by Josiah Upton
He trails off. I look up, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my gown. “Hormones. That’s what did it. The delay of your first cycle allowed the rest of you to age and mature further, giving the virus a different body to interact with and reanimate. It was the hormones.”
“How can you be sure?” I question, followed by a rather ungraceful burp. “You just found me like this ten minutes ago.”
“Well, think about it. What makes you different than all the others infected with Hubrens? The average age of transformation for females is twelve. You had five extra years of growth and development. A virus will react differently depending on its environment, and the environment of your body was substantially different than others. It’s like using the same paint, but on a different canvas.”
“Paint and canvases?” I ask with a scoff. “How scientific, Dad. I’m surprised they haven’t given you more raises at work.”
“Okay, so I don’t know exactly what happened,” he concedes. “I’ll have to run some more tests. But it must have something to do with your hormone therapy. There’s no other explanation for how… different you are.”
I eat the last bite of pork, licking the blood from my lips. A couple days ago you couldn’t pay me $1,000 to eat like that, much less enjoy it. But now I can’t imagine any other way to dine. And to think I tried being a vegetarian last year…
“How do you feel?” Dad asks me.
I’m able to look at him more easily, able to endure his scent without disturbing thoughts running through my mind. “Better,” I say. “Still hungry, but manageable. I’ll survive.”
“Genny, your level of restraint for a new Hybrid is unbelievable.” He pulls a slender metal rod from the inside of his jacket. “I’ve had this shock baton on me just in case you lose control, but frankly I don’t even feel like I need it.” I completely understand the precaution, but he looks down with shame. “Sorry, Sweetie. I’m just glad I didn’t have to use it.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I say. “I’m still not sure what I’m capable of. I feel mostly in control, but it also feels a little like I’m getting squeezed, by some stranger inside me. It might be best to keep it handy, just in case. Who knows, I might just lose it if I hear you singing those god-awful country tunes.”
He smiles grimly, and puts the shock baton back in his jacket. Maybe he won’t ever need it. Maybe.
“I see you’ve kept your sense of humor,” he continues, “a clear indicator of unaltered intelligence. But your appetite seems standard for a Hybrid, which means there still might be other traits you’ve acquired through transformation.”
Yes, one of them being Lust, which I’ve tried to block from my consciousness ever since he got the money for my guardianship. What if I woke up, and the unthinkable happened? What if the Lust fueled gross desires for my own father? I shudder inside. Thank God that isn’t the case. It’s bad enough my Hunger sniffs him out as food. But if that were to happen, I’d have to break out of this place and never return, even if it meant a heavily-armed showdown with the APA. I think dying again would be preferable to such a reality.
As far as Lust for any one else, it’s been completely AWOL. I guess I’ll know when I cross paths with another male. Which will be never, in my estimation. One less bullet to dodge.
“What about your Rage?” he asks, thankfully avoiding that dreaded topic. “Do you feel high levels of irritation and aggression?”
“I was getting a little teed with all the locks on the door. Are twenty of them really necessary? It took you forever!”
“Okay, some frustration, but did you…” He peeks around and under my bed, looking for something. “Did you break anything?”
“No,” I say. “Didn’t feel the need to.”
I start remembering stories about Hybrid strength. I remember the times Zaul smashed Dalton’s face with relative ease, and when he got upset and accidentally squeezed my hand too hard. Do I have that strength as well? I look down at the metal bowl in my hand, the distorted reflection of a blue-skinned girl looking back through streaks of blood-red. I’m not the same Genny anymore. I grip the edges of the bowl, and push.
“Genny, what are you doing?”
“Testing myself,” I say. With a little more pressure, the sides pinch, and it closes silently like a clam. I hand the ruined bowl back to my father. “I guess I passed the muscles exam.”
“Huh,” he says, holding it loosely. “If I still gave you an allowance, I’d say this was coming out of it.”
“Just be happy I didn’t wake up and destroy all this pretty lab equipment in a fit of Rage,” I say, gesturing around the room. Between the meat I’ve just devoured, and the fact that I have superhuman strength, I’m feeling feisty. I’m feeling really good. “Consider yourself lucky.”
