by Josiah Upton
“I won’t be coming back?” I ask, my heart starting to race. “What about you? What’s going on, Dad?”
“Schutzhorne,” he says, his face wincing when he says it. “The past week he’s been asking about you, wanting you to come in for testing, despite the fact that I’ve told him no, over and over again. And last night I saw an APA vehicle drive by our house five times. Five. No one drives down this street, except me.”
“What does that mean?”
“I wasn’t sure, but I went to work looking to find out. That’s when the facility’s director Robert Ortega came to my lab, to speak with me privately. He said that Caesar had been let out of his cell yesterday, and that Schutzhorne was the one that did it.”
“He let Caesar out?” I ask. “This can’t be happening. Why the hell did he do that?”
“I went to his office and asked him, and he said there wasn’t enough evidence to charge Caesar. But,” my dad says, his dark eyebrows raising, sweat forming on his forehead, “he said if I felt you weren’t safe here, that I could always bring you to the headquarters. I don’t know why, but he’s manipulating circumstances to get you over there. He’s obsessed with having you. But I won’t let him.” He marches through the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement, each step heavy and frantic. “That’s why we’re leaving.”
“Where are we going?” I call down to him.
“I’ll explain on the way!”
Now I’m left with Dalton, and no explanation why he’s even here. “How do you tie into all of this?” I see that he has a familiar large bag slung over his shoulder, one big enough to hold $500,000. “What’s he talked you into?”
“He came to my house, said there was a way I could help.” He frowns. “I couldn’t say no.”
“How…”
“Now, Geneva!” my dad shouts distantly from under the house. “We have to go!”
My curiosity will have to wait. I leave Dalton downstairs and start shoving everything I can into a small suitcase. I’m only able to fit four sets of clothes, a pair of shoes and some minimal toiletries before I start running out of room. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m not coming back, and he said take what I can’t leave behind. Whatever I bring will be all that’s left of my old life. I grab my weathered comic books and my stuffed monkey and pack them in. A locket that my mother once wore hangs on the corner of my mirror. I take that too. I also grab some framed photos from the top of the stairs, remove them and put them in the outer suitcase pocket.
Lastly, I start sorting through a stack of my drawings, until I come to one of a bald boy with dark veins. I’ve spent many nights touching up this picture, trying hard to get every edge and shadow perfect. This last week I’ve just held it at night in bed, wanting more than ever for him to be there with me. Someone who understands what I’m feeling, someone who loves me. It’s a dream that will never materialize. I fold the drawing and stick it with the photos, zipping the suitcase pocket up tight.
When I bring it down Dalton reaches for it. “Let me get that for you.”
“I got it,” I say dismissively. “And seriously, I’m stronger than you now.”
My dad comes back up with just a small red backpack, which only affirms my fears that he isn’t going where I’m going. “What’s in that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and begins unlocking the door to the garage. “Take one last look around, because we’re leaving.”
My eyes shift to all the spaces they can from the entryway, and I try to conjure up some memories and emotions, to make this sudden departure somehow more meaningful. A few good things are recalled, but most of what comes to mind is uncertainty, fear, and loss. In a way, it will be a relief to say goodbye to all those years. I’ve done all the looking I need, and follow my dad into the garage.
Dalton gets in the back with the bags, and my father and I buckle up in the front. “Sweetie,” he says, clicking the garage door opener. The brisk air of late fall rushes in from the opening. “Pull your coat hood over your face. And when we pass by the Facility and HQ, you’ll need to duck down…”
“Hey!” Dalton screams, pointing ahead.
A man’s body appears as the door slides up, until at last revealing the face of Caesar Ortega. His eyes are blood-shot, his jaw slack. White breath comes out in fumes. Even though it’s freezing outside, only a tanktop covers his shivering upper body. And gripped tightly in his hand is a gun. He doesn’t speak, or step forward into the garage. He only raises his arm and fires.
