"They were acting independently, off by themselves outside a beach home on the coast. Seaside Heights. There was no indication there was a mutant controller around and one was showing signs of radiation, as though the ionized hydrogen had finally caught up with him. So I ran the address but it didn't come up on our registrations."
"Did they have ear tags?"
"Yes, but I didn't see them until after they shot me. After I was shot I made it inside the house and met her. A girl, teenage. She must have made an unauthorized move and didn't re-register. If you ask me, she should be reported to M/RCC."
The dependent server arrived and placed a spotless glass in front of James, opened a bottle of mineral water, filled the glass, and placed the bottle next to it.
"Anything else, sir?"
"No," James said. The server retreated about 10 feet and stood to watch and wait.
Chevault said, "I don't think that regulation regarding moving and re-registration is completed yet."
"Did you see the draft? Was there anything about re-registration?"
"Yes," Chevault said. "That was covered but until it's final your teenage girl is okay. We'll get her when the reg is finalized. Did you get her info?"
"Yeah, I got that. I was hoping to go home and write my activity report tomorrow. All that will be in there," James said.
"That's fine."
"So where is the division director? Hansen?" James asked.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Hansen asked for a complete replacement of his home servers. This was after you left last week. He said they were inadequate. It turns out by 'inadequate' he meant 'dead'. He poisoned all six with something he cooked up in his kitchen."
"Why'd he do it?"
Chevault said, "Obviously he snapped. Stress will do that. That's what we think, anyway. He was just a medical lab director before the flares and had a tiny staff. He was small potatoes and I don't know how he rose to division director, honestly. He's done here anyway. Leaving. Can you make any recommendations?"
"You mean where he can go? The area I got shot is nice. Shouldn't be a problem getting his stuff there too. The roads are pretty open. Can't he have more servers though?"
"Not likely," Chevault said. "I heard he didn't just poison them for no reason. Apparently he was also conducting some kind of experiments on them. What experiments he won't say. Anyway, we're near tapped out. Harvesting new servers is getting harder and harder. Maybe impossible. I'm thinking about extending operations north. Could be more resources up that way. But until we find more, no one gets more than four. Not even directors."
"Too bad. If I could get my own vehicle I'd be happy to check it out. There are still some areas north of old Route 90 that haven't been checked. I'm not sure what the roads are like but if I had a couple weeks I'm sure I could collect some."
"Negative," Chevault said. “Vehicles are harder to get than resources. The batteries are getting depleted. Are depleted. That ride you got today might have been your last. Horses and bikes from now on until we find unused cars or replacement batteries.” He emptied his bottle of mineral water and set it on the table. The server collected the bottle, asked if he'd like some more, and retreated again. "We don't need you to go on a new mission. And this brings me to the reason I needed to talk to you. You have three servers now, correct? We can give you two more, and provide their transfusions for you. Congratulations, Division Director Shuh."
"I thought you said no one gets more than four."
"That's only certain 'no ones'. Not all 'no ones'. We think you have the skills necessary to keep control of the dependents in your region. You're one of the fold. For you, we'll make an exception."
"Then you've got a deal, Mr. Chevault. And you won't be disappointed."
Chapter 6
Two men dragged Anthony down a ground floor hallway of the Mutant/Resource Communal Control Building. He was familiar with the building layout, having visited his friend Hansen here in the past.
"This way, sir," the shortest of the two said.
Anthony, at well over six feet tall and almost twice their age, was a half foot taller than his two fellow mutants in uniform who now escorted him. He looked down on the bald heads of the two and wondered how the one who just spoke got the scar on his scalp. He refused to help them steal his blood, invade his privacy, violate his body, but shackled as he was the only way he could resist was to drag is feet. Each man looped his arms under Anthony's, one on his left and one on his right, and dragged him into the room just indicated.
"Thank you, sir. If you would be so kind, please sit in the bench as indicated," the short man said woodenly.