“Huh,” he says again, this time only followed by a smile. I return the grin, so happy that my father and I, for better or worse, have each other back.
But after a moment of silence, the good feelings start to fade. My life is still very different. I will never fully belong in this world, just like the poor souls down in that facility. Just like the boy that sacrificed himself to make this second chance a possibility. I owe him my life. I promised to get him out of there, but I failed.
“Dad,” I begin softly, not sure if I will like the answer I hear. “How is Zaul?”
Chapter 29
Zaul
The journey to the Lock is time-consuming and torturous, slowed by the recently mutilated leg that Caesar forces me to walk on. Everytime I stumble, everytime I trip and fall, Krecker shocks me until I use my trembling arms and one good leg to get back up. Whenever we pass other containment officers, they see my wound, gasp, and stare at Caesar. He just barks at them to keep walking. None of them protest. He has this facility in his pocket.
Traversing these long halls is hard enough after what I’ve just been through, but what makes it almost impossible is the crushing weight of the decision Caesar gave me. Either Gordon is murdered, and Genny is locked up in this hell, or the girl that I love dies. And even though her transformation will bring about her demise anyway, at least there is hope for some form of life beyond that death. But I know that by Caesar’s hands, he will make sure she doesn’t come back. She will neither survive as human, nor rise again as a Hybrid. She will cease to exist. How do I choose something like that? I can’t. But if I don’t, Caesar will kill both of them. There has to be a way out of this.
We arrive at the Lock, and the officer standing guard approaches us. He’s more vocal than the others were about the state Caesar and I are in. “Ortega, what the hell happened? 1822 looks like hell, and you got Ugger blood all over you!”
“Kitchen accident,” Caesar says. “Just open up a cell, Ithel.”
“I gotta write up a report first,” Officer Ithel says. “You know I’m responsible for these sick bastards. The last thing I want is for an APA audit to think this happened to him under my watch. It’d be my ass on the line, and I need this job.”
Caesar leans forward, sneering, and grabs the man by his uniform collar. “What you need is to shut the hell up and do as I say! I don’t answer to you.”
“But you do answer to me,” says a voice from the door. Past the scent of my blood and the sweat on the officers’ skin, I smell him. It’s Robert Ortega. The officers and I turn around to see the man hobbling along, supporting himself with his cane.
“Oh,” Caesar says with a nervous smile. “Dad.”
“Director,” Robert corrects with a stern voice. He comes to a stop in front of his son, firmly grasping the top of his cane with weathered hands. “I’d like to know just what the hell is going on, Ortega. There’s a trail of blood that I’ve been following from the kitchen all the way to here.” He looks me up and down, his gray eyebrows raising sharply. “What happened to Containee 1822?”
“As I was just explaining to Ithel,” Caesar says, eyeing the officer over his shoulder. “Kitchen accident.”
“Then he should go
to the infirmary,” the director says. “Not thrown into solitary confinement. What is he doing here at the Lock?”
“He attempted to assault an APA agent back at HQ, during the Brains Club’s monthly trip,” Krecker answers. “In the event of an attempted assault on an officer or agent, protocol dictates the containee be transported to solitary confinement immediately.”
“Immediately,” Robert says, looking down. “As in, without delay. So it makes one wonder, why he made a stop at the kitchen for a last-minute injury.”
“Well, you see…” Caesar begins, scratching the back of his head.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Robert interrupts. “You always have been. And this isn’t just your Aunt Dina’s broken vase you’re trying to hide. This is a serious injury, sustained from a containee while in your custody, in an area he was not supposed to be in the first place. Furthermore, your interaction with 1822 has been entirely restricted. Forbidden. Or did you forget that part of the ‘protocol’ as well?”
Caesar remains silent.
“Maybe I should ask Zaul what happened?” the Director questions, his eyes falling to me. “How exactly did you sustain your injury while in the kitchen?”
