by Josiah Upton
Weiss grimaces, and sulks back to his box by the gate. We walk down a short path, almost wide enough for two vehicles, and pass through another gate with a tall tower, and a few trucks parked off to the side. Ortega simply waves his hand, and the guard opens up the gate, though he does pause when he sees me. I’m getting really tired of being gawked at like a circus sideshow act.
Once the second gate closes behind us, a loud buzzing sounds, and a large metal door on the side of the Facility opens. This is it. I look over my shoulder, but my view of the Jeep is obscured by the fences, gates and security checkpoints. I breathe in one last gasp of open air, then Dalton and I follow the hobbling man through the doors.
Chapter 38
Genny
Ortega nods sternly to all the officers that we pass in the quiet halls, giving off an aura of authority. I’ve decided to stare at the floor, not wanting any more looks of morbid curiosity from the Facility staff. I think one more might push me over the edge. When we reach a long, empty corridor, Ortega slows his pace, and finally speaks. “I really don’t want to bring it up now, but because you are here, I’m assuming something happened to your father?”
“Yes,” I say. This is the part where I’m supposed to explain how Caesar murdered my dad, but I can’t do it. It doesn’t seem real, I’m still in shock from it all. And having to relay the event will probably make me crumble on this very spot.
“When I spoke with him this morning, he seemed very paranoid and suspicious of our agency’s Assistant Director.” He looks in all directions, though there isn’t an officer in sight. The only witness is a surveillance camera, silently standing watch from a ceiling tile. “I don’t blame him. Schutzhorne’s actions have always been bureaucratic at best, and questionable at worst. But over the last few years, his dealings have become increasingly furtive and dubious.”
Dalton looks to me, confused. Some of these words might be too scholastic for him. And to be honest I’m running through my own mental thesaurus. Hard to believe this man produced Caesar.
“Your father described your unusual transformation,” Ortega continues, “and Schutzhorne’s unhealthy fixation with it. And when I told him of Caesar’s release, he was absolutely certain that the AD was orchestrating all of this in an effort to bring you into the Headquarters. He even suspected an attempt would be made on his life if it came to it, most likely at the hands of my son.”
We come to the end of a hall, a single door in our way. I expect him to open it, but he stands still. One hand grasping his cane, the other clenching again and again. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? Caesar is the reason you’re here?”
“Yes,” I say in a hushed tone, which sounds loud in these silent walls. My throat quivers as I form the words, knowing that when I say them out loud, it will make it all real. “Caesar murdered my father.”
“I am so sorry. When Mr. Jarreux told me about the threats Caesar made toward you and your father, I took what course I thought was best. And look at what it’s done.” He turns to us, his face filled with concern and regret. It doesn’t take away the pain, but I believe his remorse to be genuine. “I felt responsible, so I gave your father the option of temporarily keeping you here, if he felt you weren’t safe out there. He said he had another option he was going to pursue. But now, here you are.”
“Where will she stay?” Dalton asks. “How can you make sure Schutzhorne won’t find out she’s here, and use his Assistant Director powers to just take her?’
“I make no guarantees,” Robert says, finally opening the door. “But I have a plan. Right this way.”
We wind down a few more hallways, until we arrive at another door, with a sign reading SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. Inside is a large square room of pillars, with walls filled by windowless doors. An officer steps forward from his station in the center, addressing our elderly escort. “Director Ortega! This is a surprise. I wasn’t notified of any new Lock-ups, and we’re still at max cap.” He takes a moment to study Dalton and I. “These aren’t containees… they aren’t even Hybrids. Only authorized APA agents and containment officers are allowed inside the facility!”
“I’m well aware of the rules, Ithel,” Robert says. “But we’re going to make an exception today. This is Ms. Cyan. She’s going to stay in the Lock until I deem it time for her to leave.”
