Daughters of Death (Postmortem Anomalies Book 2)

by Josiah Upton

  “But Ben, that's over...” Thomas begins.

  “I'm well aware of the cost, Thomas,” Rigg interrupts. “We can make it work. The question is, are you two willing to make this work?”

  Dalton and I look at each other. It already feels off to me, but I'm not sure what he's thinking. His eyes return to the money. “We'll get to keep all this?”

  “All you have to do is act as if you paid the fees, to give the illusion that you indeed sponsored Zaul in the same way anyone else would. Then, with time and planning, you two can use the money in a manner that won't look suspicious. I could even have our accountant help you manage that.”

  Dalton faces me again, a concession in his eyes. “What do you say? My conscience is cleared, you get your boyfriend out of Territorial, and we're each $250,000 richer?”

  “This was never about the money for me,” I say, eyeing Rigg coldly. “And it feels completely criminal. I've already got the APA looking at me because of my dad's reward. I don't want to add any more heat to that.” I sigh, shaking my head. “No, I won't play this game. Just take the money, give us the paperwork, and get the ball rolling.”

  Rigg frowns, and clasps his hands in front of him. The white in his eyes peers eerily back at me for a good ten seconds, as he weighs considerations in his mind. “This is a unique opportunity for the foundation, as it is a unique opportunity for you to help your loved one. If an understanding between us cannot be made, then I'm afraid we won't be able to move forward with Zaul's Welfare Guardianship. I suggest you take some time to reconsider.”

  “What?” I ask in disbelief. I snatch the backpack from Dalton and toss it on Rigg's desk. “We have the money, just take it!”

  He doesn't take it. He doesn't even look at it when he pushes it across the desk towards me. He'd rather have Zaul paraded in front of the world to gain public support later than save $500,000 in his books now. It's all about strategy, a game of chess to him, and the fellow Hybrids he's given his life's work to are the pieces. It gives me a feeling of both defeat and disgust.

  He rises from his seat, breathing deeply, and pulls two pills out from his suit pocket, tossing them into his mouth. Then he hands me a small white card. “You have our number. Think things over, then call us back in a few days. Just know that I will need both of you on board for this to work. Thomas, would you please see them out?”

  The suited man is upon us, motioning to the door for us to leave. But I'm still sitting, still staring at Benjamin Rigg, wondering how stubborn he will be to get what he wants. Should I just give in to his coercion, instead of wasting time pretending that I even have any say in this? I wish there was another way to get Zaul out of containment, but this is it. I have no leverage, no negotiating power.

  “It's time to leave, Ms. Grest,” Thomas says, grabbing my arm.

  I don't like that. “Let me go.”

  Before Thomas can respond, Dalton stands up with his chest puffed out wide, and shoves him away. “She said hands off, dickhead!” Thomas ignores me and gets in Dalton's face. The two of them, one a devoted bodyguard of his brother and the other a hotheaded teen, are about to explode. It isn’t long before more staff show up, and forcefully eject us from the premises.

  Now we're in an alley at the back of the building. Though I can still hear the protesters, we're out of their sight, and safe from their harassment.

  “Well, that went great, don't you think?” Dalton asks sarcastically. I don't respond. I don't really want to talk to anyone right now, least of all him. This was a disaster. I start walking towards the street, putting some distance between me and him. He follows quickly and keeps talking, trying to continue this conversation I'm not participating in. “But Rigg's offer to cover the fees was pretty insane. If he's for real, I don't know why we wouldn't take that.”

  “Yeah,” I say dismissively over my shoulder as I near the end of the alley, keeping my eye open for any protesters that might spot us when we come out. It looks clear. I turn to Dalton. “I don't like the idea of Zaul being used as a puppet, put on public display. I doubt he'll like it either. I bet if it were up to him, he'd prefer his own private room, made to look like Gibbs's basement. Far away from anyone's eye – living or undead. But there really is no other choice, so he'll have to deal with it, and so will I.” I return my gaze to the street. “Just not right now. I want to go home.”