Anthony slumped onto the bench and the other man knelt down, forced Anthony's ankles against the bench legs, and locked shackles onto them. The man stood up and looped a shiny chain through the dull one that connected the cuffs on Anthony's wrist. He then connected the shiny chain to a ring on the floor. One of the men grabbed Anthony's right arm but Anthony pulled it toward himself. It jerked out of the man's hands and Anthony almost hit himself in the face. Then both men grabbed Anthony's right arm and forced it onto on a table near the bench. Together they were quite strong and managed to wrestle Anthony's arm into Velcro stirrups on the table. When finished, Anthony's right arm was immobile. He was helpless.
"We're done here, sir. Please make yourself comfortable," the short man said and the two left the room, closing and locking the door on their way out.
Anthony had not said a word.
In the two hours that he waited, he tried to nap but found that resting his head on his upper arm forced the cuff to dig into his wrists. The back of the bench ended just below his neck so leaning his head backwards didn't work either. He studied the small room and decided it was previously used as a janitor's closet.
Finally, the door opened and a short but rather large woman stepped inside. Her thinning hair and eartag told Anthony she was a server. He flexed his fingers and was surprised he could still feel them.
"What is this about?" he asked her frankly.
The woman carried a metal tray on which was placed a hypodermic needle, a pint-size clear plastic bag marked "MUTANT", a bottle of alcohol and some cotton balls. She wet one of the cotton balls with the alcohol and then swabbed the inside of Anthony's left elbow. As she did so, she met Anthony's eyes and held his gaze. Something in his look prompted her to lean closer to his ear and say quietly, "I'm taking a pint of your blood for storage. New mandatory policy. One pint each month. You're not the only one who refused at first but a new regulation came out last month. You can ask for a copy of it before you leave."
Anthony held her gaze. He knew from his experience with this agency over the past several years, after it was established in the year following the solar flares, that once a regulation was finalized it was mostly pointless to resist. Mostly. At that moment, a thought crystalized and emerged in his conscience. This new regulation must not stand. Strapped to the table, imprisoned on the bench, he could do nothing about it, not even resist it's implementation on his own right arm. But it must not stand.
The serum he was developing may be the answer. Must be the answer. It would free the non-mutant resources of their dependence on the mutants, and it would free the mutants from M/RCC. As he watched the blood drain from his arm and into the pouch, he resolved to redouble his efforts on it when he got home.
Once the bag was filled the woman faced the door and said, much louder than before, "Thank you, sir. We are done here."
The door swung open and a man, different than the two who had led Anthony here, entered. He carried a small box and a clipboard. The woman looked at the floor and exited but not before holding the bag up for the man to take.
"Thank you for your cooperation," the man said as he handed the clipboard to Anthony and slipped the bag into the box. "Please sign the paperwork and we'll have you on your way."
"Paperwork?"
"Yes, giving us your permission to draw and store your mutant
blood today."
Rather than ask the obvious question regarding why he is being asked permission after the blood was already drawn, Anthony waved his right hand in a signing motion. The man placed a pen in it and held the clipboard up. Anthony gripped the pen in his fist and, in a quick motion with his thumb, snapped it and dropped it on the floor.
Without missing a beat, the man said, "As you wish" and pulled a second sheet of paper from under the permission slip. Printed on top of this one were the words, "In Loco Donator". The man printed his name in the space provided on top and signed it on the bottom.
He then pulled out a red, metallic ring from a box under the bench. It was about one inch wide and hinged. The man knelt and clasped it onto Anthony's left ankle just above the cuff that secured his leg to the bench.
"What's this now?" Anthony asked. He briefly thought about asking to see Hansen, hoping that his friend might get him cut loose from this place. Unbeknownst to Anthony, though, even if he asked no such help would be forthcoming.
"Just an identification device. Perfectly harmless. Regulations and your permission obligate us to ensure your safety by identifying you at all times. This cuff allows us to fulfill that obligation."