Little cracks splinter out from the bullethole in the windshield. I move to jump out of the Jeep and end Caesar in the most violent way possible, but my father steps on the gas, running into him. The car bumps up and down twice, the tires rolling over his body, and careens out onto the empty street. While we tear across the frosty pavement, my nose smells blood. I look over and my father’s chest is marked with a dark crimson stain. “Oh my God!” I scream. “OH MY GOD!!”
We make it to the end of the street, where we hop the curb and skid onto the dirt lawn of a long-abandoned house, barely missing the trunk of a dead tree. I reach over and pull the emergency brake lever, which brings the Jeep to a rough halt, right before we collide with the house. Once stopped my father fumbles for the car door handle, opens it and falls out.
“Dad!” I shout. In a second I’m out and around to his side.
“Go,” he says, coughing up blood. It stains the thin layer of snow on the ground. My Prisoner relishes the sight and smell, but I ignore it. “Caesar… He’s not dead.”
“He’s not,” Dalton says, peeking out from the driver door. “I saw him get up when we drove away. He’s walking right now!”
“Leave,” my dad says. “You have to leave.”
“No,” I say. “Not without you.” I pick up my large father with ease and hold him in my arms, like he once did when I was just a little girl. I fold the seat forward, and lay him in the back, then look to Dalton. “Drive.”
“Are you serious?” he asks. “I don’t know how to drive!”
“Then figure it out!” I scream, and look down at Dad. His eyes move lazily around the Jeep, gradually losing focus. “Just get us out of here.”
Dalton slides into the driver seat, and awkwardly moves the Jeep back out onto the street with abrupt starts and stops. Caesar is limping down the street, still several yards away, but he raises his gun and starts firing again. We’re too far down the road, and none of the bullets make their mark. As we round the corner he throws down his gun and screams.
“Dalton,” my dad says, his hand weakly reaching for the driver seat. “Dalton, go… go to the facility.”
“What?” he shouts, looking back at us. “That’s insane! That wasn’t the plan.”
“Plan B,” my dad says, struggling to sit up. “You’ll never make it to Breckenridge. Caesar will tell Schutzhorne, and they’ll block the highway. You don’t even know how to get there anyway. Go to the facility, and take Genny straight to Director Ortega. No one else. Do you understand?”
“What?” I ask. “Why are you sending me there?!”
“I’m sorry, Sweetie,” he says, brushing white hair out of my face. “It’s the only place you can be safe right now.”
“Then what?” Dalton asks. “What do I do after she’s at the Facility?”
We’re already almost there. This is happening too fast.
“Take my bag. Don’t open it, and don’t let it out of your sight. The address is in the front pocket. Bring it and the money to Breckenridge. They’ll… they’ll take care...”
“Daddy,” I say, pressing my hand lightly on the bloody hole in his chest. With my strength, any more pressure might crack his ribs. “Daddy, stay with me. We’re almost there, just keep talking. Tell me what happens next. Tell me about when I see you again.” His eyelids lose tension, his breathing slows. “Tell me about when I see you again. Tell me!”
Dalton pulls the Jeep over, stopping at an old house just one street away fr
om the facility. He opens the door, both bags in hand. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“There’s no way we’re getting into that facility without these bags getting searched. I’m going to stash them here until later.”
“But he said not to let it out of your sight,” I protest. “And they won’t let you in there anyway!”
“Straight to Director Ortega,” Dalton says, quoting my father. “He’s probably inside, and I’m not handing you over until I see him.”
Before I can say anymore, he’s walking up to the empty house. Looking around to make sure no one is watching, he slips behind a cluster of tall bushes standing guard in what was once a lawn. I feel fingertips on my cheek, and look down to my father. He has a small, weak smile, but he’s still here. “I love you, Sweetie.”
Tears fall from my eyes. I’m not sure if Hybrids are supposed to cry, but I am. “I love you too, Daddy.”
Dalton opens the door and hops in, looking back to me. He remains silent for a moment, possibly caught off guard by my tears. “Are you ready for this?”
My eyes fall to my father again. His breathing has stopped; his gaze is empty. The body that held his soul is as lifeless as the cold, empty neighborhood that surrounds us. He’s gone.