  I round a corner out of the alley, and the November chill whips me in the face. It's stronger than it was thirty minutes ago. My hands instinctively pull my jacket collar up, and for some idiotic reason Dalton hasn't put his coat back on. “Geez, it's freezing out here!” he says.

  “Then why don't you put on an extra layer, genius?” I ask, stopping for a moment to let him catch up.

  “I'll manage,” he says. Shivering, he lifts his open coat and attempts to place it on my shoulders.

  I shrug it away and take a step back. “Don't.”

  “What?” he asks. His expression seems innocent, but behind it lies the panic of being caught. I feel the sudden grip of realization that he brought other motives with him today.

  “Why are you even here?” I ask. I fear him lying to me, but I also fear hearing the truth.

  “I told you,” he says. “I'm trying to help out Zaul. I owe it to him.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, shaking my head. “And what about the whole chivalry act?” He squints his eyes. He might not know what that means. I use my fingers as counters, recalling his actions today. “You pushed down that protester when they spit at me, you tried to shield me from Herb's terrifying cookie assault. You nearly got into a fist fight with a security guard on private property, because he grabbed my arm to escort me out. And now, you’re offering your coat to me, even though I already have one. I mean, how much distress do you think this damsel is really in?”

  He chuckles nervously. “Uh, I was just trying to look out for you. Like any decent guy would for a girl. Seriously, I don't get you, Gen.”

  My spine tenses up. “I said don't call me that. That's the kind of thing people who are dating do. And that's what this is about, isn't it? You're trying to be my boyfriend again? Finish what you couldn't last year?”

  “Excuse me?” he asks, dropping the coat on the ground. He's no longer shivering. “Who the hell said anything about being your boyfriend? If I wanted some action, I know plenty of sluts back at school who'd be glad to hook up with me. The last thing I want is to catch Hubrens from a weirdo, who’s in love with the Ugger that was just so amazing to not eat me that day.”

  “Oh, there he is!” I say, looking up and down the empty sidewalk, at an audience that doesn’t exist. Lunch is over, everyone is back at work, and I am alone on the city street with this overgrown man-boy. It still somehow feels too crowded. “You fed me all that 'new-and-improved' Dalton crap, but nothing really changed, had it? You were never actually going to give up all that money just to help out someone you hate. Someone you don't even believe deserves to live. But I must say, this elaborate scheme was pretty crafty for someone like you. Was it worth it, though? You really went out of your way just to cross me off of your perverted conquest list.”

  “I. Don't. Do. Infected. Bitches.” He drops the backpack next to his coat. “You figure out what to do. I'm done with everything.”

  And then he walks away, in the opposite direction of the bus stop, leaving the bag and me behind. I now truly haven't the slightest idea why Dalton Harris came here today.

  Chapter 17

  Zaul

  My time in containment ticks by, each day not much different from the last. Today marks one week since I joined the Brains Club, and Caesar has kept his word to his father to ignore me. The lack of threat has given me more freedom to settle into the Club, both inside and out of our meetings.

  Now that Ezra and I are fully acquainted, he’s had me tour the Common to meet other Hybrids outside the Club, pointing out which ones are agreeable, and which ones I should steer clear of. Their level of intelligence doesn’t s
eem to factor in his assessments. And even though he abstains from the Meat Pipes, at least once a day he’ll notice a containee who hasn’t eaten, and convinces Walt or Rich to give their hose over to the unfortunate one. Their fee is enduring one joke at the containee’s expense, and a strong slap on the back. Compassion, charity, community... these aren’t things I expected from a building stuffed with undead monsters.

  Today is my first day having kitchen duty. Luckily it’s with Ezra, and not Opha, who has a reputation for making aggressive advances in the kitchen corners and backrooms where the officers’ eyes cannot reach.

  My supervisors are two male officers, and a female from Quinn, Opha and Alice’s side of the facility, standing at the door. She doesn’t need to be here, but stopped by to see Officer Benson. I assume the two are involved, judging by the way they smile and converse with each other. The loud mechanical screech from the mouth of the Juicer below me mutes their voices. I find myself staring at the female officer’s moving lips, my hand suspending a frozen turkey over the pit. She looks young. Her face reminds me of Genny.

