Daughters of Death (Postmortem Anomalies Book 2)

by Josiah Upton

  “Hybrid Reanimates?” I offer, knowing he'd end up saying Uggers.

  “Yeah, those.” He shifts forward in the swing, looking at his hands between his knees. “But then I saw one, real and up close. Coming at me with his mouth wide open. He took a shotgun blast to the chest, and still kept coming. Then he was on top of me, laughing like a maniac, spewing blood on my face.” Dalton takes a deep breath. “I was going to die. Zaul saved me, only to show me a few minutes later that he was the same as Jensen. A liar, a flesh-hungry freak of nature in disguise...”

  “Are you going anywhere with this?” I ask, infuriated I even let him talk this long. “Because whether I've said it straight, or simply implied it, you know how I feel about Zaul. If you want to throw a hate parade, you should go next door and wait for my neighbor to get home. You two would get along great.”

  “You didn't let me finish,” he says gruffly. “When Zaul came after me, I thought I was as good as eaten. Just like Principal Womack. He cracked me with that shotgun butt, and it was lights out. No way to protect myself, no one there to save me. But then I woke up in that closet, still alive. It didn't make any sense. I spent a lot of time thinking about that day. Everyone said I was brave, but I didn't feel like it. And they said I was lucky that the man in the wheelchair arrived to stop Zaul from killing me, taming him like some sort of wild animal. I don't believe that's what happened.”

  “What do you believe, then?” I ask.

  “That he spared me. Even after what I did to him, and being what he was, he chose not to give in. I think that day, I saw two sides of what an Ugger,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “Of what a Hybrid can be. Jensen was a monster, but Zaul... wasn't. I still think he's an ugly, flesh-hungering freak of nature, but in the end I was wrong about him.” Dalton looks up at me. “I was wrong about the both of you.”

  “Oh,” is all I manage to say. Dalton still looks the same, still has his old mannerisms, yet it feels like I'm talking to a completely different person. The transformation seems too radical to be true.

  “While I was processing things this week, thinking about your medical file that I...” He clears his throat again. “...stole, I realized why he was trying to get that reward money. It was for you. And if it hadn't been for me interfering, he'd have it, and wouldn't have asked your dad to turn him in for the money.”

  A lump forms in my throat. The APA was just here, probing about that very incident, looking for any reason to cry foul on me and my father's story. Somehow Dalton knows about it, and has already figured Zaul concocted the plan. “Where did you hear that?” I ask, trying to play it cool. I doubt I look it.

  “When they were questioning me about what happened, I asked if they had caught Zaul. They told me an APA agent living in Cañon City turned him in a couple hours after. I remembered your address from your file, put it all together.”

  “I see,” I say, my hands trembling. His argument with Zaul over Jensen's reward money is evidence that getting $500,000 that day was Zaul's quest all along, and was turned in on purpose by Gordon Grest, who knowingly collaborated with an unregistered Hybrid. If Dalton figured this out, then surely the APA could, if he mentioned this detail to them. Then it wouldn't be me going to prison, but my father. The fact that he isn’t suggests Dalton left that part out. I can only pray he did.

  He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small folded paper.

  “What's that?” I ask.

  He unfolds it, showing his name, the APA seal, and a large string of digits. “It's my reward for turning in a dead English teacher's corpse. One I didn't even kill. Just got the check today.”

  “What are you going to use it for?”

  “I have no idea. Doesn't even seem right for me to spend, it's not like I earned it.”

  I stifle a chuckle, unable to believe I just heard that coming from him. “The government gives Dalton Harris a fat check, and he has a moral dilemma spending it, because he feels like it wasn't earned?”

  He shakes his head. “My dad may have taught me to always be the alpha, but he also taught me to work for things, and accept help from no one. 'There's no freebies in this life', he'd say. This money, it doesn't belong to me. I thought about maybe giving it to Ms. Womack's family, but I checked around and she doesn't really have any. Only a couple distant cousins, I think. If anything, this belongs to Zaul.”