“Yes. I’m ready.”
Chapter 37
Genny
Dalton drives the Jeep into the barren parking lot, a giant empty space marked only by a few tire tracks through the light dust of snow, and a couple of agency vehicles. He parks in the middle, and looks back at the lifeless heap of cloth in the back seat. I covered my father’s body with some quilts he had stashed in the back. Every winter, we would drive around Pueblo or Springs, and hand them out to anyone on the street who needed it. We won’t be doing that this year.
“What are you going to do with the Jeep?” I ask Dalton. “With him?”
“I don’t think there’s anything that I can do,” he says. “You heard your father. They’re going to start blocking off the highway, probably looking for this car. I can’t come back to it. To be honest, I’m not even sure how I’ll get out of the facility and get those bags, unless Director Ortega helps me. There’s a lot of ways this could go wrong. The whole situation is fucked.”
“Yeah,” I say softly, placing my blue hand under the quilt to feel my father’s face. His skin is already losing warmth. I lean down and kiss his forehead, the quilt separating my lips from his dead flesh. “Goodbye,” I whisper.
There’s a lot of things stirring inside me as I leave my father’s body behind, a lot of emotions that beg to be felt. But I can’t explore them now. Whatever the endgame was of the plan he improvised just before he died, I know the next few minutes are critical. At the very least, I owe it to him to see this through.
The facility looms forebodingly in front of us, the only sounds are our feet on the wet pavement. So many things have been done to keep me away from here, so many sacrifices were made. And now, I’m just walking right up to it. Next to the main gate is a small building, with a uniformed man and woman sitting behind the glass. The woman sees me first, and nudges her coworker. Undoubtedly confused by the image of a blue, white-haired girl in a hoodie, they both exit the building out a side door.
“This facility is restricted for APA employees only,” the man says. He is larger than he is attractive, and my impulse to eat him wins out over the pheromones telling me to screw him. “If you’re looking for the Agency’s visitor office, it’s at the Headquarters across the street.” He takes a moment to study my face and hair. “What’s with the get-up?”
“Must be one of them bleeding-heart activists,” the female remarks, a snarkiness in her voice. I don’t like it. “Here for some sort of protest or demonstration. The face paint is for the blood that flows through the blue veins of oppressed Uggers, and the white hair is for… Truth? Justice? What’s the symbolism here, little girl?”
“We want to see Facility Director Robert Ortega,” Dalton says, trying his damnedest to sound tough and demanding. “Now.”
The two officers look at each other, and start laughing. The sound is irksome, but I can’t really blame them. The way I look and the request Dalton just made is altogether ridiculous as hell.
“You serious, buddy?” the man asks, shaking his head, his fat chin rubbing across the neck that it hides. I bet I could find it, though. “Take a hike, before I make a call and have agents cuff you on obstruction of federal containment operations.”
Dalton reaches into his coat pocket, and the officers reach for their sidearms in response. They relax when they see what he retrieves: a large stack of money, which he must have withdrawn before hiding that bag. I didn’t take him for the strategic type. Smart move. He peels some bills, and holds them out to the intrigued officers. “Here’s five hundred now. When Ortega is here, I’ll give you another five.” He looks over his shoulder, scanning the parking lot for Caesar, or perhaps a team of Collars responding to a call from Schutzhorne. So far there’s no one in sight, but it’s only been maybe ten minutes since our escape. He turns back to the officers. “And hurry.”
They hesitate for a moment, look at each other, then take the money. The woman grabs her radio as she walks back to their station. “Gate to Base, Gate to Base. We need Chief up here ASAP. We got a code 1217, I repeat, a 1217. Send Chief immediately.”
“What’s a 1217?” Dalton asks.
“Whenever Ortega’s great-granddaughter Anya shows up,” the man says, flipping over the bills in his chubby hands. “Her birthday is December 17th. A 1217 is the fastest way to get him out here.”
