by Josiah Upton
“Perhaps in the future, then,” Julius says, rebuttoning his suit jacket. “Sooner rather than later, I hope. The next time I see you, we’ll have an in depth conversation about her diet, activity and heredity. I want to know what caused her latent maturity.”
“Of course,” my dad says, his fake smile making a reappearance. I hope he’s just bluffing, and not actually willing to talk ‘all about Genny’ with this man. Schutzhorne nods sternly, and makes his way to our door. “Excuse me, Sir,” my father speaks up again. The courtesy he extends to this creepy jerk, even if he is his boss, is really getting on my nerves. “I don’t believe you told me the purpose of your visit in the first place.”
“I’d almost forgot,” Schutzhorne says. “Facility Director Robert Ortega gave me a call about an hour ago. He said that one of his subordinates, his son Caesar, had lost control of himself, and was threatening to kill you or your daughter. Or both.”
My body freezes at this news. I knew he was a psycho, but murdering his neighbors? And if he’s willing to do that to us, Zaul stands even less of a chance. For all I know, he’s already dead. I feel dizzy, the room beginning to feel small. “Why?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth closed. I don’t like talking to this man, but knowing why someone wants to kill you really loosens the tongue.
“He didn’t say. But Caesar is currently secured at the Facility while we investigate the matter. I came to inform you, and assure you we are doing everything we can to make sure he isn’t a threat – now or in the future. As far as we know, he doesn’t have anyone else aiding him in this. And he may have just been speaking in the heat of the moment. I’ve heard he has a reputation for fits of anger.”
And violent hatred against Hybrids, I think to myself.
Gordon sees Schutzhorne to the door, where his silent agent still stands. “We’ll keep you updated on anything involving Ortega. If his threats were made with earnest intent, he’ll be spending much more time locked up. But if he is acquitted, I suggest you find another neighborhood to live in. Or at the very least, some heightened security.”
The Assistant Director looks our front door up and down, his fingers fiddling with the deadbolt. “Regulations do require Hybrids be secure within the residence, which means more than just a single, one-sided lock. The Hybrid must not be capable of leaving. Otherwise it is a safety violation, which is grounds for revocation of guardianship.” He looks between the two of us. “Make sure your entire house – doors, windows – are up to code soon.” One last creepy stare to me, and then he’s gone.
Why did he need to come here himself to do that, the Assistant Director of the APA? Couldn’t he send one of his many gray suits for the job? Something about this stinks. I’ll bet when he looked into my dad’s employee file and saw Gordon Grest had a seventeen-year-old Phase I daughter, his apparently disturbing interest in Hybrids was piqued. He seemed almost giddy at the thought of running “un-invasive” tests on me. I’ll be lucky if I never see him again after today, but I won’t count on it.
Chapter 33
Zaul
“You tried eat him?” the containee asks in broken English, his hairless eyebrows raised. He is 1509, the Hybrid with about twenty followers and a hand with only a thumb. Aptly, his name is Thumb.
“No,” I say shortly. “For the last time, I didn’t try to eat him.”
“But one say you tried eat,” Thumb articulates with a confused look on his face. He’s not borderline Brains, like Rich and Walt, but he’s social enough to gather a small posse to himself, and smart enough the hold simple conversations. And anyone with the ability to talk has been asking me all about the day I ‘attacked’ Gordon. “One say you tried eat fat man.”
I don’t know for sure where these rumors started, since I was the only containee in the Cure department for testing that day. My only guess is Ezra or the Brothers started talking, since I did tell them about it. Of course all three of them deny letting anything slip.
“No, Thumb. Eating man is bad. Eating man gets you in big trouble. Remember?” I point to his left hand, which is missing all but one finger. The story goes that when he arrived at the Facility gates he grabbed an officer’s arm to take a bite and wouldn’t let go, no matter how hard they pried. At the time he was being processed for containment and didn’t have a shock collar yet, so they just snipped his fingers off, leaving only his thumb.