“Lock cells are strictly for containees,” Officer Ithel says. “We already saw what happened when Caesar was put in one. When Schutzhorne’s men came to let him out, they made that point quite clear. I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sir…”
“I’m not asking you to do this,” Robert interrupts. “I will.” He walks over to a large screen sitting behind the officer’s station, and moves his finger across it, scrolling through a list. “Containee 902, in #6. He’s getting out today.”
“But he’s designated Perma-lock!” Ithel protests, standing in between Ortega and the screen. “I can’t allow this. And if you’re expecting me to keep quiet about it, I can’t do that either.”
“Peter, Peter,” the director says, placing a hand on the officer’s shoulder. “This is a delicate situation. Just as delicate as the time you and Montoya were caught getting frisky in the locker room, a clear violation of the officer code of conduct. But you begged for the infraction to be buried, so your wife wouldn’t find out. Do you remember that?”
“Damn,” Dalton whispers to me.
“Yes sir,” Ithel says with a tight throat. “A delicate situation indeed.”
Robert pushes him aside, and presses a series of digital buttons on the screen. “Luckily, 902 is a fairly clean Hybrid. His cell won’t be an utter mess.” Last, he presses his palm against a grid on the screen. A door to my right slides open, and a bald, grey-skinned man in a blue-and-black striped jumpsuit stands there, as if he’s been waiting like that the whole time. This is the first Hybrid I’ve seen since my transformation, and even though I’m technically one of them now, the sight is startling. Especially with his dead-white eyes staring right into mine.
His nostrils flare, taking in the atmosphere. “I… smelleded you,” he says in broken English, his voice deep and gravelly. He sniffs again, and a look of confusion overtakes his veiny, hairless face. “What is you?”
“No one,” Ortega says calmly, approaching the containee’s cell. “She is no one, and you don’t see her. If you talk about her, you will come back here, and get many shocks. And no food. Many shocks, no food. Do you understand, yes?”
The Hybrid stands silently for a moment, contemplating Ortega’s words. I’d like to think they’re just empty threats, said only to ensure 902’s compliance, and that he wouldn’t actually do that to a containee. But then again, I don’t know him all that well. The Hybrid nods slowly, and looks to me. “Me don’t know you. Don’t see you. You is nobody.”
“Very good,” Ortega says with a smile. “Now go stand by Officer Ithel and wait. Over there.”
“How is this gonna work?” Dalton asks while the Hybrid shuffles off. “Isn’t he supposed to be Permie-contained?”
“Perma-Lock,” Ortega corrects. “And he will be – according to our system records, at least. Other officers saw Genny at the gate and in the halls, and when Schutzhorne puts out a description and starts asking around, someone is going to talk. They’ll search the facility, but they won’t find you. You’ll be in there, with the system stating that you’re Containee 902. There’s no cameras in the cell, just motion sensors to tell that someone is in there, and is still alive. The Lock Supervisor and I do an audit once a month for every Perma-lock containee. Since 902’s audit was due today – and I just did it – his door won’t open again for another 30 days.”
“And what are you going to do about him?” I ask, looking to 902 as he stands over by Ithel. I wonder if he even has a name. “Won’t they see him, and realize he’s not in here?”
“Years ago, when we tried to put a collar on 902, he resisted,” Ortega explains. “He swung his elbow and hit an officer in the head. The of
ficer went into a coma, and died in the hospital some days later. If you aren’t shot on sight, the penalty for raping, killing or eating a human is Perma-Lock. So he’s been in solitary since shortly after his admission, for almost twenty years. Except for myself, no one has been here long enough to remember that. And the only ones to see his face since then are Ithel and myself, when we do the monthly audits. Once I make sure Ithel is 100% on board, I’ll re-admit 902 as a new containee, with a new number and a new collar. It’ll be his second chance.”
902 scans his surroundings, experiencing his marginal upgrade in freedom with a small smile on his face. To be in complete isolation for twenty years, with only a brief visit every month, is horrendous. But now that’s over for him. At least someone gets a happy-ish ending out of this.
