Daughters of Death (Postmortem Anomalies Book 2)

by Josiah Upton

  Robert Ortega shakes his head, out of breath from his loud bellowing. “These rooms have been out of commission for years, and the cameras have been turned off in here. No containee is to be administered corrective measures out of view from surveillance. You know this!”

  “Oops,” Caesar says, showing a smile that only I can see. “My mistake.”

  Robert walks over to me, forcing himself into his son’s view. “I’m putting the order down right now: you are no longer to interact with Containee 1822 from this moment forward. No individual orders, no corrections, no looks… nothing. And any rumors of encouraging other officers to take up this ridiculous crusade of yours will not be tolerated. Test me in this, and you’ll find yourself suspended, without pay. Have I made myself clear?”

  Caesar finally meets Robert’s eyes. “Yes, Sir. Perfectly.”

  And without even one glance cast my direction, he’s out of this strange room. Robert braces one arm with his cane, and with the other extends a hand to me. I look to the officer behind him, and reluctantly take it. Normally I wouldn’t need such a frail man’s assistance, but the jarring electricity I’ve just endured has sapped my strength.

  “I apologize, Zaul. I thought I had talked some sense into him, but apparently not.” Once back in the Rec Room, he points to Ezra. “You have your fellow Club member to thank. When I came in here looking for you, no one spoke up, except him.”

  Ezra’s eyes meet mine, and he nods. I return the gesture. It’s quite possible Ezra saved my life, and I’ll never be able to live that down. But the notion isn’t spiked with bitterness or annoyance. I am truly grateful.

  Then Robert’s words finally catch up with me. “‘Fellow member’?”

  Robert smiles. “That’s what I came in here to tell you. Your paperwork has been processed. You are now officially in the Brains Club.”

  Chapter 12

  Genny

  “What was the nature of your relationship with containee number 1822, Ms. Grest?”

  The eyes of the agent peer at me expectantly from across the living room coffee table, her stylus pen poised on the tablet in her lap. I don't often see female agents in the Collar department. My father said they would probably send a woman to interview me, hoping I would have more open and truthful responses than if it were a man asking the questions.

  We planned out our answers over the last few days, to make sure they both add up. If they don't, the best case scenario is we don't get the reward money for turning in Zaul. The worst is they figure out how long I've known he was an unregistered Hybrid Reanimate, and I go to prison for not turning him over sooner. I'm not eighteen yet, but Dad said such an offense could get some strings pulled.

  “Your relationship, Ms. Grest?” she asks again. “With 1822?”

  My reflex is to look over at my dad, who sits in the kitchen as he answers questions of his own to another agent. But that would make me seem too suspicious. So I keep my gaze on Agent Vance, trying best to hide my irritation at her referring to Zaul as 1822.

  “Zaul and I were friends. We were in the same class together.”

  Her eyebrows raise as she scrawls on the tablet. “Just friends? Nothing more?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, stalling as I mentally prepare my next answer. I know exactly what she means.

  “On the day your father turned in Number 1822, the lead capturing agent mentioned in his report that you...” She swipes across the tablet, accessing an electronic document I can’t see. “'Passionately kissed the Hybrid on the lips, as one would a human. Twice.' And this was after the rain had washed away his makeup, leaving no illusion as to what 1822 really was.”

  We knew this was going to be an issue, and my dad was very vocal about how foolish I was to plant one on Zaul, right there in front of everybody. And while my heart doesn't regret it, my brain realizes how much it complicates the investigation.

  To ensure plausible deniability, the plan we came up with had three components: One, express my disagreement over the dehumanizing of Hybrids. Two, paint myself as a lonely, troubled teen girl. And three, use my Hubrens virus and impending transformation as a misconceived notion that I am, in a way, already the same as him. Whether she actually buys any of this is a dice roll.

  “Yeah, I kissed a boy,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “So? What's the big deal?”

  “The 'big deal',” Agent Vance grunts, crossing her legs and arms at the same time, “is that your lips are still attached to your face. 1822 was not just a boy, he was an unregistered Hybrid Reanimate with the impulse to consume human flesh.”