  “Yeah, well, a lot of help that will do him.” I look over my shoulder, down the street to where Colorado Territorial Containment Facility stands. “He's locked up in that building for the rest of his life. He's beyond the power of money now.”

  I hear the creak of the swing's rusty chains as Dalton stands up. “But what if he's not?”

  I slowly turn away from the street to look at him. His eyes are clear and sincere. He isn't joking. “What are you talking about?” I ask, coming only a few feet from him. A moment ago I couldn't be near him, but after what he just said, all I want are answers, no matter from who or at what distance they come.

  “Gen, I came here to apologize, and if you accepted it, I was going to bring up something else to you.”

  “Don't call me Gen,” I snap, crossing my arms. “And I don't believe I actually accepted your apology.” He arches his eyebrow. I sigh. “Fine, jackass. Your past cruelty and bullying ways are forgiven. Now start talking, before I take that back.”

  He looks up and down the deserted street, as if someone might be listening, even though the nearest soul is several hundred yards away. “I might know of a way to get Zaul out of containment, using this money.”

  “What? How?” That name that Gibbs gave me, Z-15, pops up in my brain. Maybe there actually was something to that, and Dalton found out. “Is it, like, legal?”

  “Yeah, but not that many people know about it. The only reason I do is because some guy in a suit walked into the APA waiting room, started laying out some pamphlets on the tables. The receptionist told him to leave, then picked them all up and threw them in the trash. I grabbed one before she did.”

  Well it isn't Z-15, and actually that's a relief. “What was the pamphlet about?”

  “There's something called Hybrid Welfare Guardianship. It's the only way one gets out of containment, and only if they meet certain requirements. If they can, they're transferred to a government-approved Hybrid house.”

  “Government-approved?” I ask, my skepticism heavy. “Sounds like this is just another facility, but by a different name.”

  “It isn't,” Dalton says. “The houses aren't owned or run by the APA, it's done by a charity. The Hybrids staying there are called members, not containees. They have their own rooms, regular meal plans, even visitation rights.”

  “But they can't leave?”

  “No,” Dalton says. “They can't. Once they're in there, that's it.”

  “So it's like minimum-security containment,” I conclude, “but still containment.”

  Dalton sighs. “Look, Zaul's options are limited. If you think he can just walk out of that facility, put his makeup back on and return to school, that's not going to happen. And to be honest, I think restrictions for someone who digs human meat is best, even if he is smarter than the average Ugger.”

  I cock my head defensively, and Dalton's hands go up, this time with no apology in his expression. At least I know he's being honest. I was getting suspicious with all of his “goodwill towards undead men”.

  “You might not agree with me there, but it is what it is. And that's still much better than what I've heard goes on at the facility. I don't think he belongs back on the street, but he doesn't belong down there, either. And that's the most change from the old Dalton Harris I can manage right now. Which you must admit, is pretty damn good.”

  This is true. He might not share my compassion for Hybrids, but in reality not that many people do. The steps he's taken so far are more like leaps and bounds, considering last week he was screaming “Freaks!” at us in the cafeteria. And really, what was I expecting for Zaul's life once out of c
ontainment? Living in my father's basement? Or out on the run, wondering how long until the APA catches him again? This option is actually a godsend; I just need to get over my lofty ideals.

  I look to the check still in his hand. “Where does the cash come into play? Who gets it?”

  “The money would be used to sponsor his transfer, given to a charitable organization that also runs the Hybrid house.”

  “And who would that be?”

  He pulls out another item from his back pocket, this one a colorful pamphlet printed on high-gloss paper. I unfold it, reading the title: Is Hybrid Welfare Guardianship Right For Your Loved One? Underneath is the picture of a smiling gray-skinned man with no hair, and at first I think it's just some random Hybrid. Maybe even a human in makeup, a bizarre reversal of what Zaul was doing. But I've seen this face before, in the glow of the roaring fire at the Patriot Burning.

  “They're called The Benjamin Rigg Foundation,” Dalton says. “Ever heard of them before?”

