. An incredibly aged man stands there, supporting himself on a stick and glaring at Caesar.
“Officer Ortega,” the man shouts. “Report to my office, immediately. Officer Krecker, please escort Number 1822 to my office as well...” He pauses. “Separately.”
Caesar gives one last look of revile toward me, before storming off, disappearing through the door. If this older man is giving orders that even Caesar obeys, then he must be Robert Ortega, the Head of the Facility, and Caesar's father. Maybe there is hope for some sort of order in this place, and Caesar isn't the sole determining factor of my future here.
A few minutes later, I'm back out in the long, bright and empty hallway, surrounded by Krecker and his armed officers. At least it's quiet now, the endless groaning and grunting from the Common shrinking away the further we walk. As we take several turns and pass through a number of locked doors, I find my thoughts trying to keep track, attempting to construct a mental map of the Facility. As if knowing the layout will prove useful, in the event that I am somehow able to escape.
&nbs
p; This is absolutely foolish, though. Even if I were to get out of the Common and roam these halls freely, I would need one of the officer's keycards to open the doors, and one of their rifles to protect myself against any officers trying to stop me. The last time I held a weapon, I turned my Hybrid Reanimate teacher's head into a giant stain on the wall. I don't expect to get my hands on another one any time soon.
We come to a closed door at the end of a hall, a sign next to it reading Robert Ortega, Facility Director. I expect Krecker to open the door, but he doesn't, and we only stand there in wait. My nose can usually pick up the scents of anyone on the other side of a door, but I've noticed that the ones in this place are sealed on all four sides, so this doesn't work. However, I can hear the muffled rise and fall of human voices, presumably Caesar and his father discussing what just took place out in the Common, and the conversation sounds more like an argument.
Moments later the door slides open, and Caesar's cold eyes are there to greet me. “Remember what I said out there, Ugger. Remember what I said.”
He must be talking about the threats he offered in between kicks and shocks while on the wrong side of the Common's yellow line. The threats that if I don't keep my mouth shut, I will suffer, Genny will suffer, and everyone else that I could imagine will suffer. No, I haven't forgotten that, and I assume keeping my mouth shut most certainly includes saying nothing of our Mortetine transactions over the last two months. While I would like nothing more than to expose his illegal activities, Genny's safety is my primary concern.
I offer one small nod. Though there is plenty of room, he makes a point to knock my shoulder as he passes, and storms down the hallway. My Rage simmers a little at this, though I feel more relieved than anything, being removed from his poisonous presence.
But my attention shifts as the elderly Robert Ortega waves us into his office. The small room is orderly, yet crowded. If there are any windows in here, they are hiding, for every inch of every wall is covered in pictures, decorations and books on aged wooden shelves. The scent of their pages fills my nostrils, and a brief memory of my basement comes to mind. Memories of days spent in quiet solitude, reading century-old books while the world above me went on, unaware of (and safe from) my dangerous existence. I wish I could go back to that.
“Number 1822,” Ortega says, using his cane to push himself up from his desk chair. I'm not a very good guesser of age, but he seems almost as old as my basement books. His gnarled hand gestures toward the chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
My eyes scan the chair, and a different memory fills my mind, of sitting across from Principal Vicky Womack on my first day of school. Fighting off my Rage, Lust and Hunger, and coming to terms with my new and utterly difficult life among humans. It seems as long ago as The End itself. Vicky is dead now, her body feasted upon by Brad Jensen. He's also dead. I can only wonder how long it will be before their bodies are discovered.
I slowly take a seat, my back resting against the leather that has seen many years. Luckily I don't have Vicky's soft, warm skin riling my Lust, so this office visit will be much easier to handle.
Krecker stands right next to me, and Ortega looks up at him. “You can leave, Officer Krecker.”
“But, Sir...”
“I've been in this business for a long time, and have been around Hybrids since before you were born. I know which ones can be trusted.” He looks to me, a slight smile on his wrinkled face. “Ones like this.”
Krecker hesitates for a moment longer, then turns and leaves, shutting the office door behind him. As expected, my Prisoner rustles at the thought of a human trapped alone in a closed room with me, especially one as old and helpless as this. Robert Ortega's assumption that I can be trusted will be put to the test.
“You'll have to excuse Officer Ortega's behavior,” the man says, sitting back down with a silent groan. “He has very passionate beliefs about Hybrid Reanimates, and it tends to get him into trouble. And in case you didn't notice already, we share the same name. Caesar is my son.”
I only nod in response. I already know they are father and son, and am perfectly aware of Caesar's “passionate beliefs”, having witnessed them firsthand in his disgusting excuse for a house. But revealing this information wouldn't be wise, his threat still fresh in my mind. Ignorance is what must be displayed.
“I heard what he said in the Common,” Ortega continues, “and the threats he made toward anyone, if they interacted with you. My son's distaste for Hybrid's is beyond evident, but he seemed to make a special case out of you, and it made me curious as to why.”
