Daughters of Death (Postmortem Anomalies Book 2)

by Josiah Upton

  Chapter 20

  Genny

  “You’re not going to tell your work that you’re leaving?” I ask as Dalton and I walk down the road to the bus station.

  “The Mart has been here for over a century, it’s not going anywhere,” Dalton says, not seeming the least bit worried. I don’t know why I expected him to be. “What about you? Tell your dad where you’re going today?”

  “Not exactly,” I say, kicking a rock up a curb. “And by that, I mean no. He thinks I’m at home right now. I haven’t quite found a way to tell him about the Welfare Guardianship, or all that cash hiding under my mattress. And he definitely doesn’t know about me hanging out with you. He’d freak about that.”

  “I guess Daddy’s little girl didn’t have good things to say about the guy she broke up with?”

  “Ding ding ding!” I say. “You are correct, sir. Even you have to admit you were a terrible boyfriend.”

  “For what, a whole day?” he asks. “That’s not much time to find out.” He pauses for a moment, the only sound our feet shuffling along the pavement. “I wasn’t a very good one. I never am. It’s hard for me to respect women, with the way my mom acts. And now my sister’s being like that, too. Getting with every guy that smiles at her. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Basing your entire opinion of females on only two of them is a really poor excuse for being a jerk,” I say. “And it goes both ways. Ever think girls are forming their opinions of men from the way you are?”

  “Whatever,” he says with a shrug, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Not like dating you would have been easy, either. You aren’t the friendliest of chicks. And I know now you can’t get Hubrens from kissing, but having…”

  “Ugh, shut up!” I say. “Bring that up again and I’ll hit you.”

  I know guys think a lot about that, but this is the second time Dalton has mentioned sex today. It makes me uncomfortable. Who could I ever talk to about those things? My mom died before any of that ever crossed my mind, and my dad had a very awkward five minute talk with me a few years back. It was filled with stumbling, half-formed phrases, and had an abrupt ending where he left my room with cheeks burning right through his beard. I’ve had no female friends to giggle in the school bathroom about it with, either.

  And Zaul, the only friend that I do have, has strong urges that make bringing that subject up a very impolite thing to do. Since he’s the boy I love, it would make sense for me to talk with him about…

  An image flashes through my mind, of Zaul’s hands on my waist. His gray skin against mine. His lips on my neck. It is a dangerous notion, an impossible one. But it burns inside me, warming me on this chilly day. I realize this is the first time I’ve imagined these things, things that can never be. Just as there is no way for Zaul to satiate his Hybrid Lust, there is no way for me to explore my human desires for him. I will die with my heart belonging to someone I can’t have.

  “Have you ever…” I start to say. Dalton looks over his shoulder at me. “I mean, you put on this macho, alpha-male façade. You talk about all the girls you could have. But have you ever… you know?”

  “You really want the answer to that?” he says with a laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t think you do.”

  I’m giving Dalton Harris the opportunity to brag about his sexual exploits, and he isn’t taking the bait. Something’s up. I rush forward to block his path. “Yes, please. Enlighten me.”

  “What?” he says with a nervous grin. His face grows bright red. “C’mon, you don’t really…”

  “Oh my God! You haven’t, have you? All that talk, all that chest beating, and you’re still a…”

  Dalton’s grin twists into a scowl. “Don’t say it.” He shoves his hands back in his pockets and hurries toward the bus stop.

  The trip to Denver is just as long this time, except instead of sleeping, Dalton stares quietly out the window, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. I start to feel a little guilty for deflating his falsely projected manhood. But then I remember the horrible things he’s said to me in the past, and what I’ve heard him say to other girls. It serves him right, and now I’m tempted to stand up and announce it to every other passenger on this bus.

  My eyes search the tops of the tall buildings as we roll into downtown Denver, but they also search low, and this time I notice some open spaces here and there among the otherwise densely packed city. Empty and grass-filled, devoid of any structures, except for maybe a few rusty steel beams sticking out of the ground. “What do you suppose those empty spots are?” I ask, breaking an hours-long peace.