  Chapter 13

  Zaul

  “Containee Numbers 1298, 1299, 1759 and 1822, step to the yellow line. Your Higher Functioning Hybrid Reanimate Echelon meeting is about to begin.”

  When I hear this announcement, my eyes instantly shift to Caesar, to gauge his reaction. He has completely disregarded me since his sadistic rampage in that room of junk yesterday, but surely my move to a position of relative privilege and comfort would set him off. However, he doesn’t shout or spit, he doesn’t zap a random containee or punch one of his subordinate officers. He doesn’t even flinch. There is no reaction. Somehow, it’s disappointing.

  “You ready, buddy?” Ezra asks, punching me lightly in the arm. I don’t care for the mindless blow, but no Rage follows. Ever since he stuck up for me in the Rec, and Robert informed me of my official membership, I’ve been with Ezra, Walt and Rich in the Common. I can’t say they’re friends – or much less “buddies” – but something is there. A sense of belonging, a bizarre grouping of like-mindedness and common interests. It may not be Genny, but it’s something.

  When we depart the Common and file into the hall, Robert Ortega is there to meet us. “Good morning,” he says to us all, then waves me forward to walk a few steps ahead of the other males. “I trust my son hasn’t given you anymore grief?”

  “No, Sir,” I say, easily keeping step with his slow pace. “He hasn’t even looked my direction.”

  “Good,” he replies. “He may be stubborn as an ass, and quite foolish sometimes, but even he knows when to stop.”

  We’ll see about that, I think to myself.

  “Now, on to your first Club meeting. I believe I informed you of the Club having female members as well?” he says. I nod. “Have you ever been around a female Hybrid before, Zaul?”

  I have. The first was that disguised female sitting next to me on the bus, and the second I didn't actually encounter in person, but witnessed on the other side of a glass wall at the Pueblo Zoo exhibit, as the onlookers observed and laughed at her inhumanity. The memory causes a small spark of Rage. I surrender to the Mortetine, and nod again.

  “Don’t worry. The whole time you'll be supervised by facility personnel. Just watch out for Opha, though. She can get a little...” Robert holds one hand in the air, making a squeezing motion. “Grabby.”

  It seems strange, to be warned of the physical advances of a female, and not the other way around. I've only ever had to fight off my own Prisoner's ravenous Lust, wondering just how long I could endure the presence of the girls in my classes before I finally snapped. Just thinking about the word makes my muscles tense up, but sex between a Hybrid and a human – if one would ever even agree to something so dangerous – is simply not an option. Giving into the Lust would open the door for the Prisoner's Rage and Hunger to escape as well. The human would not survive.

  However, between two willing Hybrids? The scenario never entered my mind. And now that it has, I get an uneasy feeling. I think it's guilt. Despite her promise, I know I won't ever see Genny again, so whatever relationship we had is essentially over. But entertaining such ideas still feels like betrayal. Her face, angry and hurt and disappointed, fills my thoughts. I push it all aside.

  We arrive at a door labeled Higher Functioning Hybrid Reanimate Echelon. The officer standing guard swipes a key, the door opens, and a wonderful smell reaches my nose, making me forget everything else. The smell comes from the millions of pages that fill the hundreds of books lining the walls, so many more than the ones in Mr. Ortega's office. I don't even wait for the Director or the other members, I just walk in and move to the nearest shelf, running my fingers along the weathered spines of neatly organized books. If I could spend the rest of my containment sentence in this room alone, I would be perfectly content.

  “You said you were a reader,” Robert says, entering the room behind me. “I'll bet there's plenty here for your eyes to feast upon.”

  I continue to walk the perimeter of the room, and each shelf that I pass has labels, describing what kind of books are in that section. I stop at one that reads Vocational Skills. I think that has something to do with working, having a job. I can't imagine why a Hybrid would ever take from this section.

  While the other males gather in the center of the room, Robert joins me at the bookshelf. “A lot was changed when this facility began, but the library was kept just the way it was. Before the End this was once a prison for human criminals, The Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility. With these materials, prisoners could equip themselves with the tools needed to enter the workforce once they rejoined society – after their sentence was served, of course.”

