Daughters of Death (Postmortem Anomalies Book 2)

by Josiah Upton

  “You eat 'em?” Rich asks with a chuckle as he swallows his last bite, then places his empty box on his head like a hat.

  “Hey!” Ezra screams, shoving Rich’s shoulder. The two stand up and growl in each other’s faces. Officer Howell quickly punches numbers into his belt remote, giving each a low-level shock. They finger at their collars in agitation, and quickly sit down in their seats.

  “Rule Number Five,” Tran says, his smile erased and voice raised. “No fighting!”

  “I don't care,” Rich says. He looks for consolation from his brother, who nods and quietly slaps his hand, as if the rest of us in the circle can't see or hear them.

  Tran sighs, shaking his head. “Walter, go ahead and tell you and your brother's story.”

  “Eighteen years,” Walt says, wrapping his arm around Rich's shoulder. “That's how long we've been here. Our Ma used to own a butcher shop, and when we turned Hybrid, she hid us inside one of the meat lockers, feeding us the expired meat she couldn't sell. One day, while the shop was closed, Rich gets the idea to sneak out so we could sample the fresh stuff. We only took one tiny bite of everything, which I'd say is pretty good. But the next day someone bought some steak that had our teeth marks. Health inspector guy comes in, asking to see inside our locker, and the next thing you know Ma is chasing him out with a cleaver!”

  Rich, who seems to have forgotten his brief altercation with Ezra, laughs and joins the story. “We come walking out, wondering what's going on, and everyone screams when they see us, and runs away. Walt looks at me, and we're like, 'Screw it!', and start eating everything in the store!”

  “Then the APA shows up,” Walt continues. “We got blood all over us, so they think we've been eating people. They shoot Rich in the legs and chest, I get shot in the gut, and they try to get my head, but instead shoot my ear off.” He turns his head, proudly displaying his missing left ear. “We're both lying behind the counter, all shot up, and I say, 'Bro, I don't think it was worth it. I think we might die. Again.’”

  Rich shakes his head, laughing wildly. “And I'm like, 'I don't care!', and we start eating again!”

  We all start laughing. Even the quiet Alice, though still reading her book, is suppressing giggles. And something wonderful happens in me. I relax, and my Prisoner seems to disappear. I stop worrying about Caesar and food and Mortetine. I stop worrying about who to trust, or how I'm going to survive in this place. For the first time ever, I'm enjoying existence with others just like me.

  “What did your mother say?” I ask, my shoulders still shuddering from laughter.

  “She died,” Rich says, letting one last chuckle slip. “APA shot her up, just outside the shop. I guess 'cause we're Hybrids we were able to heal, but... And our dad, he went to prison. That's when we got sent here. It's been just us ever since.”

  Walt clasps his hand on his brother's shoulder, and the two nod quietly. The mood has changed dramatically, and I feel stupid for asking that question. I suppose this is further proof of what Robert Ortega said, that even undead monsters like us have a heart. Emotions and regrets. I have a few myself, and I know when I'm away from the distractions that the Brains Club can offer, they will be there to greet me.

  Quinn breaks the silence. “Well, my story started so long ago it's almost hard to remember. The Hybrid Guardianship Program was in its infancy around the time I transformed, and the fees weren't nearly as expensive back then, so my father was able to afford it. But the program also wasn't as widely recognized, either. We spent years moving from place to place, looking for an area where we wouldn't be bothered.

  “We ended a little south of here, in Rye, and were safe for a while. But someone in Pueblo learned about me. A mob formed and surrounded our house, saying either to send me out, or the whole house gets burned down. My father didn't know what else to do, so he called the APA to give up his guardianship, and they came out and got me. I was sent to a new containment facility, the building we sit in today. I've been in Territorial for about fifty years, seen a lot of things change. I was here from almost the beginning, before this Club started, before Mortetine. If you guys think life in containment is hard, you should have seen what it used to be back then.