Again, Anthony nodded and the man left the room. The two shorter men reentered, freed him from the bench and the ceiling loop.
The shortest of the two said, "If you would just follow us this way, sir, we'll get you on your way."
They led Anthony to the end of the hallway and into the large central foyer where two sets of doors opened to the outside. Anthony was led into the space between the two sets of doors and the cuffs were removed from his ankles and wrists.
"Thank you again for your cooperation, sir," the shorter of the two men said as he held the outside door open.
With that, Anthony stepped out the same doorway that James Shuh, formerly scout 237 and now Division Director Shuh, had entered earlier that day. Around his ankle was a red, metallic metal ring on which was printed in large black, etched letters "CRM 28974 COOP YELLOW".
Anthony did not voice to the men questions of which he already knew the answer. No transportation would be provided and his servers, who he had kept alive with daily transfusions since they were assigned to him four years ago, were not be taken care of in his absence.
Chapter 7
Two days later, as the sun was treetop height in the west, Anthony rolled up to the front of his house on a bike he found in a garage. He swung his right leg over and balanced on the left pedal as the bike was still rolling, then dropped onto the cement walkway and jogged while holding the handlebars with his right hand.
Before the solar flares, when Anthony was well over 300 pounds and grossly out of shape, walking and biking the 100 miles back to his beach house would have been a dream. Today, at 150 pounds, it was easy.
He slowed to a walk and steered the bike to the garage. The pre-flare owner's Jaguar X-type sedan was still parked inside, engine long seized up from non-use, and as Anthony rolled the bike next to it he decided it was time to get rid of the car. When he worked as a lab assistant, such a car was his dream. But now the novelty of owning a Jaguar was long gone and the thing was just in the way.
He didn't bother looking for Savane, Gwen, or the three cousins. Without his blood, they would have left in search of another mutant willing to provide, he thought. He wished them the best but knew their chances were meager. Less than meager. Nil. Zero. Certain death.
Anger reentered his mind. His anger at the capriciousness of the sun was short-lived and for a few years, despite the seeming injustice of how some souls were born mutant and others were not, he managed to live with some satisfaction. Even after Mutant/Resource Communal Control was formed and non-mutants were collected in camps and divvied up like cattle, he realized this injustice was probably the best that could be made of an impossibly catastrophic situation. Maybe there were better ways to keep the non-mutants alive but right after the coronal mass ejections, they were dying at an unsustainable rate; something had to be done quickly or everyone who, according to God's roll of the dice, were blessed with DNA that was not correctly mutated would be gone. Now, as the five people who he had grown close to, who he had come to regard as family, and who he had kept alive through what he considered the sacramental giving of his own blood, were forced into death because Communal Control needed more, his anger returned.
He could ask Hansen about what political winds were blowing inside Communal Control but that might be risky. The two men, former colleagues, were sharing notes on their work to develop a serum for the dependents. Hansen said they cannot be seen together; if his management finds out what he's working on, he said, he'd be shut down. Anthony respected Hansen's insight and between the two of them they had developed what will be, at least according to their computer simulations, an effective growth medium. It was Hansen's idea to explore why grasshoppers were so prolific in the radioactive environment, to separate grasshopper hemolymph into its component parts, and to use the resulting proteins as a growth medium to further mutate human blood into a serum that could be given to dependents.
Anthony headed straight upstairs to his bedroom, not bothering to eat. For reasons unknown to him, since the ionized hydrogen saturated the atmosphere and killed off most everything that lived, he rarely felt the intense hunger pangs that previously drove him to hit fast food drive-throughs 2 or 3 times a day. Food was much scarcer now, and the days when a meal could be collected simply by pulling into a fast food joint were never to return, but so was his hunger.