I look into the empty cell. It’s small and dimly lit by a failing fluorescent light, with a plastic mattress just barely five feet long, and only a small hole in the ground for bathroom matters. Hybrids are strong enough that they could rip out a prison toilet, and throw it at an officer once the door opened. There’s a nozzle on the ceiling, which must spray down everything in the cell, including the containee. That way the officers don’t have to go inside and clean things up themselves. There’s also a dingy hose hanging on the wall, but I have no idea what it’s for, and I don’t think I want to know. It smells rancid.
“This is the only place I can assure your safety, until I know Caesar is no longer a threat, and can find a way to get you out of here without Schutzhorne or his lackeys finding out.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“It’s the least I can do,” Ortega says. “And don’t thank me yet. This is solitary confinement, not a picnic. And I have no timetable when I can get you out of here.” He pauses, a grave expression on his face. “This is a big gamble. If an opportunity doesn’t arise, this door won’t open for a month. Do you understand that?”
The thought of being locked in this small cell for a month, with no clock, or someone to talk to, or any means of distraction whatsoever… It makes my chest feel like it’s sinking inward. I’m not claustrophobic, but this new reality is suffocating.
“Yes,” I say, almost choking on the word. But suddenly I remember that Dalton is in this facility too, with no foreseeable way out. “What about him? How will he get out of here?”
“We have some old officer uniforms I could disguise him in,” Robert says, looking to Dalton. The elderly Director hesitates for a moment. “I’m sorry about your father. He was a good man, and if I could have spared him that fate, I would have. It’s just that my hands were tied.”
“No sweat,” Dalton says, and he seems genuinely over it. “I didn’t speak with him much after he got canned, but he never said anything bad about you. Mostly just blamed the system and the Agency, said it was corrupt.”
“Trust me kid, I know,” Robert says grimly, and turns to me. “Well, this is it. I have to explain to Mr. Ithel the situation, ensure his compliance, and to see that the containee formerly known as 902 gets to where he needs to be. Say your good-byes now, a future reunion is not guaranteed.”
Once Ortega, Ithel and the Hybrid have left, my eyes meet Dalton’s. There’s not a lot to say. Aside from his male pheromones that agitate my Lust, there isn’t much connecting us that would warrant a heartfelt departure. I choose instead to focus on the things he’s done for me and my father, especially today. For all his insufferable character flaws, his desire to do right by his conscience wins out. I never thought I’d say this, but he’s actually one of the good guys.
“Dalton, thank y…”
He kisses me. He actually leans forward and presses his lips to mine and kisses me. At first I’m startled, wondering just what the hell is going on as I’m getting smooched by Dalton Harris inside a federal containment facility.
But then something ignites, and my body is set on fire.
I kiss him back. I feel his tongue part my lips, and I play back with my own, exploring his mouth. We had shared a kiss before, but not like this one. Not with the body that I now possess. I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling his hips right up against mine. He grunts softly, reacting to the strength of my eager hands. I ease up, but feel that there’s entirely too many clothes between us. There’s a mattress in the cell behind us, we could use that. I pull away for a moment, but only to grab his shirt, so that I might rip it off.
But when my eyes meet Dalton’s again, reality settles in. I don’t love this person. My body wants him – desperately – but my heart is miles away. I love Zaul. And he’s in here somewhere, taking my sentence while I make out with someone else. It was foolish and selfish. And dangerous. It’s a miracle I didn’t lose control and transition from face-sucking to face-eating.
How could he be so stupid to kiss me?
I slap him across the face. And even though I’m holding back, it sends him to the floor. I’m still not used to the power behind my muscles.
“Shit,” I say, propping Dalton up on his feet. “Sorry, I’m sorry… But what the hell were you thinking? Trying to get yourself eaten?”
“I was saying good-bye,” he says, his breath quick and labored. I don’t know if it’s from our passionate kiss, or from the blow I dealt. “And I had to say it like that, because I…”
“No,” I say, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare do this.”
“I love you, Gen,” he confesses, with an expression sadder than a lonely puppy dog. I can’t believe I broke his tough guy mask. And at the worst possible moment.