  “The only thing that helped me survive was Robert Ortega. He didn't make me feel like a monster, but an actual person. And over the years, little by little, he's made things more bearable for the containees.” Quinn pauses, nodding slowly as her white eyes stare off at nothing, before turning her attention to me. “As long as Director Ortega is here, you will survive, Zaul. It may not feel like it, but you're lucky to be in here, and even more so to be in the Brains Club.”

  “Brains Club!” Walt and Rich shout, fists in the air.

  She's right – it doesn't feel like I'm lucky to be here. She doesn't know what I left behind on the outside, the love I'll never have again inside these walls. I've lost Genny forever. And how much longer until Robert Ortega is unable to serve as Director? What will become of all the advancements in Hybrid Containment he has attained? I imagine they'll disappear the moment he dies, and his son Caesar takes over. It will be like the protection Robert has given me never existed. Quinn's words are wise, but foolish at the same time. They do not comfort me.

  “I guess I'm next,” Opha says, placing her hands on her thighs. “Let's see, where to begin... I like candlelit dinners in the Fem-Com, long walks by the Lock, getting my hands on Walt or Rich whenever I can...”

  “Your story,” Dr. Tran insists, cutting her off. “Please tell us how you came here, Ophelia.”

  She sighs heavily, crossing her arms. “Fine. You all know my tale, it's pretty simple. I was born with the Hubrens, like all of you, except my mom and dad didn't give a shit about me after I transformed. When I woke up I was already in containment. They left a note with the Director, though I wasn't able to understand it until years later. When I relearned how to read, he gave it to me.”

  She reaches into her uniform, retrieving a folded piece of paper. I'm not exactly sure how she keeps it in there, until I remember pictures in magazines of human women wearing only their undergarments. She must keep it in something called a “bra”. Opha notices that I'm staring at her chest, and she smiles, making me look away quickly. The Mortetine numbs my skin.

  “Are you actually going to read it this time,” Ezra says, “or just wave it around in the air, telling us how your parents can go 'screw themselves'?”

  “This isn't their note, Ez,” Opha says with a smirk. “When I get bored, I draw detailed pictures of the male anatomy. Wanna see?”

  “Oh, come on!” Quinn moans, snatching the folded paper from Opha's hand. “Even you aren't that Lust-crazed, so stop playing it up. Either read your note, or shut it.”

  Opha takes the paper back, returning it to her shirt with a shove. “Fine. No one gets to hear my stupid parents' letter to their poor, dead daughter...”

  “Thank you,” Tran says quickly, “for sharing, Ophelia. Alice?”

  Everyone's attention turns to the small, quiet Hybrid, intently reading the book in her lap. After a long moment of silence, it seems she either didn't hear Dr. Tran, or is simply ignoring him. I wasn't really expecting her to say much of anything anyway. But then she slowly folds the book, and looks up at us, only briefly holding each of our gazes in between long periods of staring at the floor.

  “I'm Alice. I was out by myself for a while after transformation, then the Collars picked me up. I've been here for two years.”

  The way she ends her sentence sounds like she has more to say, but that's all she offers. It isn't long before she opens her book again, becoming oblivious to the rest of us. Ezra leans over to me. “That's more than she usually says.”

  His words only echo dully into my ears, because I'm still thinking about how she was out on her own for a while. Is that even possible? Where does a Hybrid go by themselves, and what do they do? How do they eat, or avoid capture? I think back over the years under Gibbs’s house, and I couldn't imagine wha
t the beginning of my second life would be like if it was just me, taking care of myself. Alice's brief account intrigues me, but there isn't much information. Just enough to make me wonder.

  “Thank you, Alice. You are always welcome to tell more of your story, whenever you feel comfortable enough to.” Alice doesn't respond to Dr. Tran, but her head nods slightly. Tran turns to me, and I swallow hard, the piece of meat I was chewing sliding slowly down my throat. It's now my turn. “Zaul?”

  My eyes move across the faces in the room, other creatures just like me. Other unwanted freaks, anomalies of the human body continuing to function after death. I've never had fellow Hybrids to confide my story in. Perhaps they will understand my story, having lived a similar one themselves. Maybe it's time I let them know who I am.