He looks down at his lonely digit, wiggles it and smiles. He jabs it into the air in front of him. “I’ll stick fat man’s eye, and eat his eye!” The surrounding members of his clique laugh, and mimic sticking their thumbs out. One puts his in his mouth, pretends to chew, and makes a popping sound when he takes it out. Even Rich and Walt laugh at this. As expected, they both slap me on the back. I’ve gotten used to it by now.
“What about after?” another containee, Number 0086, asks in a scratchy, wheezing voice. The others fall silent when he talks, giving him what little respect there is to be found here. He’s been in containment for a very long time, and has earned the name Daah, which must be a simpler form of ‘Dad’. “What about… Caesar?”
He looks left and right, even though we’re in the middle of the Common, several yards away from any officer. Speaking Caesar’s name has been less taboo ever since he was locked up over a week ago, but fear and routine last long in this place, especially for someone as seasoned as Daah. He points at my leg, the one that has amazingly already healed, only a narrow scar left behind. “Caesar hurt you. He made hole in your leg, and hang you up for kill.”
“Do you mean death?” Rich asks.
Daah sneers at Rich. Apparently he doesn’t like being corrected. The old Hybrid turns back to me, and pulls down his shirt collar, revealing several faded scars across his chest. One of them looks rather new. “Caesar too hurt me, many times. One say he hurt you when him and you alone. Do you… hurt him back?”
Other containees grunt in agreement. This is another story that I don’t know how got out, and I didn’t tell the other members of the Brains Club about it, either. Other officers must have talked about it loudly around the containees, perhaps to spread the word of what happens when you cross an officer. With all their white eyes on me, expecting an answer, I shake my head. “He wasn’t alone, Krecker was there. And no, I did not hurt him.”
“Weak!” Thumb barks through his proud smirk. “Big smarts don’t help you. First you don’t eat fat man, then you don’t hurt Caesar, when he hurt you, all alone!”
“He wasn’t alone, Krecker helped him!” I shout, growing tired of explaining myself to Hybrids that can’t (or won’t) understand. “I couldn’t do anything!”
Thumb stands up from his steel stool, walking closer to me. The way he moves, his head high and shoulders raised – I’ve seen it in here many times. It is the Hybrid body language of provocation, of challenge. He stops inches from me, leaning forward. “Weak.”
This is the cue for our fight to begin, and the posture of Thumb only fuels my desire to let loose some Rage. But my eyes scan the perimeter of the Common. All officer attention is already drawn our direction, waiting for the first strike. Usually they let it go on for a little while, until one or more fighters fall over the yellow line and the shock collars activate. And if that doesn’t happen quickly enough, then belt remotes come out and containees start dropping. There’s no way a fight ends pleasantly.
I take a step back from Thumb, lowering my head to signal my forfeit. He laughs riotously, joined by his gang. “Weak!” he screams one last time, and walks away with the group. Daah lingers a moment, only to show his disappointment, before deserting me as well. The only one to remain is the perpetually soiled Muck, who is completely oblivious to what happened.
“Don’t worry about them,” Ezra says. “It’s like trying to reason with children.”
“But backing down from a fight is gonna cost you,” Rich says. “You definitely lost some points in the Common today.”
“Yeah,” Walt says, always ready to back up his brother.
“Say goodbye to your bunk.”
“I was already on the floor,” I say. “Can’t go any lower when you’re at the bottom.”
A moment later the meat pipes turn on, rousing Muck from his stupor. A broad grin stretches across his face, and he joins the others congregating at the tall metal towers. I wish something as simple as meat goo could bring me that kind of joy.
“You hungry?” Walt asks his brother.
“Yeah,” Rich says, standing up from our table. “I could eat.”
The two laugh and walk over to the pipes. Ezra sits next to me. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me…”
“No offense, Ez,” I say. “But I really want to be left alone. Meals are the only opportunities I have for that.”
“Yeah, sure,” he says, putting on a fake smile. “I’ll just take a couple laps around the perimeter.”
As he slinks away, guilt rubs at me. This isn’t the first time I’ve told him to leave. Ezra has no real friends in the Common, only containees whose lives he interjects himself into. Unless he’s selflessly helping them get food, or helping them win Rec Hour games in order to get a prize, many avoid him. And even in the Brains Club he’s ignored, considered an annoyance.