I freeze. From my first day, Caesar has instilled the fear of severe retribution for ever talking about him to anyone. I saw that today, and it wasn’t even me that informed on his black market operations. If I tell his father what happened back in the kitchen, Caesar will surely kill both Genny and Gordon. Maybe the Director can help me with that, though. Maybe he could find a way to protect them. It’s risky, but it might be my only chance to save both of them. And right now, Robert is the one man in this facility that I somewhat trust.
“Captain Ortega did this,” I say. Caesar’s back is to me, but I see his muscles tense up. I can imagine the look on his face, the violent hatred boiling inside him. “He said his house was raided for illegal Mortetine, and he thought I had told the APA, or that I knew who did. He beat me, used a knife to cut a hole in my leg, and hung me by a cable above the Juicer, until I gave him an answer that I didn’t have.”
“Dad!” Caesar says angrily. “You can’t listen to him, he’s the enemy!”
“Silence,” Robert hisses at his son, then turns back to me. “Why would Caesar think you were responsible for this, Zaul?”
“Because,” I start, observing the rise and fall of Caesar’s shoulders as he breathes heavily. If Robert doesn’t find a way to mediate his son’s wrath, there will be violence. But it’s too late to back out of this now. “Because I was buying four hundred Mortetine pills a month from him, before the APA captured me.”
“You lying freak-shit!” Caesar screams, turning to me. “I’m going to kill you!”
“Ithel, Krecker!” Ortega shouts to the other guards. The two men get behind Caesar, each holding him back by a shoulder. It’s strange to see, in this place, a human restrained while a Hybrid stands freely. Robert regains his composure, and returns his attention. “Is there anything else you wish to say, Zaul?”
“The APA agent that turned me in,” I say. “Gordon Grest. In the kitchen, Caesar threatened to kill either him or his daughter, or both. I believe he’s serious.”
“Is this true, Krecker?” Robert asks, but Krecker doesn’t speak. “You’re already on unpaid suspension, Arthur, for aiding my son in the torture of a containee. Speak up, or you’ll lose a lot more than shifts.”
Krecker grits his teeth, weighing the consequences. Caesar looks him in the eyes, conveying silent warnings with his stare. “Yes. That is what Captain Ortega said. He planned to hold 1822 in the Lock for the night, then let him decide which one would die. I’d like to go on record that I planned to come to you with this information, as soon as I broke away from Caesar.”
“I’m sure you were,” Robert says, clearly unconvinced. “The matter will be investigated, and you will wait patiently by your phone, praying that I call to inform you that your career is not completely destroyed. Until then, don’t leave the city, don’t even leave your house. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” Krecker grunts bitterly.
“But before you go home, help Officer Ithel escort Caesar into an empty cell, where he will remain until I ensure Grest and his daughter are safe.”
“What?” Caesar barks. The officers, whom he no longer has authority over, push him toward the open door of a small, dark room. “You can’t put me in there!”
“I’m sorry, son,” Robert says. “But these are serious accusations. And if they are true, I can’t let you leave the facility. But you can’t be near the containees, either. This is the only option. Consider it your well-deserved time-out.”
“No!” he screams, as the door begins to slide shut. Just before it closes, he locks eyes with mine, dark malice in them. If he ever escaped, he would not only kill both Genny and her father, but me as well. He would save me for last, just to prolong my suffering. He would take his time, enjoying every second of it.
The door seals with a soft magnetic hum, containing Caesar’s wrath for at least a little while longer. Another officer arrives in the Lock, coming before Director Ortega. “You called for me, sir?”
“Yes. Please escort Officer Krecker to the south personnel station, confiscate his belt, keycard and weapons, and remove him from the facility. He is suspended indefinitely, effective immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once Krecker is gone and Ithel is back to his Lock station, Ortega reaches in his suit pocket, handing me a few Mortetine. I swallow them, closing my eyes as they move slowly down my throat. The last dose I had was what Gordon gave me back at the headquarters, and all of that burned up quickly when Caesar started questioning and torturing me. If not for Krecker’s electrical reinforcement, I surely would have killed them both.