  I take a deep breath. “The first thing I remember is waking up in the back of a truck.”

  Chapter 15

  Genny

  The mountains and trees roll by as we move north, offering prettier scenery than the semi-desert landscapes of Pueblo, where we boarded a second bus. Our destination is the Benjamin Rigg Foundation, located in the heart of Denver.

  I've been to this large city before, I think, when I was seven or eight. It was during one of my dad's rare moments of clarity, when he realized he'd spent more time working and grieving than being an actual parent. We took a trip to go see a goofy traveling concert for kids, The Golly Jolly Jumpies. It was a loud and obnoxious display of colorful characters dancing around on stage, trying to get everyone to sing along. I don't think I laughed or smiled once, let alone sang. Maybe it was because I was too old for that sort of thing. Maybe it was because the lady leading on stage looked a lot like the dead woman in our family photos.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Dalton snoring in the seat next to me. Even though he's unconscious, his face pressed up against the window, I'm as far away from him as I can manage, almost falling over into the aisle. Despite the significant attitude adjustment brought on by his close shave with a violent death, I still can't forget the crude, insufferable jerk he was before. And I can't stand the thought of anyone thinking we're more than acquaintances, not even the handful of fellow riders on this bus.

  If I could have, I would have made this trip without him. But he demanded that he come along, to ensure all that money isn't suckered out of me by a shady organization taking advantage of a fragile female...

  Gag.

  The money itself is stacks of cash in Dalton's backpack. I asked why he didn't deposit the APA check to a bank account, and just write a check to the Foundation when the time came. He said he wouldn't trust any bank with that much money, and I said it was ridiculously foolish to carry that much cash out in the open. And especially when it's just lying in your lap while you sleep. I guess it's his money, so he decides how it's handled. But I can't help myself from every few minutes eyeing warily the strangers that surround us.

  After I take one paranoid sweep around me, I look down at the Benjamin Rigg Foundation pamphlet in my hand. It's already showing signs of wear from flipping through its four pages over the last few days, rereading information I doubtless now know by heart. I kept it hidden in my desk drawer, next to the razor blade. Never taking it out when my dad was home. I resolved myself to tell him, especially since this plan meets his condition of “legal”. But I still haven't found the courage, or the right time. And if he knew Dalton was involved, he'd put the brakes on it immediately. I'll have to tell him when everything is in place. And I hope I can make it home tonight before he does.

  My eyes focus on Benjamin Rigg's face, searching his eyes for any clue as to what I might expect this afternoon, before moving to the printed words: Is Hybrid Welfare Guardianship Right For Your Loved One?

  My loved one isn't a brother or sister, or a child of my own. It's the strange boy that, against all sound logic, became my closest friend. Despite the danger, despite everything different about him and everything he believes is wrong inside. It's been over a week, but I'm still thinking about that kiss in the cold rain. It warms my skin, gives my insides a sensation that is both wrenching and delightful. What would he think, if he could see me here, sitting next to Dalton?

  The good feelings disappear, replaced with guilt. I scoot a little further to the edge of my seat.

  Our bus slows to exit the highway and makes its way into downtown Denver, snaking through a cluster of tall, ancient buildings that make Pueblo and Cañon City look minuscule in comparison. All this was built over a century ago, once filled with hundreds of thousands of citizens conducting their daily lives – building businesses and empires and families. Completely unaware of the cannibalistic disease that would race towards them from the east. Those several thousand citizens turned into several thousand hungry corpses in just a matter of days. Streets filled with the dead.

  They say it took seven years to eradicate all the Reanimates from the nation. I can only imagine the lengths the survivors had to go to pull that off. Going block by block, street by street, destroying every Reanimate out in the open. And then clearing each building, one at a time, making sure none escape. We pass a mammoth structure, probably over fifty stories high. Every room on every level had to be checked. I'm sure that rode a fine line of tedium and terror.

  “Next stop, 14th and Champa,” the driver announces over the speaker.

  I poke Dalton with the pamphlet, still not comfortable enough to even nudge him with my elbow. “Hey, we're almost there.”

