by Josiah Upton
“It’s putrefied walrus meat,” the technician conducting the test answers, “filled with maggots. Do you wish to eat it?”
“No,” I say, almost gagging on the scent. For training, Gibbs would have me consume things that humans normally did, in case I was in a situation where I needed to eat what everyone else was eating, just to appear normal. Cheese, bread, cake, potatoes, apples… I hated all of it. But none of those could compare to what lays before me, and I haven’t even put it in my mouth. “Please,” I say, “take that away. It’s terrible.”
The technician chuckles, then makes the putrid meat disappear.
Many of the tests appear to be just for me, because often the other members stand off to the side, only occasionally required to participate. A lot of these must only need to be completed once, which is why I’m doing all of them, being the new member. At least that means I won’t need to do them again.
But one task requires participation from everyone, and all the other members seem surprised by it, so it’s something new. Tran has us climb up onto a higher level, overlooking the room’s expansive floor from behind a metal railing. He presses a button on the tablet in his hand, and the tiles below light up in a grid.
“Technicians, to your positions!” Tran shouts, and six technicians come to stand at one side of the grid. The doctor turns to us. “This new exercise will test your leadership skills, communication, and strategy.”
“Strategy?” Quinn questions, arms folded. “Like, a game? Wouldn’t it just be easier to play chess?”
“Hey, does chess have a tickle…” Walt asks, his mouth slack. “I mean, a tackle?”
“Chess is not a sport, Walt,” Ezra says. “And I don’t think you’d be very good at it.”
“The reason we don’t just play chess,” Tran says, directing the conversation back on course, “is because in chess, you move the pieces with your own hand. In this, you will tell the pieces where to go. The tiles below will change color, from green to red. The object is to direct the technicians through the grid, without landing on a red square.”
“How do we know which squares will turn red?” Ezra asks.
“With this,” Tran says, handing his tablet to me. It feels light in my palms, easily breakable. Giving something like that to a being with high strength and low control isn’t a wise decision. Luckily, Gibbs trained me to handle delicate things carefully. But if this exercise proves as frustrating as the arms with the probes surrounding me, this little device will be destroyed in the blink of an eye.
On its screen is a grid the same dimensions as the one on the floor. “All squares will start off green, then slowly turn red. The changes will occur on the screen five seconds before they do on the floor. Two technicians cannot occupy one square at the same time, and you can only move once for every color change. Are you ready, Zaul?”
“I guess.” I look down at the fragile tablet in my hands. “I hope you have more of these.”
Tran only smiles in response, then presses a button at the top corner. The floor below lights up green, as does the grid on the screen, but after a few seconds some of them change to red. One of them has a technician standing on it, with only a few seconds before it changes. On the back of his white coat is the number 2. “Number 2, move left.” He does. The tablet’s grid changes again, and I direct another technician. This continues, until all six technicians are out of the grid. Easy so far.
“Good, Zaul!” Tran says, taking the tablet back. “You did it perfectly on the first try!” His praise is overly enthusiastic, which is a little provoking of my Rage. But I can’t deny the sense of accomplishment feels good.
We take turns, and some members are better at it than others. Of course the brothers Walt and Rich fail on the first try, but Rich gets it on the second. Ezra and Alice seem to master it pretty easily, though hearing Alice shout out the technicians’ numbers is somewhat strange. Opha starts out good, but then decides it would be funny to deliberately direct the technicians into red squares. And Quinn completes the grid with no trouble at all. She even figures out that an arrow button on the screen makes the color changes come faster, and gets it done in half the time, all the while with a confident grin on her face. Ezra said she was the most intelligent one in the club, so this comes as no surprise.
“Now that everyone has gotten the hang of it,” Tran says after a couple of rounds, “we’re going to do something a little different. One of you will hold the tablet, while the rest of you will be assigned one of the six technicians. Whoever holds the tablet will order the other members to tell their technician to move. The technicians will only respond to the member they are assigned to. Are we ready?” Tran says, handing the tablet to Quinn. “Good.”