  “His name is Zaul, okay?!?” I bark. I don’t really need to act at the moment. “He's a person, not a number.”

  “So you believe that Hybrid Reanimates are people, no different than you or me?”

  “They are people,” I assert, “just with a physical condition. And I wouldn't put you and me in the same boat, lady. I'm sure if you poke through your little gadget, you'll see I have a physical condition as well. I'm infected with the Hubrens virus.”

  “And yet here you sit,” Vance says. “Seventeen-years-old, alive and still human. Now, I’m not sure if you’re some sort of late-bloomer, but you are not a Hybrid Reanimate. Do you really think he wouldn't eat you, just because you have the Hubrens virus?”

  “Well, he didn't,” I retort, trying to bring this thing home. “And he had plenty of chances. I mean, we did spend some time alone together. Well, I guess I'm usually alone, anyway. I've got no other friends. Hybrid or not, Zaul's been the only one willing to pay me any attention.”

  “But as we've established, he was more than just your friend. And unless he had sweat-proof makeup on under his clothes – and a self-control that is impossible for a Hybrid – a physical relationship would have tipped you off to his nature. In the time you spent alone together, you two never...”

  “Nope,” I state simply. I can't believe I'm discussing this with a stranger. At least in this sense, I am glad the agent is female. “Not that it's any of your business, but I'm still a virgin. And like you said, that self-control would be impossible for him. So if we did, I wouldn't be alive, would I? Look, we only kissed, and not before his capture.”

  “But after the rain had washed away his makeup. You knowingly kissed a Hybrid Reanimate, and that seems a little... strange, to say the least.”

  I sigh, shaking my head. I guess I'll need to summarize, just to seal the deal. “What do you want me to say, lady? I was lonely, he was my friend, and he was going away forever. You think I'll get the chance to kiss anyone again?” These truths cause my eyes to tear up. I didn't plan them, but I'll sure as hell use them. “Maybe, just maybe, because I finally found out what he was, and yet he didn't attack me the whole time I knew him, I realized I'd found someone with more decency than a lot of ‘normal’ people. You meet someone like that, you do what you can before they're gone.”

  I wipe the tears from my eyes, and in my watery periphery I see my father in the kitchen. He offers a knowing nod. “No, I was not aware Zaul Jarreux was a Hybrid before my father turned him in. But even if I did, I still wouldn't have given him up. Do you wanna arrest me for that?”

  “No, Ms. Grest,” Agent Vance says, putting the tablet in her bag. “You've answered my questions. Thank you.”

  Once the interviews are over, and the last agent is politely escorted out the door by my father, my initial impulse is to retreat upstairs. Lying to skeptical federal employees about something that could land me in prison is pretty exhausting. But I know Dad will want my report on how my interview went, and compare it with his.

  “So,” he says once the front door is shut. “There were a few moments I was playing it by ear, but in all I'd say I satisfied Agent Larson's scrutiny. Of course, it helps when you know your interrogator. Most of the time we just talked about agency stuff.” He chuckles quietly, and attempts to adjust a picture on the wall – one that's been perfectly straight for as long as I can remember. “How'd things go on your end, w
ith Agent Vance?”

  Right on cue.

  “Fine, I guess. I think she bought the 'troubled and confused teen girl' act. Although a lot of that was genuine.” I look down at my shoes on the first step of the staircase, and absently nip at my thumbnail. Over the past week, it seems we haven't been able to keep much eye contact. “Looks like you'll be getting that reward money after all, huh?”

  “We will be getting it,” he corrects, leaving the entryway to meet me at the stairs. “I'm not just gonna blow this money on whatever. It's what will keep you safe, and give you a future in this home, away from containment. We have Zaul to thank for that.”

  Resentment fills me, and I still can't look at my dad. I know he and Zaul had my best interests in mind, but ever since they worked together to have him turned over to the APA, it's felt like a sting of betrayal. Double-betrayal, from the only two living souls I actually care about in this life. I didn't ask Zaul to take my place, to sacrifice himself so that I might be my father's undead domestic shame. If it were up to me, Zaul would still be here.

