Sons of Sludge (Postmortem Anomalies Book 1)

by Josiah Upton

  SONS OF SLUDGE

  (Postmortem Anomalies, Book 1)

  Josiah Upton

  Sons of Sludge

  Copyright © 2014 Josiah Upton

  All rights reserved

  Cover artwork by Adrijus Guscia, 2016

  SONS OF SLUDGE is a work of fiction, and any characters bearing resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For Jessica, my light and warmth

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  …But The Story Doesn’t Stop There.

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Prologue

  The cold stone under my feet is the only thing I can feel, dust and mildew is all that I can smell. And I don't see anything, the room is completely dark. There was once light in here, the glow of a little ball that hung from the surface above me. But I tore it down in fear, not sure what it was or how it got here.

  How did I get here? I don't know. I remember waking up, an intense sensation burning in my throat and in my stomach. After I destroyed that glowing ball, I stumbled around in the darkness, my hands and nose searching desperately for food. I didn't find any. Before that, I recall being trapped in another dark room, one much smaller than this. The floor and walls seemed to move and bounce around a lot, which frightened me. And there wasn't any food in there, either.

  At some point that small room stopped moving, and a blinding light suddenly surrounded me. I definitely smelled food then, but something sharp plunged into my skin, and everything went black. And before that...

  I don't remember. In fact, I can't even try to remember anymore. The burning in my gut never went away, but has only grown more insistent. I am in constant agony. Loud screams rip from my mouth, beyond my control. I hope that my pleas will make food appear, or at least remove the hunger that is gnawing at my insides. Either one will do.

  Without warning, my environment changes. Light pierces the blackness, and a strange sound reaches my ears from above. Something is trying to communicate with me, though I can't comprehend any of what I'm hearing.

  And then I smell it. Food.

  I race towards the light, stumbling upon a series of small platforms that seem to ascend into the air, bringing me up from the ground and closer to the scent that my stomach and throat scream for. I am almost there, now crawling instead of walking. The smell becomes stronger, promising me release from this anguish.

  Then the light disappears. It is replaced by another hard, cold surface, another wall trapping me in this strange place. The smell of food still taunts my nose from the other side, but it's quickly disappearing. This throws me into a state of great frustration and fury. I snarl and spit and claw at the wall, my arms coming down on its unmoving surface, over and over again. Every ounce of my wrath is spent, seeking to destroy this barrier to my salvation. But it is all useless, it changes nothing. My body crumples to the floor, defeated.

  However, my nose still senses something. And it's close. My fingers search greedily along the dark floor, until they find a soft and sizable object, warm and wet against my skin. My hand clutches it immediately, bringing it up to my nose. Was this what I smelled before? Something about it doesn't seem right. But its odor still beckons to the pain inside me, offering some small amount of relief.

  Without thinking, I shove it in my mouth, its moisture dripping down my chin and splattering my body. In this moment, nothing else matters, no other thoughts cross my mind. And wherever I am, for whatever reason I am here, I know nothing will compare to this experience. I couldn't possibly be concerned with anything beyond quieting that ravenous burning inside of me. As I consume my food in the dark, this truth consumes me.

  Chapter 1

  I have trouble keeping my eyes open, the fluorescent lights of the school office prying their way into my pupils. It's not as bright in here as the sunshine I endured outside, but it somehow seems more painful, and more intrusive. I prefer to be mostly in the dark. If I could, I would smash all the bulbs, and swallow this entire room in blackness.

  I don't belong here. I think back to four years ago, when I woke up in that dark room in the ground. I was scared, confused, and wild. Honestly, not much has changed. I appear calm and in control on the outside, but that doesn't reflect what's happening on the inside, and it doesn't fix what is so horribly wrong with me. I suppose you could call it my medical condition.

  “Zowl?”

  The startling sound comes out as a high-pitched squeak, a voice coming from the corner of the office. It belongs to that female, in the emerald green blouse with little sewn-on cats. Sitting not-so-safely behind her desk. Mispronouncing my name. I've tried my best to ignore her ever since I got here, but I can't any longer. Four years of living with my medical condition, ignoring the walking and talking and breathing and bleeding and stinking people outside my four underground walls, but not anymore. My life is about to drastically change.

  No, I don't belong here. This is a mistake. I should go back to my hole under that house, where it's dark, and I'm all alone. The way it should be.

  “Zowl? Hello? Is that you, young man?”

  People with my condition tend to have difficulty focusing.

  “It's pronounced Zaul,” I spit, unable to mask the frustration in my voice. Until now, I've never had to. “It isn't that difficult to say.”

  “Zaul,” the woman corrects herself, not trying to hide her own displeasure. Her eyes are cold and stony and locked on me. I wonder if the thoughts in her head are as unreasonably violent as the ones in mine. I doubt it. “The principal will see you now.”

