Sons of Sludge (Postmortem Anomalies Book 1)

by Josiah Upton

  The crown of her skull, and what's inside.

  A shrill bell rings.

  “Thank you, Ms. Womack, for being so understanding.” I stand abruptly, and walk to the door, away from her skin and her flesh and her smell. I need to leave. But before I do, I can't resist turning around to look at her again, at that juicy melon teetering on top of her neck. For just a second, I imagine punching my fingers through her skull and scooping out a generous portion of gray matter.

  “I'd better get to class now,” I say with a forced smile, which she returns, totally oblivious to the things roaring inside of me. Unaware of just how easily I could break her, and consume her. She was right, about me having the Hubrens Virus. But she was wrong about my medical condition. My Hybrid status is not negative, but actually positive – and neither she, nor anyone else at this school, must find out about that.

  My name is Zaul Jarreux, and I rose from the dead four years ago. My existence is driven by my condition and its three symptoms: Rage, Lust, and the Hunger for human flesh. I am a Hybrid Reanimate.

  Chapter 2

  Bodies. Warm, moving, human bodies. Walking past one another, brushing against each other. They fill the hallway outside the school office, a thick sea of fleshy aromas traveling over hundreds of heads, each one of them containing the precious material my unholy nature so desperately craves. And aside from my Hunger, the Lust is also rising. Half of the students are females, many of them wearing the sparse clothing prompted by the late summer heat that still prevails outside. The thoughts that run through my mind, the urges that course through my body – it feels like I'm being ripped apart.

  This is a nightmare.

  I hold my breath, stalking rigidly to a restroom entrance across the way. I bump into many of the students, some ignoring me, others giving me dirty looks on faces that I want to tear off and devour. I can't stop my forward motion or I might give into my weaknesses. I start to enter one of the restrooms, but the scent coming out of it is overtly female, and a little sign by the door reads WOMEN. Two females walk out of it, talking with each other, but stop when they see me staring at them. I don't know what the expression on my face looks like, but it must not be good.

  Quickly pivoting I make for the other entrance. Inside is a handful of males. Some older, some younger. Some big, some not so big. All are bags of meat that I could easily break and consume. One of them, an overweight kid with red bumps all over his face, is about to enter a stall, when I push him out of the way and lock myself inside. He screams at me, pounds on the door, but I don't listen. There's something that I need to do right now, and anyone who tries to impede that will likely not survive.

  I fish inside my pocket and retrieve an unlabeled amber bottle, little pills jostling around inside. It's called Mortetine, the only approved drug to suppress all three Hybrid Reanimate symptoms. Though not completely effective, it works. And I can't believe I was so stupid to walk into this scenario with taking only one dose. I pop the top, and let about two or three fall into my mouth.

  The overweight kid outside the stall is still banging and hollering. “GO AWAY!” I growl, my voice sounding not entirely human. The truth is, I am not entirely human. The kid stops, and I hear the others gasping and falling silent. Their footsteps quickly echo out of the restroom, some of them muttering insults under their breath, and then I'm all alone. The bell rings again.

  I'm not sure how much time I've spent standing in this stall, fists clenched and eyes shut, but I make sure I stay here until my medication kicks in. A sensation washes over me, a tingling and a slight wave of nausea, and then I notice that my muscles have relaxed. The Prisoner inside me has been confined deeper and tighter within.

  I don't have a proper name for him, my Prisoner. I just visualize him as the sum of my symptoms. A relentless beast that won't stay quiet for long, regardless of how much Mortetine I ingest. In fact, I can still hear him inside me, banging and hollering at his cell door, much like that kid outside the bathroom stall. My medication has moved him to a more remote cell, farther away from my surface. But over time, his quarters will move closer and closer. He'll get louder, and more vicious. I cannot let him out.

  Now that I'm less worried about ravaging and eating my classmates, it's time for me to vacate this stall. I don't have a watch, but I know I'm really late for my first class on my first day. I don't even know where it is. I put the Mortetine back in its pocket, and out of the other I pull my folded class schedule and printed map of the school. My first class is History, located one hall over.

  I creak the stall door open and move to the restroom exit, but stop in front of the mirror. It's hard to remember, after years spent mostly confined in a basement, that now people will be watching me. Noticing if I look or act peculiar. And the most significant aspect of my facade is my appearance. I check it now, examining the makeup that took hours to apply this morning. It almost passes my inspection, when I notice a small smudge where it rubbed off on my neck. A tinge of ashy gray – the natural skin color of things like me – can be seen, and the hint of a deep blue vein passing under the surface. That's not good.