  And if I'm being honest with myself, a part of me hoped this scheme would have fallen apart today. I would go to prison. I wouldn't get my hormone treatment anymore. The inevitable transformation would take place, and then it's off to the containment facility, where Zaul would be waiting for me. It's stupid and it's selfish, but I secretly wished for it nonetheless. I can't undo that.

  I turn to ascend the stairs, but he places his hand on my shoulder, delaying the escape to my room further. “The final word on this investigation won't be for a few days, but I have a strong feeling it's going to work out. So, I was thinking about going down to the headquarters and picking up the forms for your future guardianship. Did you want to come with? Maybe get some ice cream while we're out?”

  “Dad,” I say with a heavy breath, placing my hand on his. “I understand how this might be cause for celebration, but I just can't. Not now. I need to be alone.”

  “Yeah,” he says, his grasp slipping from my shoulder. “Of course, Sweetie. I'll see you when I get back.”

  Minutes later, from upstairs I hear the Jeep rumble on and out the garage, leaving me in this house alone. And that's when everything hits me. I've pushed away the reality of Zaul's new life for as long as I could, somehow fooling myself into thinking that maybe he isn't in that facility down the road. But that agent kept calling him Containee 1822, and read from that report the kiss we shared, as if it were an entry in some sort of novelty book about strange-but-true facts in Hybrid history.

  That's what me and Zaul's brief time is now: History. He's gone for good.

  My eyes well with tears again. I try fighting them back, try mentally insulting myself for being so weak. It doesn't work. My new reality swallows and confines me, just like these walls will once I've transformed. I'll never be able to leave this house again. Cared for by a father that I probably won't even remember, and forgotten by the only boy I've ever loved. I won't remember him either. All that was and is my life, vanished.

  There is no point to anything anymore.

  My eyes move to my desk drawer. Last week I held the cold steel of my razor blade, remembering the many dark days that I looked to it for a fleeting rush of life in this unending gray. What stopped me was the notion that I had more purpose in life than to toy with self-destruction. Purpose in finding a way for Zaul out of containment. But all I got out of Gibbs regarding that was a super-secret entity named “Z-15”, and the firm conviction I wouldn't be able to find them, much less pay them. The idea was far-fetched to begin with, but now it seems a total no-go.

  Before I can contemplate any longer on the blade in my drawer, I hear a knocking on the door downstairs. The street we live on is almost completely deserted, except for Caesar next door, and he's the only one that might come knocking. But these days it seems he's always at work – in fact I saw him leave this morning. The only other possibility would be those agents. Perhaps they left their special-issue APA stylus pen behind. Whatever it is, it can wait for my father to take care of.

  The knocking repeats.

  “Alright!” I groan, jumping off my bed. This better be important.

  “Who is it?” I ask, peeking through the curtained window.

  Before the uninvited visitor can answer, I see just exactly who it is, and the breath gets caught in my throat. It's Dalton. His eyes meet mine. I close the curtain and plaster my back up against the door. As if he didn't already hear and see me.

  What is he doing here? Is it to gloat, with Zaul locked away while he enjoys five-hundred grand for turning in Mr. Jensen's re-dead corpse? Or maybe this visit is more sinister. He's still bitter about Zaul pulverizing his face (on multiple occasions), and has some misplaced thirst for revenge, which he'll let loose on me. I knew he was a chauvinistic, ignorant jerk, but assaulting a small and defenseless girl seems a bit of a stretch. I can't take any chances, though.

  “What the hell do you want, Dalton?” I ask, my back still up against the door while my mind wanders frantically, trying to remember if my dad keeps a gun anywhere. Living next to Caesar, it would seem foolish not to have one.

  “I just wanted to talk,” he answers.

  The calm in his voice feels like thin, metal strings sliding across my skin. The last time I heard it was at the Patriot Burning, when he burst out the school doors and screamed about the horror he'd just escaped. A rare moment of brokenness. Every other time he's used his voice to insult and spout lies, often directed at me or Zaul.