  I stand, my stiff muscles groaning as they move under my skin and over my bones. I have to strain more to move my body, more than those without my condition have to. I'd say it's painful, but I'm not sure how else it's supposed to feel. I don't remember what it was like before. Walking up to the woman's desk, I try to make my motions appear more fluid, but it still feels like I'm a popping and snapping machine. Broken and rusty. I don't think she notices, though. She's still glaring at me, still irritated by my terse correction. Her thick arm raises, and points to her left. “Down there, second door on the left.”

  “Thank you.” My gratitude comes out slow and lazy. I'm still staring at how large her arm is. Wondering how much it weighs, how tough the muscles inside are. It lowers, and my focus goes back to her face. She's no longer upset, but confused. Scared, maybe. All things considered, she should be. And so should I, of what I
might do. Taking a deep breath through my mouth, I turn to leave her there.

  The fact that I can do that, relatively easily, means the medication is working.

  The second door on the left is slightly ajar, I can't see inside. But I can smell, and I know someone is in there. I take in another deep breath through my mouth, observing the colorful rectangle of paper taped onto the door as I exhale. It's something called a poster, I believe. A picture of a young man, sitting at a desk, a smile plastered on his face as he looks out a bright classroom window. An eagle soars in the distance. My eyes focus on the letters arranged underneath the image, forming words: You Can Achieve Your Dreams. I don't know what my dreams are, or if someone like me could achieve them. Looking back at the young man, I know I am nothing like him.

  I don't belong here.

  I push the door open all the way, and the smell hits me stronger than before. I notice just how small the room is, and unless I'm by myself, I don't like being in small rooms. At the back of it is another female, sitting behind a desk. I realize that as I stand in the doorway, I'm blocking her only way out of this room. In a sense, she is trapped. But I remember that most normal people don't concern themselves with such details. I remind myself where I am, and what I'm supposed to be. She looks up at me, and her smile indicates she doesn't see me as a threat. I must be doing this right.

  “Saul!”

  Not my name.

  She rises from her desk and comes toward me, stopping just a few feet away. Too close. I take a step back. “Hello, it's so nice to meet you.” Her arm raises, hand outstretched to me. What is this? I think it's one of those “shake” things. I can't do that. I take another step back. Her smile falters a little, and she lowers her arm. It isn't large like the other woman's arm, but slender and feminine...

  I'm staring again. I force myself to look away, to all the things affixed on the walls of her office. I see pictures, some similar to the poster on the office door. There's a few frames, cream-colored papers placed inside, strange and barely readable letters scrawled across them. The woman in front of me is silent, I think she's waiting for me to say something in return. My eyes still roaming around the room, looking at anything but her, I utter, “Hello.”

  “Please, have a seat, Saul.”

  “Zaul,” I say, finally meeting her eyes. Her face is attractive, and the body underneath it is in good condition. Conflicting symptoms of my condition stir inside me. If this makes her uncomfortable, if she can sense my thoughts and urges, she's doing a good job of hiding it. She smiles again.

  “Zaul, yes, of course. Your papers have you listed as Saul, but here, you can go by whatever you like.”

  Her voice is patronizing, like she's pacifying a small but stubborn child. The first of my condition's symptoms – Rage – spikes a little. But then a white flash goes through my head, through my body, and the Rage abates. I feel calm, almost sleepy. The medication is still working.

  “Please, have a seat,” she insists again.

  “Yes, ma'am.” I sit down across from her, my muscles groaning the way they did before, but in reverse.

  “'Ma'am'?” she expresses as she returns behind her desk, eyebrows raised. “Well, I guess it's true what they say about the fabled southern hospitality. Your transfer papers say you're coming in from... Lake Charles? Is that correct?”

  Not really. Yes, that's where I'm from originally, but I haven't been there in over four years. And “transfer” papers would imply that I'm coming here from another school, but this is actually my first day of it. Well, first day of a real school, anyway. I guess the past four years of my education would fall under homeschooling. But all these details must be kept secret, and replaced with lies. “Yes, ma'am. Lake Charles.”

  “How was your trip?”

  I can barely remember, and of the few things I can recall, I can't say. “It was fine.”

  “Very good,” she says with a slow nod, then suddenly looks startled. “Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Vicky Womack, the school principal.”

  Oh, really? I gathered that from the sign on her desk that reads: Vicky Womack, School Principal. The thought of having to deal with such conversation from now on makes me grit my teeth, and a flash pulses through again, leaving me feeling light-headed. I wonder if occurrences like that will use up the effectiveness of my medication. If these people keep agitating my symptoms, testing them, will it all dry up, and I'll be left to fend for myself? I don't want to find out. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Womack.”