  “I dunno,” Dalton says quietly, apparently still bitter. “Maybe when they were clearing out the Reanimates during The End, some buildings had too many inside. It was easier to just blow the whole thing up than take them out one by one. I think I heard Mr. Neal say something about that.” He turns to me. “Or do you have a more sinister, conspiracy-driven theory to explain it?”

  “No,” I say, settling back into my seat. “That sounds about right.”

  Like before, the Benjamin Rigg Foundation is surrounded by protesters, waving signs and chanting loudly. Some of them look familiar. Don’t these people have lives? This time we bypass all that and move to the entrance in the alley behind. The security camera must have seen us, because the door opens before I can knock on it. It isn’t Rigg’s brother Thomas, but another man in a suit, the one that greeted us out front the last time.

  “Good morning Ms. Grest, Mr. Harris.”

  “I’m sorry, we didn’t make an appointment,” I say.

  “You needn’t worry about that,” he says, gesturing for us to enter. He’s much more welcoming this time around. I look at his name tag. Scott Mansfield. “We figured you’d be back soon.”

  “You figured we’d cave to your demands?” Dalton asks as we follow Mansfield down a hallway.

  “Yes,” he says with a chuckle. “Something like that, I suppose.”

  “Where’s Thomas?” I ask. “Last time you handed us over to him right away.”

  We come to the security office, and Mansfield waves for us to pass through the metal detectors. “Benjamin and Thomas are running rather late today. But Mr. Rigg called me himself a few moments ago. They should be here shortly.”

  After the security check we pass through a set of coded doors, round the corner, and go down a long hallway. On either side are doors and placards, each bearing names. Herb, Lucinda, Rosie, Greggory…

  “What are these?” I ask, looking into the windows on the doors. In one of them is a Hybrid male sitting on a bed. His white eyes connect with mine. Despite my feelings for Zaul, and my compassion for others suffering his affliction, the experience is still a little unsettling. But by the looks of the doors, I won’t need to worry about him getting too close. “These look like prison cells.”

  “Yes, they do,” Mansfield says. “But I assure, they are only the sleeping quarters. It’s where our members stay during the night, and where those that aren’t safety-certified stay during visitation hours. There’s a lot of families out there in the main room right now. Saturday is a big visitation day.”

  The last door we pass has a placard with two names on it: Sonny and Coco. Those were the names of the male and female Hybrids at that barbaric zoo exhibit. I stop to peek into the window, and the two of them sit side-by-side in chairs, quietly watching a TV screen. Sonny’s arm is around Coco’s shoulders, her head laying against his neck. A much different living condition than at the zoo. A much different dynamic between them.

  “How are these two here?” I ask Mansfield. “They were at the Pueblo Zoo a couple months ago.”

  “Yes,” he says, joining me by the window. “When Mr. Rigg heard of the exhibit, and took a trip to see them himself, he made it his personal mission to get them out of that shameful mockery, and into the Foundation. It wasn’t easy. But the foundation wasn’t alone in its efforts, either. A few of the more conscientious visitors to the zoo were appalled by the exhibit, an
d generously donated towards their Welfare Guardianship.”

  Sonny turns his attention to us, then squeezes his arm tighter around Coco. Not that it would have any bearing on their actions anyway, but I notice there is only one bed in the room for the both of them. The image sticks with me. “Why are they in there?” I ask.

  “They simply don’t function at a level that would allow them to be Safety-Certified,” Mansfield explains. “And they really don’t get any visitors, anyway. The donations for their guardianship were of a humanitarian nature, not a personal one. As far as we know, they have no family out there.”

  “No,” I say, getting closer to the window. “I mean, why are they in there together? Why do they get to share a room?”

  “The relationships between Hybrids are often transient. We allow physical encounters between members here, but only at a designated time, in a designated private room, and once it’s made clear to our staff that both members are willing. This prevents incidents of assault. But Sonny and Coco are different. Their commitment to each other is unusual.” The man laughs quietly to himself. “Just last week, they asked to be married. Their union will never be legally recognized, but we held a ceremony for them. Herb even baked a cake.”

