by Josiah Upton
The elevator slows to a stop. When the doors open, I expect to see more bright lights reflecting off uniform white walls. But it’s immediately clear the Containment Facility and the APA headquarters are two completely different entities. We enter a large, open area with wood-paneled walls, plush carpet, and soft lighting.
And the personnel is dramatically different, too. Men and women in suits, calmly walking in and out of hallways. They aren’t screaming in terror at the sight of us, nor yelling with pointed guns. No remotes are held high. If anything, they’re ignoring the small group of Hybrids that have just arrived, merely going about their busy day. As an unregistered Hybrid, Gibbs always stressed that I avoid the agents in the gray suits. But compared to the Collar agents that captured me, or the brutal containment officers in the facility, these humans don’t pose a threat at all.
“Welcome to the Headquarters for the United State Agency of Postmortem Anomalies!” Dr. Tran says, turning around with arms dramatically raised. I assume he’s talking to me, since I am the only one who has never been here. “This is the administrative section of the complex, where all other departments in all parts of the nation receive their leadership, resources, legal support…”
“And paychecks,” Krecker interrupts, walking to the front of the group where Tran stands. “Thanks Doc, but I’ve already had the tour, and I bet they need me back at the facility more than these suits need me here. Am I good to go?”
“Of course,” Tran says. “I can take it from here. Thank you, Officer Krecker.”
He nods, and walks past us to leave. “Enjoy your field trip, containees.” I turn and watch him enter the elevator, and his eyes lock with mine. In them I see a semblance of Caesar, showing him as a less severe reflection of the man that wishes every Hybrid – but especially me – dead. I wonder what Krecker would be willing to do if Caesar only asked. I wonder how many steps away from becoming Caesar he is.
“I’ll see you all back home.” His stare still engages mine, until it disappears behind the closed doors.
“As I was saying,” Tran continues, bringing my focus forward again. “This is where all the boring meetings and paperwork happen. None of these agents ever actually interact with Hybrids.”
“Then why are they so calm with us here?” I ask.
“Because they see me,” Tran answers, “and know I am in charge of the Higher Functioning Hybrid Reanimate Echelon, a group of Hybrids possessing intelligence and self-control that is above reproach.”
“And, there’s also these,” Quinn says, pointing at her metal collar. “The agents don’t have remotes, but they wear protective bracelets on the days we show up. The bracelets detect our location, and automatically send a signal to shock any one of us that comes within seven feet.”
I look around at the agents moving here and there. Only a few glance at us, but when they do I see furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. Indications of cautious concern. On their wrists are the bracelets Quinn mentioned, the glow of a green dot peeking out from under their shirt cuffs. They don’t trust us, they trust the electronic relationship between the rings on our necks and the rings on their arms.
“Yes,” Tran says. “There are those to consider, too. Please make sure to keep your distance.”
If anyone is keeping their distance, it’s the agents. Those whose paths lead them through our group make a wide arc around to avoid us, glancing at us with shifty eyes. But one suited man doesn’t alter his course. He looks directly at us as he walks directly to us, not slowing his pace at all. In a few more steps, he’ll enter our perimeter and give us one collective shock. At about ten feet away, he reaches for his wrist with the other hand and twists, changing the green light on his bracelet to red. He comes within seven feet to stand by Tran, and the rest of us continue to stand as well.
“Behave,” Ezra whispers to me. I turn to ask, but he already knows my question. “Don’t ask me why, just do it. Even Opha will.”
Tran suddenly notices the man standing next to him. “Mr. Schutzhorne! What a pleasant surprise!”
The man doesn’t acknowledge Tran. He only stares at us Hybrids with his dark, beady eyes. In contrast, his nearly-bald head shines brightly, obscured only by a few greased back strands of black hair, growing from what once was a hairline. And I can’t quite tell if he’s smiling or frowning. He seems to be doing both at the same time. I already don’t like him.