  I pull a small canister of beige makeup out of my backpack and do a quick touch-up, hoping no one will enter the restroom. I also check my wig and false eyebrows; people with my condition don't have any hair. And lastly, I take out some cologne and release a liberal application all over my body. I can't describe what I naturally smell like, I just know I don't want to eat myself, so my scent must be distinctively different from everyone else. Once I look and smell nothing like my true self, I know I've done a good job. Time for class.

  Just as I leave the bathroom, an odor hits my nose. I don't see anyone, the hallways are empty, all students in their classes. But I still smell someone. And not just the lingering scents of the bodies here a few minutes ago, but someone who is near, at this moment. A dull clunking and high-pitched jangling echo toward me, coming from the women's restroom. I sniff again, and I don't smell a woman. A male? No, it's definitely female, but... different.

  The body finally joins the smell and the sounds as it comes into view. The clunking was from her heavy boots, thick soles offsetting her short height, and the jangling from large medleys of bracelets on each arm. And though her dark clothing covers everything but her forearms and head, the contours of a developed feminine body are easily visible.

  I am confused. She looks like a woman, but I don't feel the Lust surging.

  And then it makes sense: this is a girl. She hasn't reached something called “menarche”, the first menstrual cycle of the human female. The sexual desires of a Hybrid Reanimate are partially fueled by visuals, but if the female doesn't first smell like a woman, the Lust won't be interested. Thanks to my condition, I am very conscious of human pheromones, and this female is not secreting any that trigger this symptom. She is technically not a sexually mature woman. But what is she doing in this high school? She has to be at least fourteen, and she looks older than that. She seems to have undergone all other stages of human puberty, so why is she...

  Staring at me. She isn't moving. The face between her long blonde hair, eyes accented with deep blue eyeshadow, is frozen and pained. I know I'm the only one coming from the men's restroom, so she must be reacting to my presence. Does she know? Was my makeup adjustment inadequate? Or can she sense the never-satisfied hunger inside me, like the prey senses the eyes of its predator? Just because she's not technically a woman, just because I downed some Mortetine, that doesn't mean she isn't in danger. She's small and petite. Not much of a meal, but also even less of a fight.

  “What are you looking at, creep?!” she finally spits, face contorted with anger.

  Her problem isn't with my compulsion to devour any and all human flesh that comes near, but that I was staring at her. Aside from battling my condition's symptoms, I also have to learn and adapt to the nuances of teenage social systems. The growing revelations of my new life become more daunting with each passing moment of this terrible day, and I
only just got here. I want to go home.

  “Well???”

  “I... I, uh...” Verbal communication has been at a minimum since my transformation, and each sentence I give is often the construction of careful consideration and restraint. Her terse demands aren't affording me this luxury. My knee-jerk impulse is to smash my fists down on the drinking fountain to my right, but a flash courses through, my medication bringing me almost to the point of drooling relaxation. Maybe I took too much. My face must be showing it, too, because the girl shakes her head and walks away. Normally such a confusing experience would cause the Rage to build again, but I feel more sleepy than anything. What was I doing, again?

  History. I'm very late to my first class, which is History. A closed room full of young humans, and females with the pheromones that this last one was lacking. I cringe at the thought, but I will my feet to move me forward anyway, my stiff hand reaching into my pocket for the map of the school.

  I take a right up ahead, and then another, all the while still smelling that girl as if she's just in front of me. But as I round the corner I realize why, seeing thick boots and blonde hair disappear past a door as it closes. The number above it matches the room number for my History class. It seems I haven't escaped this girl after all.

  Chapter 3

  I try to recall the last time I was inside a classroom, but no visuals come to mind. It was at least four years ago, when I was still an actual human. I remember nothing from those days. My condition didn't let me retain many things from before my transformation: The ability to speak, to understand, to control myself. With time, training and practice I've been able to regain those skills, to a certain degree of success. But the memories, the events of my life before – that can never be recovered. For all I know, I've never been inside a classroom. And if I have, I was probably more concerned with learning than suppressing secret, insatiable desires.

  As my hand grasps the door handle, I don't know what to expect. I can already smell the bodies, their collective scent seeping out from under the door. I would guess twenty, twenty-five people inside, roughly half of them “mature” females. And I can still smell that girl among them. How can I expect to learn when all my body wants to do is sniff out potential prey? The Mortetine swimming through my unnatural body better be as effective as I hope it is. I take a deep breath, and walk inside.

  I see them all, I smell them all. In a way, my body can almost feel their presence. It's less than the swarm of students that I waded through in the hall, but this seems worse. All of them are sitting in their seats, stationary. They're practically trapped, or at the least caught off guard. My Prisoner can perceive all of this, I feel his shallow rumblings echoing up from deep inside. The drugs answer him, and my stomach cramps with heavy queasiness.

  He can also smell the females in the room, see their bodies through my own vision. He rattles at the door. His eyes glow with lechery at the far end of a long and dark hallway. The Mortetine marches down to him, like a stout prison warden, and socks him in the gut. The skin covering my body grows numb. I feel terrible.