The game starts, and Quinn immediately tells Ezra to move his technician to the left, followed by a color change. Quinn’s orders come fast, and nearly every one is carried out in an instant by the rest of us. At one point Rich tells the wrong technician to move forward, and nothing happens. He realizes his mistake and corrects it just in time before the change.
“Opha,” Quinn says sternly, in between a change. “Move your man back. And if you deliberately direct him into the red, I’ll make sure the officers find out you took that stupid teen meat-sack mag from the Rec Room.”
“The one with beef-dream PJ Fuentes on the cover?” Opha gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” Quinn says with a smirk.
Opha scowls. “Number 5, move back.”
After about five minutes, all technicians are out of the grid safely. Tran’s experiment worked without any complications, but the actual purpose of it still eludes me. Leadership, communication, strategy? For Hybrid Reanimates locked up in a facility for the rest of their existence, this seems futile. But whatever the actual reason, I bet Assistant Director Schutzhorne is a large motivating factor. While I ponder this, Tran turns to me, putting the tablet in my hand. “Are you ready to lead, Zaul?”
Before I can answer, the door to the laboratory opens, a man in a gray suit entering. He takes a moment to observe with curiosity the landscape of red and green tiles, and the technicians with numbered coats standing on the other side of the grid, before looking up to us. “Dr. Tran, the Cure department is ready for number 1822’s bloodwork.”
If mention of my ‘bloodwork’ wasn’t enough to get my attention, the Cure department was. I didn’t know Gordon’s department would have any part in today’s testing, but now the possibility of seeing Genny’s father could be a reality.
“This is ahead of schedule,” Tran says down to the man. This is one of the few times I’ve seen him upset. “We still have more testing to do.”
“I’m sorry,” the agent answers back, “but the usual agent called in sick today. We had to get a replacement, and this is the only time he can fit it in. He says he has a busy day.”
He must be speaking about Gordon. I lean forward to sniff the air, my body pressed against the railing. Through all the scents in the room, and the ones seeping in through the open door, one of them is faintly familiar. I last smelled it the day the APA captured me, when I was ripped from all the light and warmth that something like me doesn’t deserve. I never thought I would see anything that was attached to Genny’s world ever again.
“A busy day?” Tran says with a derisive snort. “What could the Cure possibly be doing that is more important than new member bloodwork? If it wasn’t for that, their department would be completely dissolved by now. I’ll have to talk with Schutzhorne about this.”
I never considered myself a close friend of Gordon. But Tran’s mocking tone of the work he does, the work that just might cure Genny before the virus kills her, sparks my Rage. My fingers twitch, and a tiny crack stretches across the tablet’s screen. No one notices, but I still hide it behind my back.
“Talk to whoever you want,” the agent says. “If you want your bloodwork done, now is the time.” Tran turns back to the man, and the agent puts up his hands defensively. “I’m just p
assing this along. Don’t shoot the messenger – unless you want to take on my workload, too. We’ve all got a busy day around here.”
Tran’s newly acquired sense of annoyance lingers for a moment, before putting back on his usual smile. He turns to me. “You did wonderful with your testing today, Zaul. I was pleasantly surprised. And I believe Schutzhorne will be pleased with the results, as well.”
“Thank you,” is all I can say, though there is no actual gratitude in me. I can’t be thankful for what will only fuel the Assistant Director’s bizarre interest of me and the other members.
Without another moment lost, I hurry down the stairs and follow the agent out of the laboratory, towards a man from a past I thought was lost forever.
Chapter 25
Zaul
The Cure laboratory is much less impressive (and much more outdated) than Tran’s, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the APA headquarters. Gordon said funding for his department has been consistently reduced over several years, and it shows. Only a few agents in worn-out white coats are here working, and one of them is Genny’s father himself. Between his familiar smell, and the colorful shirt that peeks out from behind his coat, he’s rather easy to spot. He smiles when he sees me. I return with a rare, naturally-occurring smile of my own.