Tran turns to us. “This is Julius Schutzhorne, the Assistant Director of the APA!” I tense up. He may only be the assistant, but surely every part of the agency that captures and contains creatures like me is overseen by this man. He’s basically at the top, answering to only one person above him. Now I know why Ezra told me to behave. Tran addresses Schutzhorne again. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you out here.”
Schutzhorne still doesn’t look at Tran. His intense gaze toward us continues as he buttons the front of his suit jacket closed. “I heard we had a new member in our Brains Club,” he says, his steely voice raising a bit too high. Now his dark eyes are set solely in my direction. The way he views me seems like one beholding an object with a bizarre, almost unhealthy fascination. “And that doesn’t happen very often. I wanted to introduce myself in person.” He leans toward me. “Hello, my name is Julius Schutzhorne. How are you today?” he asks a little too loudly and slowly, as if I might not have understood, had his tone been more conversational.
“Fine, sir. I am containee number 1822.” I pause, looking to Tran. He smiles and nods. “I also answer to the name Zaul.”
Schutzhorne finally looks to Tran, his dark eyes widening, his toothy grin-frown taking on more of a smile. “Incredible. It never ceases to amaze me, the capabilities of these Hybrids. Is everything ready for today’s testing?”
“Yes, sir,” Tran answers. “I’m expecting some very interesting results today.”
“Indeed,” Schutzhorne says, fixing his gaze back on me. It’s unsettling. “I am expecting much as well.”
“How are things with Denver?” Tran asks. “Are they wrapping up like you had hoped?”
“Yes,” Schutzhorne says, his eyes flickering back and forth between Tran and the rest of us. “They’re being held temporarily in Springs. The complete transfer should take place by next week. Come see me when the tests are done, and we will discuss what to expect.”
He nods, then turns to walk away, twisting the bracelet on his wrist, changing the light from red back to green. Once he is gone, it feels like a pressure has been released. I exhale. I also notice the other Hybrids relaxing their posture. And as Ezra had promised, Opha didn’t act or talk anything like herself.
Who is this man? I know his name and his title, but there’s something else to him. Something that clearly made all of us tense up. And his interest in our test results was rather unusual. I thought Hybrid Behavioral Studies was just one small part of the APA machine, more of a pet project for Tran than anything. Yet the agency’s assistant director took time out of his schedule to greet us in person. To greet me in person. Whatever activities Tran has planned for us, this very powerful man wants to know the outcome.
And the mention of “Denver” is completely lost on me.
Chapter 23
Genny
“Genny.”
The voice speaks softly, rousing me to consciousness. A voice of love and sacrifice. My father’s. Opening my eyes takes some effort, as if my lids are closed shutters with bricks tied to them, pulling them down. I finally force them loose, and hear a sickly squish. The disgusting crust that sealed them shut breaks away. At first I see nothing except blinding brightness, then my dad turns off the light suspended above me. My vision adjusts to the dark room. I’m in our basement, some nearby machines beeping softly. I think I can recall the rhythm hiding in the background, in a series of bizarre dreams. I have no idea how long I’ve been out.
My father sits by my side, his eyes red and swollen as he smiles weakly. He’s been crying. His hand squeezes my hand. I look down and
see that it is pale and clammy, but not gray. Not filled with dark blue veins. I’m still alive. Something roils in my gut, a terrible feeling I’ve never experienced before. My body clenches, and vomit projects from my mouth.
He’s already there, catching it with a blue plastic bag. “There, Sweetie. There. It’s okay, I’m here.”
“What…” my voice croaks, burning from disuse, and the acid of stomach bile. “What happened?”
My dad reaches over with a wet rag, wiping around my mouth. The dragging of the cloth across my tender skin hurts. “Dalton Harris called, said you two were in Denver. I got there as fast as I could, and brought you back home. You’ve been asleep for 18 hours.”