“Don’t worry, Zaul. Caesar will be secured here.” He begins hobbling away from the cell door, and waves for me to follow. “Come on. I’ll bring you to the infirmary to get patched up.”
I start limping along with him, though the pain in my leg has already lessened, and the bleeding stopped completely. The rate of healing for a Hybrid is truly incredible. My thoughts turn to Mr. Jensen, shambling towards Dalton and I in the school office, even after taking a shotgun blast to the chest. The Hunger in his eyes, the hoarse cackle in his voice that sounded a little too much like my Prisoner… who now notices that the weak and elderly man leading the way is completely defenseless. He snarls within me.
“Shouldn’t you have an officer with you?” I ask.
“Why?” he asks over his shoulder. “Planning on pouncing me, Zaul? If you were, you’d just do it. You might recall the conversation we had in my office, when you first arrived here. I told Krecker to leave us be that day, because over the years I’ve learned which ones I can trust, and which ones I can’t. I’m fully aware of your Hybrid Reanimate compulsions, but also of your restraint. The desires don’t make the man. His will does.”
Robert slows to a halt, turning to face me. “You wanna know a little more history about this place? It was built in 1871, became a prison in 1876. Around that time, a notorious criminal spent some time on these grounds. His name was Alferd Packer. Do you know what he was convicted of?”
Of course I don’t know. How could I possibly know? I shake my head.
Ortega continues walking. “Alferd Packer was a miner. He and some other men left on an expedition for gold in Breckenridge, quite a distance north of here. But they got lost in the Rocky Mountains along the way. Only Packer survived. And to do so, he was forced to eat off the bodies of his dead companions.”
My stomach churns. I slow my pace. “Eat them, sir?”
“Yes, Zaul. Cannibalism. You thought the consumption of human flesh was a Reanimate invention?” He chuckles. “Since the dawn of humanity, some poor souls have found themselves in this unfortunate predicament: eat your fellow man, or starve to death. Alferd Packer was such a soul, and it earned him the hatred and disgust of society.
�
�Cannibalism isn’t only the result of desperation, either. Before The End, curious explorers would travel far from civilization to remote locations around the world, encountering primitive tribes with traditions of flesh consumption – religious rituals, rites of passage. And it doesn’t end there. There are some stories,” Robert says as we stop outside a closed door. Next to the keypad is a plaque with the word Infirmary. He turns to me. “Stories of deranged individuals. Albert Fish, Jeffrey Dahmer. These humans hunted in the night, stalking prey. They struck when least expected, killed their victims, and consumed their bodies. Sometimes right there on the spot, or perhaps over months at a time.”
I look at Robert with suspicion. “Why?”
“Because they wanted to. Or perhaps, they were driven to. Just like you, and the 1,766 others in this facility. But have you ever partaken in the eating of actual human flesh? Do you stand among the ranks of Packer, Fish, or Dahmer? Has there been an instance where you gave into your compulsion?”
For as long as I can remember, my teeth and tongue have hungered for that forbidden meat. I’ve dreamed about it, fantasized. Wondered what it would actually taste like, or if some sort of peaceful satisfaction would calm my Prisoner, once the flesh rested in my stomach. But I’ve never experienced it for myself. “No, sir.”
“I didn’t think you had,” Robert says. “And it’s not for lack of opportunity, either. There may be strict measures in place to ensure the safety of our staff here at the facility, but I don’t believe those measures were at Pueblo High.”
My constricted throat swallows.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Robert says, “but I’ve done some research on you, and what I’ve found has only reinforced my initial impression. You were in that office with the body of your principal. You knocked that other student unconscious, defenseless. Your Hybrid teacher was dead, providing no competition. You could have given in, but you didn’t.” He grips his cane tightly with one hand, and with the other points down the hall we just crossed. When he speaks, his voice falters slightly. “My son – a human – just cut a hole through your leg, hung you up over a gigantic liquefying machine, and promised to kill at least one innocent person that you care about. You tell me, Zaul: Who is the monster here?”