The first thing he did was check his computer. It was right where he left it. He turned it on and opened his lab notes and lab simulation program. All were in order and Anthony breathed easier. He shut the computer down. Next he checked a work room he set up in another bedroom. The plastic shoe box, nearly filled with clear plastic bags and paper towel, was right where he left it. He returned to his bedroom, which had a sun roof facing west. As it slowly turned dark, and with thoughts of his life before the world ended running through his mind, Anthony fell fast asleep.
~ - ~
About the same time Anthony reached his bedroom, Savane was in the kitchen filleting salmon, which she and Pryce had caught earlier that day.
"I found a volleyball net and ball on my way back here yesterday," Savane said to Maya, who was sitting on a barstool at the island counter in the center of the kitchen.
"I remember volleyball. We had to play it in gym class sometime," Maya said as she spun a knife in circles on the countertop in front of her.
"Yea, me too. Me too. I didn't like it that much. Wasn't tall enough and can't jump. Nope. Gwen loved it. I got it for her. What about you? Did they have volleyball in your gym class?"
Abel, who had just returned from dropping deer bones over the side of the boat into the ocean, walked into the kitchen. He placed both his hands on the counter opposite where Maya sat, palms down, and stared at Maya.
"What? Why are you looking at me like that" she asked.
"Nothing. I'm just not used to seeing you in the kitchen. Didn't we get you enough batteries? Do you need more?"
"No. I'm just talking to Savane. Hey, you want to play volleyball tomorrow?"
Abel raised his eyebrows slightly. "Volleyball?"
"Yes, volleyball. What's the big deal? Savane brought a net back from her fishing trip today," Maya said.
"OK, Maya, yes. What time do you need me?" Abel asked.
"Whenever you'd like. What time, Savane?"
Abel looked at Savane, shrugged, and said, "Whenever I'd like?"
"Yes, yes," Savane said. "Whenever you'd like. My sister loved volleyball. I got the net for her. How about we play after the pool is cleaned, Maya? Will you be up by then."
"Sure thing," Maya said. "See you then," and she stood up and walked out of the kitchen.
As she walked through the door, Abel asked, "Do you need anything else?"
"Nope," Maya said without turning around, and she was gone.
<
br /> Chapter 8
Along an overgrown highway a four hour walk from the river which happily produced legions of salmon each year, more salmon than were produced in each of the 100 years before the flares, a solar event which nearly wiped out their main predator, lay three bodies.
Two of the bodies lay on an embankment along the west side of the highway. As the sun rose each morning, its warming rays fell on their decomposing faces, as if they were watching it rise. As if they were greeting the new day. This is how it was supposed to be.
The third body lay as it fell for the last time, on its side and curled slightly, with knees tucked upward. Its mouth was gaping open and a dried yellow-pink substance spread outward from it. Rain was unlikely to wash it away for several weeks and it was left for the insects.
Cousins Orel and Graves greeted each sunrise. Hayes fed the insects.
Chapter 9
Pryce hung the long-handled pool net on the fence, removed the last pebble from the coffee container tied to the fence and dropped it into a matching container on the ground. He put the empty container on the ground and tied the full container to the fence. Tomorrow was Abel's turn. The sun was just risen and he turned toward it, letting it warm his face and create a glow in his closed eyelids.
From the upstairs master bedroom, Maya's bedroom, he heard Maya laughing. Despite the difficulty of keeping Maya happy, and despite sometimes feeling like he was living on the rim of a grave which could, with one denied transfusion, claim him, Pryce was thankful for her. Despite her demands and her tantrums, he and Abel were alive. And for that he could only credit Maya.
Now, hearing her laughing provided Pryce with his daily dose of hope that he would live to see the sunset. When Maya was happy and her mind was engaged in some activity that she enjoyed, she provided the transfusion happily and without the stubbornness that she sometimes displayed. Only on very rare occasions did that stubbornness, which was sometimes tinged with resentment, result in a missed transfusion. And even then, she relented and eventually allowed her blood to be drawn. So for that, Pryce was very thankful.
Mutant Blood Page 3