  Then she notices me, her eyes narrowing. Benson follows her gaze, and grabs his belt remote. I drop the turkey into the steel processor, it explodes into mist and goo, and I hit the red button, quickly retreating down the steps. I escaped one more shock.

  “Zaul,” Ezra whispers in a low voice once I’m at the bottom. Some officers don’t approve of the containees using names instead of numbers, even the ones in the Brains Club. And others don’t care at all. It’s hard to keep track, so we use them cautiously outside of our meetings with Tran. “I’ve got some more.”

  He’s wheeled up a fresh freezer box, full of more animal carcasses to be liquefied for the Meat Pipes. On top is a chicken split down the middle, some baby piglets that have been frozen together, and a bull’s head, its horns sawn off. Every new box we process seems to hold more surprises, and more reasons why I won’t try the Meat Pipes again. Ezra drops the iced block of piglets into the box I’m holding. The frosty covering dulls their scent, and makes it easier for me to ignore my Hunger. Also, Robert Ortega made sure we ate some fresh lamb chops before we started our duty.

  “I know this gig seems pretty relaxed,” Ezra says, digging into the box for the next animal. I think it’s a beaver. “And the officers leave us be, for the most part. But you need to keep busy. I’ve seen you space out, and I’ve seen you look at the guards. Especially at Officer Benson’s girlfriend. If she at all feels threatened, he’ll make you feel the hurt. You might even be the next body thrown in the Juicer.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, grabbing the brown rodent by its unusual paddle-shaped tail. I never thought I would hold such a creature in my hand. I doubt it ever thought it would be held by one such as myself. “She reminds me of someone.”

  “Is it that human girl you mentioned?” he asks. “The friend you turned yourself in for?”

  I drop the beaver in the box, and its frozen tail snaps off.

  During my first Brains Club meeting I told the other members the story of how I came here. I was reluctant at first, but then the exercise was eventually therapeutic. I was finally ready to shed the secrets of my double life as a Hybrid Reanimate pretending to be a human. But I still don’t like talking about Genny, out of fear for her safety, and perhaps the fear that sharing her will diminish the light and warmth she gave me. Her part in my story was briefly described, and I didn’t even say her name. “Yes, her.”

  “The way you look when you talk about her, think about her – your face goes blank. You change. Did you love her, or something like that?”

  My teeth grit. I have a hard enough time thinking about these things inside my own head. Speaking of them out loud with Ezra holds an even lower comfort level. “Humans talk a lot about love,” I say. “There were books in my basement written all about it, and I read every word. The feelings, the actions, the consequences. I tried, but I couldn’t understand it all. I’m not sure if things like you or me are capable of love.”

  “Not sure about that,” he says, lifting the hornless bull head out of the box. “Maybe. The way Quinn talks about Director Ortega, you’d swear he’s got a special place in her Hybrid heart. He was kind to her when she arrived, and that was half a century ago. That’s a long time for something like love to develop. And then there’s Opha.”

  “Opha?” I ask, trying not to laugh. I take the bull’s head by the jaw and drop it into my box. “You mean the Lust-crazed lunatic that tried to lure Rich behind a bookshelf at our last Club meeting, in plain view of Tran and the officers? I doubt any relationship considerations she has is beyond the sexual.”

  Ezra looks down into the freezer box, shaking his head. He passes the split chicken. “Yeah, she’s definitely got Lust on the brain. She’d jump on any guy, alive or undead, if she had the chance. But I’ve seen more in her, over the years. The way she looks at Walt and Rich – and now you – isn’t the same way she looks at…” He pauses, placing his palms on the edge of the cold metal box. “Me.”

  I drop the chicken in my box, but it feels more like it just fell out of my hand. I’m not sure if I heard Ezra correctly. “You think Opha… feels something for you?”

  “I’m not sure. I just know that I don’t feel anything like that in return. That’s why I avoid Opha, and refuse to Lust with her again. I sense it would mean more for her than just the physical. I don’t want to deal with that.” He looks up at me. “You know?”