  “Incredible,” I say as I spy on the couple inside their quaint little home, living their shared life. I’m not sure if they even know how to describe what they feel for each other, but the way he holds her makes it clear to me. They found love, even after death. I see Zaul and me sitting in those chairs, his arm around me. No containment officers to torment us, no protesters to berate us. No dangers of a Hybrid being in close quarters with a human. Because we will be the same. Our room, our bed. Our life.

  Stupid girl. I should just stop the train of thought my heart is pulling right now. Even if I get Zaul in here, there’s pretty much zero chance this silly fantasy could ever play out. Once I am a Hybrid, I won’t be in this place, but locked up in my father’s house. My mind will be lost. My intelligence lowered, my memory of this life erased. I doubt that even if I were to see Zaul I would remember his face, much less what he makes me feel now…

  So then maybe we would have to start all over. I can’t guarantee the type of Hybrid girl I’ll be after my turn; I don’t know how “transient” my affections will be then. But I know he wouldn’t give up on me. The odds are ridiculously tiny, and the obstacles are many, but that’s the only future I want. Right now, I’ll do anything to get it.

  “Hybrid marriage…” Dalton mutters, shaking his head. I glare at him for interrupting the emotional moment he didn’t know I was having. He looks back, his jaw slack. “What? Seriously, I have my limits.”

  The doors at the other end of the hall open, and another man in a suit walks through. I hope that it’s Thomas, so we can get this thing going already, but it’s just a random foundation worker that I don’t recognize. Scott Mansfield turns to him. “Have Mr. Rigg and Thomas finally decided to show up?”

  “No,” the man says. “I’ve called his home and there’s no answer. I was coming to see if you’ve heard anything.”

  Mansfield frowns, then looks to us. “This is very much unlike Benjamin and Thomas. Would you two mind waiting in the common area while I sort all this out?”

  Dalton clears his throat, and I give him a look. “Um… Not at all. Lead the way, sir.”

  Mansfield takes us out to the common area and leaves us there, assuring he will return soon. Saturdays truly are a big visitation day, because this time there seems to be an equal share of humans and Hybrids. The Rigg Foundation’s resident welcome wagon Herb is greeting all the visitors with his platter of baked goods, visibly overjoyed. But then he catches sight of Dalton, and his changed expression tells me his Hybrid memory is working just fine.

  “You’re not going to do or say anything stupid again, are you?” I ask Dalton with a sideways glance.

  “I’ll smile, I’ll say hello. I’ll even eat the cookies. But that’s it,” he says, his arms crossed as he backs as far as he can into the wall. “And once Zaul is here, don’t expect me to come around on the weekends. You can just tell him I said ‘hey’.”

  I join him with my back on the wall, and start to chew my thumbnail. “To be honest, I’m not sure how many visits I’ll be able to make. You read my medical file. You know I’m way past due for my transformation, and it won’t be long until I’m a full-blown Hybrid Reanimate. Once that happens, I’ll be a permanent resident of my father’s house. I’ll never leave.” I pause, thinking about that beautiful yet impossible scene in my mind from a few moments earlier. “I think.”

  “Why has it taken so long?” Dalton asks. “You turning Hybrid? What’s stopping it?”

  “Hormones,” I say, choosing my next words carefully. I hope he doesn’t make any ignorant remarks about female biology. I might actually punch him this time. “My dad is a biomedical engineer for the APA. He knows a lot about genes, glands, DNA – all that stuff. He developed a hormone treatment that has suspended my first menstrual cycle for about five or six years. As long as that continues, I won’t die from the Hubrens, and I won’t undergo transformation.”

  “So then you can just keep taking the hormones,” Dalton suggests. “Problem solved.”

  “Nope,” I say. “My dad says at some point my body will reject the hormones, and my cycle will start anyway.”

  “When does he think that will happen?”

  I look down. For some reason that stupid, stinky cigarette I puffed comes to mind. “Last year.”