Bits and pieces come back to me out of the blackness of memory. Dalton pulling me out into the street, punching a protester that got in his way. A foundation employee shining a light in my eyes, asking Dalton if there was someone he needed to contact. My father loading me into the Jeep, screaming at Dalton as we traveled down the road. He knows the truth now. I look away. “I’m sorry, Dad. I should have told you where I was going, it’s just – it’s just…”
“Shh,” he says, placing his hand on my cheek, and it feels ice cold. I’m burning up. “Don’t worry about that now. What matters is that you’re home.”
“I just wanted to get Zaul out of that facility,” I say, staring at the basement ceiling. “We found a way, Dad. A legal way, like you said. Getting him into a charity foundation using Dalton’s reward money.” I close my eyes, recalling fuzzy memories from the foundation’s common room. “But then the foundation president killed his brother, and the APA came and shut down the Hybrid House.”
“I know,” my dad says. “Dalton told me, and it’s all the news is talking about.”
I look over to him. “Is it true? Did he really do it?”
He sits back in his chair, rubbing his beard. “Appears so. I haven’t been at work so I couldn’t ask around, but the networks are saying the murder is confirmed. They even ran tests, found traces of Thomas’s DNA inside Rigg’s mouth.”
“Is Rigg dead?” I ask. If he wasn’t shot on sight, I imagine confirmed proof of a Hybrid attacking and eating a human would earn a swift execution.
“Surprisingly, no. He’s being held at a small facility in Springs.” He looks down at his hands. “Along with all the members of his foundation. The Rigg Hybrid House is permanently closed, as are the others across the country. All welfare guardianships are terminated – prompted by public outcry, recommended by the APA, and achieved through executive order and congressional approval. It’s the fastest I’ve ever seen the government work.”
So that’s the end. There is no hope for Zaul outside those facility walls. Dark, empty feelings of hopelessness race through me, like they did at the Hybrid House just before I collapsed. In the corner of the room I see the pair of pants I was wearing yesterday. It’s dim in this room and the pants are black. But I already know they’re stained with dark crimson. My first cycle. For many teenage girls it signals the start of their womanhood. For me it means the beginning of my death.
“This is it, isn’t it?” I ask. “The hormones stopped working. The virus is taking over.”
My father’s shoulders tremble, and he starts shaking his head. “I tried. Every day of your life, I tried. But I failed, Geneva. Failed your mother, failed you.” His tears are coming down with full force. I can feel hot streaks coming down my cheeks, too. “There’s nothing more I can do, Sweetie. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”
He lays his head down on my arm, squeezing my hand tightly. I remember all the bitter words of an angry girl, lobbed at him over the years, all the criticisms for him not being there for me. I wish I could take it back. I know he did everything within his power to keep me safe, and he would surely trade his life for mine if he could. He doesn’t deserve the guilt that has eaten away at his insides every day for the last seventeen years.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say, running my hand over his graying hair. “I’ve been so cold to you, for years. I’ve said mean things. But you did more for me than any father would. And I don’t blame you for this, it’s not your fault.” He looks up at me. His eyes are soft and innocent, like a child’s. “Thank you for the life you’ve given me. And for the new life I’m about to have.” I smile grimly. “This isn’t the end of us.”
“No,” he says with a strained smile. “No, it isn’t.”
“I’m proud of you, and I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he responds, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’ll always be here to take care of you, Sweetie. Always. And if there’s anything you need, I will do it.”
What can he do? I’ve made peace with him before my death, and I’ll see him again, even if I might not recognize his face. But there’s still one person left I need to say good bye to. One person I need to tell how I feel, before my thoughts and memories and emotions are wiped clean. “I need you to get me a pen, and some paper.”
Chapter 24
Zaul
Tran leads us further into the headquarters, the gray-suited agents giving us a wide berth as we travel the hallways. Where we end up is a large metal door that seems out of place among the glossy wood panels. Tran has to press his palm to his tablet to open the door. I remember Genny said there were entire sections of the headquarters that her father didn’t have access to, and I wonder if this is one of them.