  “Not really. I’ve never thought about such things much,” I say. It’s a lie. When I’m alone with my thoughts, they always turn to Genny, how she makes me feel, and how I possibly make her feel. “I doubt they have books about a Hybrid’s ability to love on the shelf.”

  After a moment of silence, we both laugh. It’s strange, but for a moment I almost feel normal. This seems like the kind of mundane conversation humans would have. What I might have experienced had I stayed in school, and overcame my anti-social tendencies. And the urge to eat my classmates, of course.

  “Yeah,” Ezra says. “There probably aren’t any. But I bet Tran’s curiosity would compel him to write one. Wouldn’t be surprised if he asks you more questions about your feelings for your friend.” He pauses. “What was her name, by the way?”

  A sinking feeling weighs on my chest. Her name, along with her blonde hair and blue eyeshadow, and the feeling of her body and lips pressed against mine – it’s all still painfully fresh in my mind. But there really is no point in uttering that name. I’ll never see her again. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “All of that doesn’t matter anymore.”

  And now I’m done talking. I take my box of animal carcasses and walk up the stairs to the Juicer, escaping the conversation, and the thoughts they bring. I open the Juicer doors and hit the green button, the steel beast roaring back to life. One by one I drop the animal wholes and pieces into the mouth, watching each of them transform from something with shape and form into a collective, faceless liquid. All identity erased. Whenever Genny transforms, every memory of me will turn into mist, then vanish. The moments we shared, gone.

  Whoever I was to her will disappear completely.

  Chapter 18

  Genny

  I stare at the phone next to the refrigerator, not sure if I even remember how it works. God knows I don't have any friends to call. I used it all the time to call my dad when I was younger, asking what time he would come home, so that my stern nanny/home school teacher Ms. Turselton, along with her evil cat, would finally leave. That was back when this little girl still needed her daddy.

  But then I got older. Ms. Turselton quit the day I stopped talking to her or answering her questions. I began self-studies with some old pre-End textbooks my father found, which came with their own quizzes. And I realized that even when he did come home, he’d only be there a minute before retreating down into his basement, continuing to work feverishly against the clock to halt my transformation. All the while forgetting I was even in the house, forgetting th
at he was missing whatever life I had left.

  So I stopped using the phone. In fact, I think the last time I saw it used was when he called Zaul into the APA.

  I look down at my left hand, holding a little scrap of paper with handwritten digits. There was never any reason for me to keep this. I had just thrown it in my desk drawer some time last year, completely forgotten.

  Dalton's phone number.

  Rigg said that in order for Zaul to be transferred to the foundation's Hybrid House, both Dalton and I had to cooperate. We both have to play along, turning Zaul into their Hybrid Welfare Guardianship poster boy. But the last time I saw Dalton, he called me an infected bitch, dropped the cash on the ground, and said he was done with everything. Beyond confusing me, just thinking about it infuriates me. It makes me want to slam the phone back down on the counter and rip up the little paper in my hand. But without his help, Zaul is going nowhere.

  My trembling fingers press the buttons, with each digit entered becoming harder to calm myself down. It begins ringing, and I get the urge to hang up, unplug it from the wall and run upstairs. But a feminine voice answers.

  “Hello?”

  I don’t know who it is. Maybe it’s Dalton’s mother, or sister. Maybe one of his sexual trophies he so proudly boasts about. Or maybe it’s someone else entirely, and Dalton in fact doesn’t even live there anymore. A part inside of me wishes this to be true. But before I can convince myself that’s the case and hang up, I start talking. “Hello, is… is Dalton there?”

  A long pause follows, and for a moment I think she couldn’t hear me. Crackling and clicking comes across the line, as if she’s putting the receiver down on a table or kitchen counter. “Dalton!” I hear screamed in the background. “Phone!”

  Well, he lives there. The question is, do I still want to be on the line when he picks up?

  “Yo,” he says a moment later. I can hear a few smacks escape his lips, as if he just finished eating something. “Who’s this?”