“Dr. Grest,” the agent escorting me calls out. We arrive at his station, where a panel of computer screens surround an inclined bed, equipped with restraints. I imagine when (or rather if) this equipment is updated, all that I see before me will end up in his basement. My escort nods curtly to Gordon. “Dr. Tran wanted me to express his gratitude for filling in for Dr. Yost today.”
“I doubt that,” Gordon says, digging his hands into his coat pockets. “I know what Tran really thinks of our department, and I know this is cutting into his play time. You don’t need to sugarcoat his remarks for him.”
“Fair enough,” the escort says, then turns to me. “Here is Number 1822, ready for his bloodwork.” The agent pauses. “But I guess you’ve already met 1822. You sure you’re comfortable with this? You know, after the incident at your house?”
“Incident?” Gordon laughs. “You mean my daughter befriending an unregistered Hybrid in disguise, and bringing him into our house? It’s not as harrowing a tale as it sounds. I realized what he was when he wouldn’t eat any of my famous lasagna dinner, and made the call while he was in the can. A little tense, yes, but uneventful. And I know firsthand how calm this one can be. I’ll be fine.”
“Did you want me to call in some agents to assist?” the man says. “I know you guys don’t usually work with these things. Yost always has a few Collars with her, just in case.”
Gordon smiles and raises his wrist, showing a bracelet with a steady red light. “We have the same precautions as everyone else. If this ‘thing’ gets out of line, I’ll switch it on. And if that doesn’t work, I have my esteemed colleagues here for back-up. Guys?”
Without looking up from their work stations, they lift their wrists, showing bracelets with green lights. If they come within seven feet of me, I’ll have crippling electricity flowing through my body. The agent gives a long, skeptical look between Gordon and I. Whatever he’s thinking, he abandons it when he shakes his head. “Fine. It won’t be me who has to clean up the mess, if this Ugger flips out. Just make sure you get those samples before then, so I don’t have to do this all over again some other day.” He turns to leave, but stops short. “Then again, I would be dealing with Yost, and not some balding, middle-aged scientist. Is she single?”
“I think Dr. Yost has more than enough males ogling her in this room,” Gordon says, looking to the other men at their workstations. “And you wouldn’t want to compete with 1822, here. A little makeup and a wig was enough to woo my beautiful daughter.”
The agent blinks twice. “I do not envy your life. Like, at all.”
Once the agent leaves the lab, Gordon turns to me. “Hello, Zaul.”
He extends his hand, and I look over to his coworkers. They aren’t looking. I take his hand. I’ve avoided most handshakes ever since Gibbs let me out of the basement, for fear of crushing bones. But I’m actually happy to see Gordon, and I think I’ve finally learned the correct pressure to apply. He grimaces slightly, though.
“Hello,” I say. “I thought I would never see you again.”
“Same here,” he replies, waving his sore hand in the air once I let go. He gestures to the inclined bed behind him. “Please, have a seat.”
The bed, with its steel restraints and unfamiliar hardware hanging above it, puts it in the same category as the Corridor for me. The only reason I ease into it is because Gordon is here. Ever since containment, he’s the first and only person I’ve encountered that I completely trust. He straps me in, cuffs gripping tightly around my arms, legs and chest. Lastly, he attaches a chain from the headrest to the back of the collar around my neck.
Now that I’m in, the trust doesn’t help much. I panic. “Do you have any Mortetine?” I ask. The dose Tran gave me in the elevator is almost completely depleted.
“Mortet…” he says quietly, his white eyes rolling around in his fat, juicy head as he ponders my question. I had forgotten just how appetizing the overweight Gordon was to my Hunger. It’s a shameful notion, feeling the desire to devour anybody, let alone the father of the girl I love. But I can’t stop it by sheer willpower, my Prisoner will always be inside me. All the more reason I need the medication.