  “Huh?” he asks in a daze, peeling his face from the window. There's a large red mark on his cheek, and the left side of his hair is a comical mess, but I don't laugh. “That didn't take very long.”

  “It took over two hours,” I say, annoyed. “Did you sleep well, Princess?”

  He doesn't respond to my jab, only stretches as he lets out a big yawn. “Do you know where we go from here?”

  The bus halts, and most of the passengers stand to exit. “It isn't far, just try to stay awake on the way. You can do that, right?”

  We make our way, and every skyward-stretching structure we pass is the one I think we need, until I see the address doesn't match up. There's actually quite a bit of people walking up and down the streets, dressed professionally, probably on their way to lunch. But compared to the sheer size and number of the downtown buildings, the scene is vastly underpopulated. I wonder if Denver will ever return to its supposed former urban glory.

  I finally spot the address for the Benjamin Rigg Foundation headquarters. It's not a posh, mile-high tower, but a run-down white cube standing only a few stories tall, converted from a fossilized department store that barely withstood The End. But the ugliest part about it all is the small congregation of people standing at its entrance, screaming, holding up signs reading “UGGER LOVERS” and “DON'T SUPPORT SLUDGE!” I can't escape this ignorant hatred, even in the biggest of cities.

  “Whoa,” Dalton says, holding me back with his hand. I retreat a step so we aren't touching anymore. “Are you sure you want to go through that crowd to get inside? They're gonna scream at us, maybe throw rotten fruit or something.”

  “I stopped caring what people thought about me a long time ago,” I say, stepping around his guarding arm. “Let's go... Unless you want to pick up a sign and join them?”

  “That's not who I am,” he says. “Not anymore.”

  “But you're not like me, either?” I ask. I know I shouldn't push buttons, especially since he's the one funding this whole thing, but I can't help myself.

  “Don't make me take sides,” he grunts. “I'm surprised my annoying conscience has brought me this far.”

  “And I'm surprised to discover you have a conscience at all,” I joke. He gives me a look that confirms he really is Dalton, and not some impostor in a mask. “But thank you. Seriously.”

  “Whatever,” he says, walking toward the small mob. “Let's just get this over with. Maybe if I'm lucky, someone will get in my face, and I'll get to punch theirs.”

 
Yep. Definitely Dalton.

  The throng of protesters aren't easy to maneuver through. Once they notice we aren't shouting or holding anti-Hybrid signs, they see us as the enemy, and turn their attention on us. One man calls me a Sludge Sympathizer, and spits at me. He misses, but Dalton still uses this as an excuse to let out some of the steam in his hothead, pushing the offender to the ground. I don't quite like him retaliating on my behalf, but at least that asshole is out of my way.

  We get out of the commotion unassaulted (except for some lady that grabbed my collar and stretched my shirt), and arrive at the headquarters entrance, where a man in a suit stands, assisted by a local police officer. He holds up his hand as we approach. “This building is private property, no protesters allowed inside. If you're here to voice your opinion, take it to the sidewalk.”

  “We aren't protesters,” I say. I unfold the pamphlet and hold it up to him. “We're here about the Hybrid Welfare Guardianship program.”

  The man lowers his hand, but raises his eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Appointment? Damn, I didn't know we needed one. I'm going to feel pretty stupid if we came all the way out here, just to be turned away because I didn't call in advance. I shake my head.

  “If you wish to meet with a representative of the foundation, you must first make an...”

  “We're for real,” Dalton says, unzipping his backpack. “Look.” He opens the bag slightly to reveal multiple stacks of green. I knew they were in there, but this is the first time I've actually seen it all with my own eyes. With that angry mob still shouting behind us, it feels we'll be pounced on any second, regardless of the armed cop present. I stand by the opinion that carrying that much cash in public is really, really dumb.

  The man in the suit eyes us both with suspicion, then reaches behind to open the door. “We'll have to check you both, and that bag, for any weapons or recording devices. And just a reminder, that this is private property. We reserve the right to neutralize any threat posed to our members or staff.”