Since my arrival he’s taken to making me his friend, and pity insists that I return the gesture. Usually I play along, listening to him, and telling him stories about my brief life in the outside world. And sometimes it is nice to have someone around who actually cares about what you have to say. But he talks so much, and I can only listen for so long. I just wish there was a way I could tell him to vacate the vicinity without him taking it personally.
Maybe I’ll make up for it with another story later, about my unsuccessful pursuit of a stray cat while walking home one day.
Once I do finally get a moment to myself, my thoughts turn to Genny, and the note I never got to read. If Caesar really can’t tell a convincing lie, then what he read from the letter was true. She doesn’t love me, and she never did.
But in reality, did I even love her? Is that possible for a Hybrid? I think it is, and I believe I did, but there’s no test or machine to tell me once and for all. I just know that her proclaiming she doesn’t love me gives birth to an unpleasant emotion. I don’t like it at all, and I suddenly don’t want this alone time anymore.
My thoughts are interrupted by a shrill buzzer screeching through the Common. For a split second I fear it’s Caesar’s bizarre morning arrival ritual, but loud music doesn’t spill from the speakers, and the lights stay on. Everyone’s eyes move toward the door as it opens. New containees appear, slowly being marched in by a team of Collar agents. And not just a few Hybrids, but several, about fifty. Newly fitted in fresh uniforms and shiny shock collars.
Ezra and the Brothers find their way to me. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” Ezra answers, “but it’s about to get a lot more crowded in here.”
A few officers stand in the front of the yellow line, holding up rifles to keep the group from advancing further. The new Hybrids halt, all of them looking equally exhausted and agitated. Where did they come from? A man in a suit appears from the back, accompanied by two armed agents. His coal black eyes stare between us and them, a grotesque grin on his tight face. If the APA’s Assistant Director is here, then this must be something big.
“Good afternoon,” Schutzhorne says into a microphone, his commanding voice echoing through the Common. “Due to recent events, a number of Hybrid Reanimates have been displaced, and are coming to join you in the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility. This is not a temporary arrangement. I realize you are already near maximum capacity, and space will be very limited. However, that is not an excuse for increased barbarism, insubordination, or other unpleasantness. Please bare with this situation while the Agency of Postmortem Anomalies works to increase the facility’s accomodations. Thank you.”
Schutzhorne hands the microphone to Fillinger, the officer that’s been in charge of the Common since Caesar’s lockup and Krecker’s dismissal. “You maggots got some new brothers, so move over. And the Lock is all filled up, so if you wanna cause trouble, you’ll get a bullet. Got it?”
Schutzhorne, skeptical of Fillinger’s crude translation, gives the officer a suspicious look, then moves out of the way for the new containees to pour into the Common. As I get nudged and shuffled by the influx, my eyes remain on the Assistant Director. He stands next to a Hybrid that appears nearly as old as Daah, his arms and ankles shackled, and a steel mask covering his mouth. New containees that arrive like this have been convicted of raping, killing or eating a human (sometimes all three), and are immediately moved to the Lock for permanent isolation.
It makes me wonder why they’re even brought here in the first place, and not just quietly executed somewhere. But the same could be said about all Hybrids. If we are so violent and inhuman, why are we allowed to live? I may never know the answer. If it were up to someone like Caesar, Hybrids wouldn’t even be a problem.
Containment Director Ortega is also here. He and Schutzhorne have an animated conversation that I can’t hear, with lots of head shaking and finger pointing for emphasis. The restrained Hybrid stands calmly in between them, his shackled hands clasped in front of him. He doesn’t seem like the violent type. In the end Schutzhorne leans in, says one final piece, then walks away with his two armed agents. What follows is another exchange, this time between Ortega and the Hybrid. The Hybrid shakes his head, and Ortega escorts him to the yellow line. Robert sees me, and waves me over.