  “I've got nothing to say to you, and I doubt anything you've got is worth listening to.” I've given up mentally locating firearms, and settle for a heavy-looking candlestick on the table where my father drops the mail. After picking it up way too easily, I'm almost convinced a stack of letters would pack more of a punch. “You should just go, before I get my dad down here!”

  “I know he's not there. I saw his car drive down the road.”

  He's been spying on my house, scoping it out like a burglar would. Waiting until I'm at home alone. His intentions can't be noble. “Leave, Dalton, before I call the cops!”

  “Look, don't call the cops. I just...” He pauses, and through the door I can hear a heavy sigh. “I just wanted to come here and apologize, okay? That's all. I'm going now.”

  Apologize? I have never heard Dalton apologize, to me or anyone else. Even if it were some sort of trick, I don't think he could will himself to say it. Something is different. Against my better judgment I open the door. He's halfway down the porch steps, but turns back around. It's been almost a week since Zaul cracked his jaw in the office, but the bruises are still on his face. And in his slack mouth are a full set of teeth, the ones Zaul knocked out somehow either returned or replaced.

  But what’s missing is most startling. I don't see his signature arrogance.

  “You came here to apologize?”

  “Yeah,” he says, trotting back up the steps, stopping a few feet from the door. “Can I come in?”

  “No,” I snap. “You can say it right here.”

  “Um, okay...” He scratches the back of his head, looking like a lost puppy. I once thought he was cute, but then his personality made him look ugly real quick. That hasn't changed. “I'm sorry for everything mean I've done or said to you.”

  When the apology leaves his mouth, I realize that if it weren't for Dalton being in that office, Zaul would have the money for Jensen and his secret would still be safe. If it weren't for Dalton, Zaul wouldn't be in containment, but here with me. Some small part of my brain insists there's more to my situation, but I don't want to hear that. I need someone to blame for the fiery pain I feel, and it's Dalton who stands before me now.

  I slap him across the face, twice.

  After he recovers, I see a dark flare in his eyes, and my suspicion that he is and always will be a brute seems confirmed. I brace myself for whatever reaction may come, but none does. His eyes soften, and his hand rubs against the redness in his cheek. “I guess I de
serve that.”

  “Well, you do,” I say, crossing my arms. We stare awkwardly at each other, and my eyes search him. What he's saying, the fact that he's even here – it doesn't make sense. I don't think I can trust it. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Apologizing, talking like a civil human being. As long as I've known you, you've taken every opportunity to make me feel like a weirdo, an outcast. You've degraded me, objectified me and talked crap about me behind my back. I've seen you do the same to others, too, trying to make yourself bigger than everyone else. And ever since you and Zaul first butt heads, you've really turned up the hate. Went on a one-man crusade to get the whole school to hate us. What changed?”

  “I changed,” Dalton says, and I can't help but laugh. He should have expected I would. He looks around the porch, his eyes landing on an old weathered swing, where my mother used to braid my hair on summer days. There’s a picture of that on the wall by the door. “If I can't come inside, can we at least sit?”

  “You can, but I don't think I can even stand within a few feet of you, let alone sit next to you. You're still a level 11 on my disgust-o-meter...”

  “Hey, you don't have to be such a bitch!” I raise my eyebrows, reaching for the front door to leave. His hands raise in surrender. “You're right, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I guess not everything has changed.”

  “Clearly,” I say, letting go of the doorknob. Dalton settles into the swing, and I rest my back up against the porch railing, my skeptical ears ready to dissect whatever he has to say. I imagine this will be a short conversation.

  “A week ago, everything you just now said about me was true. Some of it still is. I don't like people telling me what to do. I'd rather be calling the shots, setting the pace. My dad used to say, 'Everybody's walking on everybody, but there's always somebody at the very top'. I'm always trying to make sure I'm that one at the top. And if there's something I don't like or understand, I want it changed, or gone. Things like... like those...”