I sigh heavily, looking up at the ceiling. “You dick. I called you out in Denver on any fresh ideas you had between us, and you said – and I quote – ‘I don’t do infected bitches’!”
“You were talking about hooking up, not love,” he says. “And I didn’t love you then. Well, maybe I kinda did. I don’t know. But would it really have made a difference? You obviously don’t love me.” He stops for a beat, before asking the question I hoped he wouldn’t. “Do you?”
“You can’t do that to me,” I say. “That’s not fair.”
“Why?” he asks. “Because I’m the big jerk with no feelings? And you’re the delicate flower? Or is it because you really are a bitch…”
“Because my dad is dead!” I scream. “He was murdered right in front of me! And I’m about to go into this box, not knowing when or if I’m going to come out. I’m scared and I’m confused and…”
Dalton wraps his arms around me, to comfort me. But all I can think is that I wish it were my father’s arms. Somewhere in the back of my mind I keep expecting him to show up and bring me home, and make everything better. But he’s not coming back. A hollowness fills me, and it feels like I’ve died yet again. I move away from Dalton, and voluntarily step into the cell. There’s no point in prolonging the inevitable.
Ortega comes back in. Before he gets close enough to hear, Dalton says, “I’m gonna make sure you get out of here. With or without his help.”
“Don’t make promises that you can’t keep,” I say. “I’ve already made that one before.”
“Are you ready?” Ortega asks, coming to stand by the screen. I nod. Dalton stares at me, trying to lock eyes and transfer some sort of deep emotional connection. I can’t. “Keep yourself together in there,” Ortega says. “Hopefully, I’ll see you soon.”
The door closes, sealing me in solitude. With no one left to talk to, no plans to carry out, or any distraction whatsoever inside this cell, I’m left with the loss of my father. I fall back onto the closed door, slowly sliding to the ground, and weeping harder than I can ever remember. And this Hybrid remembers it all. I’m completely alone.
Chapter 39
Zaul
The spine of the book slips in my fingers, and the words on the page become blurry as my eyes lose focus. I’m dozing off in the softer light of the library, slipping slowly into exhaustion. I had trouble sleeping last night in the Common, my mind spinning with thoughts of safety for Genny and her father, and fantasies of murde
r for Caesar.
My fears and anxiety continued to plague me this morning, affecting me during our second try at the maze exercise, this time directing the Fem-Com containees. Not even the teeming mass of female bodies and scents could distract from the frenetic ramblings inside my head. And now, I’m just exhausted. I try one more time to resume where I left off in my book, and in a few seconds my eyes are closed.
“Wake up!” a voice shouts, as hands grip my shoulders and shake them. My elbows jerk back, and one finds the sternum of Ezra, knocking him against a shelf of books. A look of violence flashes across his face for a moment, but disappears when he winces. He’s generally rather good at controlling his Rage. “I guess I deserve that,” he says with a groan.
“What’s going on over there?” Tran’s voice says from the box in the middle of the room.
“Nothing,” Ezra says to Tran’s digital image. “This book I’m reading, it’s just so captivating. It literally knocked me out of my seat.”
Walt and Rich come over to my table too, and take a seat. Tran gives them a look of reproach, but ultimately sighs and rolls his eyes. This is the segment of our Brains Club meeting set aside for self-betterment and inner reflection – or as I like to call it, Quiet Time. But it never lasts for long, before it becomes group chat, and we get enough of that in the Common.
“So,” Walt says, a large grin on his face. “You guys decided which reward room you’re gonna hit? I’m going to do the Hunger Hall, for sure. That swine is mine!”
“We know you’re doing Hunger Hall,” Ezra says, settling down in a hardwood chair. “You’ve said that about a hundred times already. I personally haven’t decided. I wasn’t here when those rooms were open, so it’s all new to me. Smashing some stuff would be nice, but I don’t think I could pass up a live meal. Do you think they’d let me bring in some spices?”