  “Please,” she insists, “call me Vicky.”

  I thought students weren't supposed to call their teachers, or other school faculty, by their first names. I'm trying to keep as much distance as I possibly can with these people, and a first name basis seems too personal. I just smile, look away, and say, “Yes, ma'am.”

  “So...” Ms. Womack looks down at her desktop, at a tan folder, opening it to reveal a small stack of papers. My illegally forged documents. She retrieves a pair of reading glasses from the breast pocket of her suit jacket, and I realize just how much skin the blouse underneath it shows off. Why is she wearing something like that at her job? Around teenagers? I can't stop staring, and the second symptom of my condition – Lust – rustles at the sight. My hands grip the armrests of my chair, my fingers digging deep until they find the furniture's wooden frame inside them. But then my body goes slightly numb, and my muscles relax. The medication wins out again.

  Ms. Womack places the glasses on her upturned nose, and runs her finger down the page at the top of the stack. She makes a strange percussive sound by exhaling through closed teeth, an absentminded rhythm forming while she scans the paper. I don't know why she just can't be quiet, and not have to fill the silence with senseless noise. I doubt I'll ever understand behavior like this.

  “Your grades from Lake Charles look good...”

  I hope they don't look too good to be believable.

  “...and your attendance record is exceptional.”

  My attendance record, from a school I never attended.

  “It says here that you're living with your uncle?”

  That man is not my uncle, and I wouldn't quite say that I “live” with him. He provides me with food, shelter, medication, forged papers and the occasional training session. That's about as domestic as it gets. But what other title could be given him that wouldn't raise suspicion? “Yes, ma'am. I live with my uncle.”

  “So, what made you move to Pueblo?”

  An honest answer to that question would require a story. A horrific story, with so many holes and gaps that I can't fill in, though I've spent much time trying to. I have a very vague outline, told to me by my so-called uncle, but relaying even that to Ms. Womack would reveal too much about myself, about my condition. Yet another lie is in order. “My parents didn't think it was safe for me to stay in Lake Charles.” The mention of my parents makes my jaw tense up, my fists clench. I push them from my mind, and elaborate with the first workings of fiction that come into my mind. “I lived in a rough neighborhood.”

  “I see,” she says, expressing empathy. It annoys me. “Is that part of the country still restructuring from the End?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” she offers with a frown, looking back down at the folder. Flipping a page over, her index finger goes back to searching and her breath goes back to percussing. I grow impatient, and I catch myself staring at her body again. I feel another numbing sensation, but it's more subdued. The medication is wearing off. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Why am I here, anyway?

  But then she flips over another page, revealing a yellow copy of my medical record, and I understand what this is all about. She's been wasting time, waiting for the right moment to bring up the real issue at hand. My condition.

  “Zaul, it says here that you are registered as positive for the Hubrens Virus, but, as we can clearly see, negative for Hybrid status.” Ms. Womack pretends to continue reading the document, but I know she's just
using an excuse to not look my way. She must be disgusted by this information, by me. Another flash pulses through, but smaller. I can feel the creaking of the wood in my armrests, threatening to buckle and snap from my grip. I'm losing more and more control. She finally brings her eyes up to me, a knowing look on her face. “I want you to know that it's okay.”

  My fingers release from the chair, and my muscles don't feel as tense. It's okay?

  “The Hubrens Rights Initiative helped make discrimination against those infected with the Virus illegal,” she continues, standing up from her chair and walking over to me. Her short skirt, like her blouse, doesn't seem appropriate for a school principal. The exposed skin of her legs looks smooth and warm. Symptom two, the Lust, flares up, and I want to shut my eyes tight and block it all out, but that would seem too suspect. I clamp down my hands again and bear it. Whatever point she's making, she'd better make it quick.

  “Maybe other places don't take the HRI seriously, trying to find their way around the law. But at this school, we take it very seriously. I take it very seriously.” She's now sitting on the edge of her desk, a foot away from me. She puts her hand on my shoulder. My vision goes blurry, my throat and stomach begin to burn. With the Lust already in full swing, symptom number three – the most... problematic – begins to surface.

  “I want you to know that you won't be harassed for something you didn't have a choice in. I'm the only one who has seen your file, and your personal information will remain confidential, locked in my office. You'll be just like all the other students.”

  Her hand remains on my shoulder. I know she's attempting to comfort me, but it's only making things worse. So dangerously worse. And I will never be like the other students. She thinks she knows me, but she doesn't. My “uncle” knows me. And my parents know, but they aren't here to help me. To stop me. To save Vicky Womack, School Principal. I look over to her, taking in the sight of the flesh on her legs. My eyes go up, over her chest and her neck and her face. But they don't stop until they reach the very top, to the thing that symptom number three is screaming for the most.