Once beyond the door the design changes, from wooden panels and carpet to concrete walls and tile floors. It’s harshly lit, like the facility, but it seems cleaner, and definitely newer. I remind myself this building was constructed rather recently, in contrast to the facility built well over 100 years ago. Inside this room are more agents, except their white coats make them look more like Tran than the ones walking the halls.
“This is the Hybrid Behavioral Studies laboratory, where I do most of my work. You see that back there, Zaul?” he asks. I bring my attention to where he’s pointing, a small station of computer screens and control panels. For a moment I think of Gordon’s unkempt workspace in his basement, but soon recognize what I’m looking at. “Whenever I patch in for the Brains Club meetings, I’m coming to you live from over there.”
“Brains Club!” Walt and Rich say loudly, fists raised in the air. Some of the agents in white coats look to them and chuckle. The two brothers didn’t do that when Schutzhorne named our group a moment ago.
My eyes wander from there to other stations in the room, made of computer screens and strange, unfamiliar machines, all hooked together with a network of cables, wires and hoses. Tran walks over to a large black box, where a man and woman wearing protective plastic eyewear work intently in an open panel on the box’s side. They use small tools that shoot sparks against the equipment, creating an unpleasant aroma that causes my nose to wrinkle. But through that I can also smell the man. The fat, meaty man…
Mortetine cramps my stomach. Tran beckons us toward the black box, and I slowly shuffle over with the others. “Except for you, Quinn, I’m sure all of you can recall the Hybrid Assessment Chamber, referred to by the containment officers as the ‘Corridor’.”
Yes, I remember the Corridor. All of my Prisoner’s darkest, sickest urges provoked, but with no relief, no escape. It was a nightmare. And now I can suppose Tran is responsible for its creation, just like he was for Mortetine.
“The technology is…” He pauses. “Outdated, at best. As we’ve made more discoveries in Hybrid biology and behavior, it’s become evident that the assessment requires a more comprehensive approach. We’ve been developing a newer version over the last few years, which I’m hoping to implement soon.”
“How’s the libido restraint test?” Opha asks, and Ezra groans. Like I imagine a mother would, Quinn gives her a look of both annoyance and disapproval. “I wouldn’t mind being the first to test it out…”
“The improved process is completely neural,” Tran continues, ignoring her. “All physical peripherals a
re gone. It’s all within the mind. We’ll have to say good-bye to Freddie, Eddie, Betty...” He eyes Opha. “And for the female Corridor, Neddy.”
“Aw, I miss Neddy,” Opha says, biting her lip. “And Freddie.” She turns to me. “Say, how was Betty?”
Mortetine numbs my skin at the memories of my libido restraint test. I take a step farther away from her.
“Once the technicians complete this new model, the next containees to walk in will be my guinea pigs,” Tran says with a wide grin, clearly amused with himself. His eyebrows raise suddenly, then he looks at the watch on his wrist. “We’re running behind schedule, we’d better get to work.”
And we do. The next hour is an unpleasant battery of tasks that gauge our physical and mental abilities. I lift heavy objects, I climb up machines of moving steps and ladder rungs at different speeds. One test has me stand in a single tile, with a complex collection of arms surrounding me, coming down from the ceiling and up from the floor. They move erratically at me, and the goal is to not let the probes at the ends of the metal arms to touch me. If they do, I have to start over. Tran says it’s supposed to exercise my environmental awareness and reflexes. What it really does is test the limits of my frustration. At one point, I reach out and grab one of the mechanical arms, trying to rip it from the ceiling. As if it knows one of its friends are in trouble, another arm reaches out and slices my shoulder with a razor. With that the exercise ends.
Another test has me strapped to a chair with a wired ribbon attached to my chest, and different objects are presented before me: Live and dead animals, pictures of humans, clothing worn by humans. They all come out from a mechanical window, and robotically placed at different distances from me. One thing that comes through appears to be a block of meat, about two inches thick, and covered with squirming insects. I’m not sure what it is, but it smells absolutely disgusting. “What is this?” I ask.