Great-Granddaughter? I knew Robert Ortega was a father, but I was only aware of one child, and surely a woman wouldn’t let a man like Caesar impregnate her. At least I hope not. This great-granddaughter must be descendant from another one of Robert’s children, one that probably doesn’t visit their insane brother too often. The only people I’ve seen at Caesar’s house over the years are addicts and women of questionable morals.
The officer stops counting his cash and looks up at me. “You haven’t said a word yet. What’s your story, Baby Blue?”
My unusual appearance hasn’t clued him into the reality that I am a Hybrid Reanimate, one of the creatures that the building behind him is full of. I suppose I should feel lucky that he isn’t pointing a gun or screaming at me. But right now there aren’t any “good” circumstances, only optimal ones. Least terrible ones.
“What, can’t talk?” he asks. “When I was young, I answered whenever an adult spoke to me.” He chuffs, his fat chin rubbing against his neck as he shakes his head again, looking back at the money. “Kids today, dressing up and skipping school. I just wanna know where the hell your parents are…”
My muscles flex, my jaw trembles with tension. I want to end this miserable man. Dalton senses my Rage, and grabs my wrist. I could easily rip from his grasp, but the gesture somehow calms me. “Easy,” he whispers. “We’re almost there.”
The minutes tick by at an agonizing pace, and every second I expect Caesar to catch up and finish the job, or a swarm of agents to tear across the pavement towards us. Nothing happens, though. Cañon City is still silent and lifeless. My eyes drift to the Jeep, suddenly wanting one last time to say goodbye.
I’m startled by a loud buzz, and the screeching of metal on metal. The gate is slowly opening, until at last a man is visible. It isn’t the maniac with the gun that our garage door revealed, but a much older man that could definitely pass as Caesar’s father. In one elderly hand is a cane, in the other is some candy and a small toy that he holds to his chest. Once he sees that Dalton and I are in fact not his sweet little Anya, the grin vanishes from his face. He turns to the male officer. “What the hell is this, Weiss?”
“These two wanted to see you ASAP,” Weiss says with a grimace. He notices the money is still visible in his hand, and he stuffs it in his pocket. “Sorry for the alarm.”
The elderly man raises a peppered eyebrow, then brings his attention to us
. “If you’re looking to see a containee, visitation rights have been non-existent since the inception of Hybrid Reanimate containment. If you have a complaint, please direct yourself across the…” His speech slows to a halt as he studies me. “Are you alright, young lady?”
“My name is Geneva Grest,” I say, breaking my silence. “My father Gordon said I would be safe here. He said to come see you, and only you.”
Robert Ortega’s mouth hangs open in shock, and the resemblance to his son in the moment he shot at us is striking. I know it isn’t his fault, but I can’t help but lay some blame on this man. Maybe if he hadn’t raised a genocidal psycho, or did a better job of locking him up, my father might still be alive. “Geneva Grest. That means that you’re…” He closes his mouth tightly, giving a sideways glance to Weiss and the female officer. Then he turns to Dalton. “And who are you?”
“Dalton Harris,” he says, his jaw tight. I’ve seen that look on his face, and it’s always right before he opens his mouth and says something stupid. I suddenly remember a little bit of Dalton’s past, and how Ortega ties into it. “You fired my dad three years ago, and then he killed himself.”
I want to punch him hard enough that his head spins off. If this is my only refuge, I can’t have it jeopardized by him mouthing off to the man holding the keys. Ortega sighs heavily. “Well this day just keeps getting more and more interesting.”
“Will you let us in or not?” I ask, then realize that I’m the rude one now. “Please. I can’t explain it all right here, but time is of the essence.”
He surveys me carefully, then nods. “Yes, of course. Follow me.”
We start walking, but Weiss steps in front of Dalton with his hand out, looking to collect on the rest of his reward. Dalton eyes him intensely for a moment, then pulls the stack out and counts the bills. He hands it over, but the Facility Director steps in between them. “Take that money, Weiss, and you’ll be on Bath Night duty for the next month. On the female side.” He hands the candy and toy to the officer. “Here. Consider this your Christmas bonus.”