“Zaul!” he yells. I come closer, being careful not to cross the line. “I need your help with something.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“This is Benjamin Rigg. He’s supposed to go in the Lock, but we don’t have any room. Also, I’ve known him for quite some time, and he simply doesn’t belong in there. He’s a good man.”
“Then why is he all tied up like a killer?” Ezra asks from behind me. I hadn’t noticed, but the male Brains members are still behind me, following me around like I’m their leader. I didn’t sign up for that.
Rich drapes his arm over my shoulder, pointing lazily at the Hybrid. “Who’d you eat, Benji?”
I shrug off Rich’s arm, and lean closer to Ortega. So far he’s been kind to me during my containment. He also stopped Caesar from putting me in the Lock, and kept him from hurting Genny or Gordon. I don’t mind doing him any favors. In fact, I’d say I owe it to him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep an eye on him,” Ortega says. “Make sure he takes all his Mortetine, and keep him away from the more violent containees, and any large, organized clusters, like Thumb’s crew. If possible, I’d like all four of you to take him in. Benjamin is certainly Brains Club material, and once I get to the bottom of this, I’ll make sure he’s part of the group.”
“Get to the bottom of what?” Ezra asks. “What happened?”
“Something that just doesn’t make sense.” Ortega calls over Fillinger, who removes Rigg’s shackles and mask, and nudges him over the yellow line. He walks slowly towards the four of us, and turns to give Ortega a solemn nod. “I’m going to figure this out, Ben,” Ortega says. “I promise.”
He begins to hobble away on his cane, but I call out to him. “What about Genny and Gordon? Are they safe?”
“Yes,” he says with a quick, strained smile, then makes his way out of the Common. That doesn’t offer much reassurance, but I can’t dwell on it any longer. I have a high-profile containee in my care.
Benjamin Rigg turns to us, a formal smile on his face. He hasn’t spoken yet, but I can already see what Ortega was talking about. This Hybrid isn’t of the average variety. “So this is the Brains Club.”
“Half the Brains Club,” Ezra says, his fist silently going up with the two brothers. I still won’t do that. “This is Zaul, Walt, and Rich. I’m Ezra. There’s three more on the female side.”
“Of course,” he says. “That would make sense. Half of my or
ganization is over there as well. Twenty-three of them.” He pauses, a thoughtful look on him. “If they all survived the transfer, that is. I lost two of our men between Denver and here.”
The mention of Denver gets my attention. This must be what Schutzhorne was talking to Tran about at the headquarters. “What organization?” I ask.
“I am…” He clears his throat. “I was the president of the Benjamin Rigg Foundation, a non-profit organization specializing in Hybrid Reanimate welfare guardianship, and peaceful Hybrid/human relations.”
“Relations?” Walt asks. “You mean, like, sex?”
His brother slaps him on the head. “No, you idiot. Relations. He’s talking about Uggers with human moms and dads and sisters. Family stuff.”
Walt didn’t like getting hit, any more than he liked being insulted and (incorrectly) corrected. The brothers start taking turns smacking each other’s heads, then move to wrestling on the Common floor. Ezra and I look to each other, and back to Benjamin. “We understand you. But what is welfare guardianship?”
“When someone sponsors a Hybrid for transfer from containment to a Hybrid house, a place with far better living conditions than this.” He gestures to our surroundings, and sighs heavily. “Anyway, that’s all gone now. The welfare guardianship program is completely scrapped, and every Hybrid previously enrolled is on their way to containment, either here or another facility. We’re merely prisoners now, more digits added to the containment machine.
“And I appreciate your willingness to help me out, boys, but you’re wasting your time. Just like Robert Ortega is wasting his. He won’t change anything. And if the APA wants me dead or locked in a tiny box, it’s going to happen. It won’t matter how many bodyguards he surrounds me with. So thanks, but no thanks.”
Rigg walks further into the Common and sits down at one of the permanently affixed steel tables. The Hybrids that were already there get up and leave when they see him, even the ones with clean uniforms that belonged to his organization, and from other Hybrid Houses. Ezra and I follow him, and once Walt and Rich recover from the electric shock that broke up their fight, they join too.