Realization comes to Gordon. “Oh, those pills you need. Yes, I’m sure Yost has some around here somewhere.” He opens drawers, searching their contents. “If you recall, from that conversation we had on the day we met, my job is exclusively concerned with the Hubrens virus before Phase II transformation.” He returns, a few pills in his palm. I hope he doesn’t plan to hand-feed me. “I don’t actually work with Hybrid Reanimates.”
He places the Mortetine in my hand, and undoes the restraint on my wrist. My primal reaction is to crush the pills, grab him by the shirt and pull him to my teeth. I breathe deeply, and force the pills to my mouth. He restrains my arm again, and the drugs go to work. Just smelling him is already making my stomach a little queasy.
“If you don’t work with Hybrids,” I say, “then what are you doing here today?”
“I’m filling in for Dr. Yost,” Gordon answers, turning to a screen behind him. “She’s at home. She wasn’t feeling well today.”
“So, this is the first day she’s stayed home when a sample needs to be taken,” I say, trying to see this from someone like Tran’s or Schutzhorne’s perspective. “And you just happen to be here to help out, the first day that the test subject is me?”
Gordon breathes deeply, his fingers clacking on a keyboard. “That’s correct.”
I look back to the two other men in the lab, still oblivious to our conversation. “Doesn’t that seem a little suspicious?”
“It does,” Gordon says, turning away from the screen. He gets closer, lowering his voice as he pretends to adjust some equipment near my armrest. “I gave Yost a mild case of food poisoning, a little bacteria in yesterday’s lunch. It’s not pleasant, but there was no other way to get to you. I don’t know much about Tran’s experiments with containees, except that he takes an interest in Hybrids with higher than usual intellect, and has blood samples taken on this day every month for any new additions to his collection. And with the head you got on your shoulders, I knew you’d come through here on the first available sampling day after your containment. It was my only opportunity.”
The things he’s saying don’t make much sense, but with the sense of secrecy that he tells them, an anxious curiosity goads at me. Wherever he’s going with this, it must have something to do with Genny. My heart thumps. “Opportunity for what?” I ask.
Without looking up, he retrieves a folded envelope from his coat pocket. “To give you this.”
Making sure we aren’t being watched, Gordon pulls back a small yellow strip on the envelope, a chemical a
roma escaping from it. He tugs at the collar of my containment jumpsuit, slipping the paper inside, where it sticks to the cloth. When he lets go of the collar, the paper is completely hidden from sight. “What-“
My question is cut off when he plunges a large needle into my skin. I snarl in anger, my body trying to rip itself from the restraints. The Mortetine fights back against my Rage, sending multiple white flashes through me. I fall back into the bed, and my eyes fall to the needle. Attached at the end is a large glass tube, filling with dark liquid. My blood. The last time I saw Hybrid blood was when I exploded Jensen’s head with a shotgun in the school office. My insides begin to feel as dark as the sample Gordon collects.
“It’s a note from my daughter,” Gordon says, fingering at another instrument that doesn’t need adjusting. “I can’t tell you what it says because I didn’t read it. And you can’t read it now. I don’t think my guys would care, but in an agency like this you can’t really trust anyone. And I can’t trust that agent won’t walk back in here at any moment.”
“Genny?” I ask, feeling the paper up against my chest. I sniff the air again, and beyond the chemical adhesive I also smell the faint trace of her. All feelings of anger, nausea, and anxiety are gone. In a place like this, I never thought I would experience any light and warmth ever again.
Gordon’s eyes finally meet mine. “She’s sick, Zaul, and there’s nothing else I can do for her. She doesn’t have much time, maybe a day or two. She made me promise to give this to you. It was the least I could do. Keep it hidden, and don’t take it out until you’re sure no officer can see you. When you’ve read it, destroy it. Eat it if you have to. If they find out you got this from me, I might lose guardianship of Genny, and all this will have been for nothing. Do you understand?”