My muscles tense, fearing where this is going, and if I'll be able to comply with Caesar's command.
“So I pulled up your processing file, and see that you were picked up by the Collars just a few blocks from here, at the house of an APA agent...” Ortega holds a lighted tablet up, squinting to read the text in the screen. “Mr. Gordon Grest, who lives on Greenwood Avenue. Turns out he's Caesar's neighbor, so I can imagine his outrage when he discovered an unregistered Hybrid was right next door.”
My body eases when I realize my illegal transactions with Caesar are still a secret, and that his father isn't pushing the issue any further. But now the subject of my capture is open, and I might have to explain my relationship to Gordon. I haven't thought of what I would say about that, or if I should say anything at all.
Robert leans forward, lowering his brows as he looks at me. “Your processing file also states that you can talk – and rather well, too – yet you haven't said a word since you came in the room.”
I haven't? I guess not. Maybe I took Caesar's command to keep my mouth shut a little too literally. “Oh,” is all I manage, before remembering the manners Gibbs taught me. “It's a pleasure to meet you. I am... I am Number 1822.”
“You were about to tell me a name, weren't you?” Ortega asks, his weathered smile broadening. He is the head of this facility, yet his demeanor regarding me is more curious than authoritative. I find this very strange. “Go ahead, you can tell me. Who are you?”
An image comes to mind, of that handwritten note placed throughout my basement: Who are you? I would answer the question every time my eyes fell on it by stating my name, and claiming that I was a normal human. Gibbs had me do this, to remind myself what it was I was pretending to be.
“I am Zaul Jarreux,” is all I say to Ortega. In this facility, looking the way I do, there is no more illusion that I am a 'normal human'.
“Zaul,” he says, easing back in his desk chair. “And what is your story, Zaul? How did you come to the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility?”
This is what I feared. What do I say? Is there any point in lying? I already know Caesar's part must be omitted, but what about the rest? Do I tell him about Gibbs? Do I describe what happened this afternoon in my school's office?
And then there's Genny and Gordon. If I mention that getting turned in was my own idea, I'm not sure if that will have any effect on Gordon's ability to claim the reward money for my capture. If they see his cooperation with an unregistered Hybrid's plan as suspicious or conspiratorial, he might get arrested, along with Gibbs. Then who will Genny's guardian be?
I'm sure most of this will be discovered by the Collars very soon, if they haven't already. All it will take is Dalton escaping the office and speaking with the APA, or agents coming to Gordon with questions of their own. But it's too risky for me to talk right now. I take Caesar's threats as advice, and remain silent.
“I understand,” Robert Ortega says. “It's obvious you've been an unregistered Hybrid for quite some time, which means someone was taking care of you, and talking might get whoever that is in trouble. Well, I'm not interested in cracking down on the Hybrid Black Market. The Collars can worry about that. My only job is ensuring the safety and well-being of those within containment.”
My jaw nearly drops at his words. I've never heard anyone, let alone someone working in the APA's Containment department, express po
sitively their responsibility for care of Hybrid Reanimates. I have no idea how this man produced Caesar.
“Are you hungry?” Robert asks with a smile, causing my Prisoner to cackle. He leans down to retrieve something from under his desk, and pulls up a small box. I don't smell anything, until he presses a button on the side, and the top folds open to reveal two bloody pork lungs. My throat begins to burn. He pushes the box across the desk, and nods at it. “Unless you're in trouble, all containees that visit my office get a treat. Go ahead, Zaul.”
I eye it cautiously for only a second, before reaching in to grasp one of the wet lungs. It's warm. My hands bring it to my mouth, but stop when I see that Ortega is watching me. A nagging question fills my mind, spoken in Gibbs's voice: Who are you? This is irritating, but for some reason I can't ignore it. My Prisoner protests wildly as I place the lung back in the box, and shake the blood off my fingers. “Do you have a knife, fork and plate that I could use?”
“Tableware? Interesting,” he says. “Of course I do. And I must say, you have a civility about you that I rarely see in here. Even among my own officers.”
Once the pork lungs are plated, I slowly cut a piece off, and bring it to my lips. It hits my tongue, and a wonderful sensation flows through me. Even if it isn't human flesh, the meat still soothes my monstrous Prisoner.
“You might be asking yourself,” Ortega says as he struggles to get out of his chair, “if the Director of this facility is so concerned with 'safety and well-being', then why does he allow men like Caesar to treat the containees so cruelly?” He limps slowly across his office, stopping in front of a large wooden cabinet. “The answer to that question, Zaul, is balance.”
As I continue to eat, he opens the cabinet, and retrieves a small object made of swiveling metal bars, which clang together as he brings it back to his desk. The contraption is one tall metal rod set in a broad base, and one long arm attached at the top, with two shallow bowls suspended by chains on either side of the arm.