  “My sentence is for life,” I say, moving onto the next section, Historical. “How long have you been the Director here?”

  “Since it started,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Almost 60 years ago, the Hybrid Reanimate Act was passed, designating all new Hybrids to be placed in federal containment facilities. At the time, the existence of this city – my hometown – was hanging by a thread. Abandoned for years, I saw the prison as an opportunity to save Cañon City. Only months away from demolition, I received government approval and funding to convert this into the largest facility in the country. It may still seem like a ghost town, but this building, and the APA headquarters across the street, are keeping this place alive.”

  Gordon told me some of this story once, over dinner at his and Genny's house. Jambalaya, I believe, which wasn't something I particularly enjoyed. If I think hard enough, I can still smell its spices. The next section I pass is small, labeled Culinary. “You mentioned that members of the Brains Club have a different... menu?”

  “Of course. And I’m sure Ezra has brought this up more than once in the Common.” Robert chuckles slightly, looking over his shoulder at Ezra. He’s trying to tell a joke to Walt and Rich, but they’re ignoring him. “That boy loves to talk, but I think he loves to eat even more, and not just because he's a Hybrid. I don't believe I've ever met one with more discriminating tastes. He's turned down good, fresh meat, if it wasn't prepared the 'right' way, and I've seen him in this section from time to time, daydreaming. I suppose he's somewhat of a food connoisseur.”

  I've heard that word before, but I'm not quite sure what it means. Besides, I'm still thinking about those pork lungs I had in Ortega’s office a few days ago. The ones I never got to finish. My stomach burns.

  “Don't worry, Zaul. You’ll get your chance to eat. I promise,” Robert says. He looks at his watch. “Seems it's time for me to leave, and for your first Brains Club meeting to begin.”

  He leaves me with a pat on the shoulder. While a Hybrid doing that is annoying, a human touching me brings other problems. He briefly stops by the others as he exits, speaking warmly, and patting them as well. So strange. I could only imagine how Caesar would react if he saw this.

  Though I would rather stay by the books, I take a seat in the circle of chairs, next to Ezra. It’s now my turn to hear his joke, but I’m not really listening. I’m still
thinking about the meal Ortega promised me.

  With my thoughts dwelling on delicious meat, my stomach starts reacting again. I consider finding some more pills to take, but decide I'd rather endure, and enjoy the food when it finally appears. If I were to get some Mortetine, I imagine it would come from the slender metal box standing in the middle of the chair circle. It doesn't look like the Mortetine stations in the Common, but I have no idea what else this object could be.

  However, I find out when a blue light beams up from the box, reaching toward the library ceiling, and stopping at another metal box that I hadn't noticed, suspended above. A series of numbers flashes up and down the beam, before being replaced by the translucent image of a man. He seems to look right at me, and smiles.

  “Hello!” the man says, his voice sounding like it doesn’t belong in this room. “You must be our newcomer, Number 1822! Tell me, do you wish to be called something else?”

  I sniff the air, and only smell my fellow Hybrids and the two officers standing guard, so this human isn't really here. I turn to Ezra. “Am I supposed to...?”

  “This is Dr. Tran,” he answers, waving at the blue light. The image of the man waves back. “He leads our Brains Club meetings. He's real, just not actually here. He's over at the APA headquarters. But he can see and hear you, so it's not weird for you to talk back.” Ezra addresses the image, “Dr. Tran, this is Zaul.”

  “Thank you for introducing us,” the man says. “It's nice to meet you, Zaul. Welcome to the Higher-Functioning Hybrid Reanimate Echelon!”

  “Brains Club!” the Hybrid brothers say, raising their fists in the air.

  “Yes,” Dr. Tran says with a chuckle, pushing the frames of his glasses further up his nose. “Another name is the Brains Club. And since you are here, it means your intelligence and levels of restraint have been analyzed, and considered higher than the average containee.”

  “Why aren't you here?” I ask Dr. Tran's image. I feel like I did in the Corridor testing, foolish for speaking with something that isn't real.