  “Hey, turn that up!” a visitor says at the other end of the room, pointing to the television mounted on the wall. On the screen is a woman in a green dress suit, speaking directly into the camera as words too small to read scroll under her. It looks like the local news. Someone turns up the volume until everyone in the room can hear her.

  “…and if you’re just joining us, we’ve received breaking news that Hybrid Reanimate activist Benjamin Rigg, president of the Benjamin Rigg Foundation, has been captured by the APA at his Denver home. Reports are coming in that Thomas Rigg, guardian and brother of the foundation’s president, was found dead inside their home, appearing to be attacked by Benjamin Rigg himself…”

  Gasps escape throughout the room. Several distressed Hybrids shout at the television screen, unable to believe what they are seeing and hearing. And I am frozen still, my body shaking, feeling as if I might shatter. This can’t be happening. I turn to Dalton. “What does this mean? What does this mean?!?”

  “I – I don’t…” he stutters, his eyes glued to the television.

  The doors next to us open, a sweaty and panicked Scott Mansfield appearing. “Ladies and gentleman, I’ve just heard the shocking news myself. But until we receive definitive confirmation, this foundation will continue to operate, business as usual…”

  He doesn’t get to finish. Another employee bursts through the door with her arms up, trying in vain to stop two columns of advancing APA Collar agents, equipped with protective gear and automatic rifles. The visitors scream in alarm, and the Hybrid members holler in fear. I clutch onto Dalton’s arm.

  One agent comes to the front, pushing Mansfield aside. “Until further notice, this Hybrid house is closed while we investigate the matter concerning this foundation’s president, Benjamin Rigg! All Hybrids will be escorted to the nearest containment facility, and will remain there until approval is granted by the United State Agency of Postmortem Anomalies to reopen!”

  The agents spread out in twos, converging on the frightened members of the Benjamin Rigg Foundation. One agent in each pair holds up a syringe and metal collar, while the other forcefully pulls away the Hybrid’s mother or father or friend, insisting with their rifles if they have to. “Any Hybrid that resists will be injected with a concentrated dose of Mortetine. Any Hybrid that attacks an agent will be shot.”

  All across the room collars snap onto the necks of Hybrids. Despite the lead agent’s warning, some still resist, and a needle is plunged into the
ir skin. They reel around for a moment, then collapse. A woman, presumably a member’s mother, clutches her loved one as she gives way. An agent rips her away, pushing her back. She trips, falls and smacks her head on the tile floor. More screams. It’s chaos.

  “We need to get out of here,” Dalton says, grabbing my arm. “Now.”

  But I can’t move. As the scene plays out before me, I can only think about one thing: It’s over. Benjamin Rigg was the face of the controversial notion that Hybrid Reanimates are deserving of respect and humane care, because in the right environment they won’t pose a threat. Now that face is plastered all over the news, with the story that he murdered and ate his own brother in their home. Even if he didn’t actually do it, all humanitarian efforts for Hybrids will be destroyed. And while in the back of my mind I know this will negatively affect thousands of Hybrids – like the ones being apprehended and subdued in this very room – my selfish heart only cares about one right now.

  Zaul will never get out of containment now. There is nothing I can do to save him, no way to keep the promise I made before he was taken away. The only thing left to do is wait for death, and wake up not knowing who I am, or who the strange man holding me prisoner is. But worst of all, I will have completely forgotten the love I have for a boy that I abandoned in a cold containment facility. That unlikely fantasy of a shared life in this place is now completely obliterated.

  I feel light-headed. Dizzy. The room seems to be spinning, the walls pulsing back and forth from me. Dalton says something, but it only comes to me as a dull echo in an underwater cave. His face comes in and out of focus. I lean against him for support as he tries to bring me to the door. My knees give way and I slide down to the floor, pulling on his shirt.

  I feel something warm and wet in between my legs. Did I really piss myself? No, I don’t smell any urine. Some of the Hybrids close by begin sniffing the air with their nose, sensing something that brings their dead-white eyes to me. Their fists clench, their lips pull back to reveal teeth.