  “Nice of you to join us.” The man at the front of the room, presumably the teacher, is a short and plump man, wearing a sweater vest and tan slacks. His face – which would be more suitable for an infant – is adorned with thick-lensed glasses, his magnified eyes peering out. His words seem cordial, but he is not smiling. This must be that sarcasm thing. He looks over his shoulder at a paper on his desk, his neck fat bunching up underneath his chin. “You must be... Saul.”

  “Zaul,” I correct. “I go by Zaul.”

  “Very well then, Zaul – you've just arrived for the end of introductions. My name is...” He points a stubby finger to his title written on the chalkboard behind him. “...Mr. Neal. And since we all know your name now, maybe you should take a seat. I believe there's one left at the rear, next to the other latecomer that has just graced our presence.”

  My eyes scan to the back of the class, over a handful of heads, to a blanket of blonde hair draped over a desktop. The girl appears to be sleeping. Just as Mr. Neal is turning back to the chalkboard, he notices her. “Young lady, it's bad enough that you're tardy on the first day. Could you at least wake up and join the rest of the class?”

  “I am awake,” muffles a voice from under the blonde hair, face still hidden, her tone still laced with the same amount of acid she unleashed on me in the hall.

  The teacher sighs indignantly, shaking his head. “That one – go sit next to that one.” I'm sure she has a name, but he merely refers to her as a thing. I'm not sure why, but I don't like that. My teeth clench, and I imagine smashing Mr. Neal's baby face through the chalkboard. Another flash, added to the numbness and nausea, and I am almost crippled to the point of collapse. I should go take that seat now.

  My flesh and joints stretch and groan as I make my way back to the last remaining seat. I pass by several females in revealing warm weather clothing, and I have to consciously not look at them. And I've taken to breathing through my mouth, not wanting to smell any more than I can help. I arrive at the desk and sit, looking up at the clock next to the door, comparing the time with my schedule's stated start for the next class – I have to endure Mr. Neal and these students for another forty-five minutes. I look over to the blonde-haired girl, head still down on the desk, oblivious to the world around her. I wish I could do that.

  “Now that everyone is here, it's time to begin today's lesson. And, as I'm sure you all remember, the National Curriculum requires that every year of History begins with...” Mr. Neal pauses, waiting for the class to answer him. They don't. “Reanimate History.”

  Everyone groans. This must be a tired and overdone subject for the average student, but it's completely new to me.

  Reanimate History is something that I am not very informed of. I know that over one hundred years ago, many people became sick and died, and then rose from the dead as Reanimates. I know at some point the few remaining humans fought back and eradicated this teeming mass of flesh-hungering undead.

  And I also know that a cross-strain of the undead virus survived, the blood disease that creates Hybrid Reanimates. People, or rather things, like me. Beyond that, I'm in the dark on the events leading up to today. And frankly, that's fine with me. I'm a monster, a freak of nature, a bastard child of the undead. What else do I need to know?

  “I know, I know,” says Mr. Neal, waddling around his desk with his hands behind his back. “It's been done to death. It's been hammered into you for so long that you all could probably teach the subject yourself. In fact, you there...” He points to a young male on the first row. “When did the first Reanimate appear?”

  “April 7th, 2020,” the student replies lazily.

  “That's right. It was the start of what we refer to as The End. And how did this event come to pass?”

  “Biological warfare, an engineered virus. Patient Zero was set loose in the streets of New York City as an act of terrorism by enemies of the United State of New America. Can I go to the bathroom?”

  “No,” snaps Mr. Neal. “And at the time our nation was not called the United State of New America. It was the continent of North America, divided into two separate countries: The United States of America and Canada. But otherwise, you answered correctly. Does anyone know how much of the population was wiped out by the infection?”

  “About 90%.” The answer comes from a few desks over. My eyes follow the voice and see smooth skin and the curves of a feminine body. I force my eyes to shut and turn my head in agitation, breathing more heavily through my mouth. The blonde girl with the boots shifts in her seat, and I think I see eyes peering out from the sheet of her hair. If she's looking at me, I must not be acting naturally. I ease my breathing.

  “Approximately 90%, correct,” says the teacher. “And how long before the military eliminated all the original Reanimates?”

  “Seven years,” says another female student. “The last Reanimate was destroyed on November 1st, 2027. What we
celebrate today as New Independence Day.”

  “Very good. And...” Mr. Neal rounds his desk and picks up a piece of chalk, screeching it across the board with sloppy strokes. “...what do we call that last Reanimate? Everybody say it with me.”

  “Subject Z-14.”

  The name echoes dryly throughout the classroom from all voices – except mine, because I don't know this part of the story. And the mysterious blonde girl to my left, the one who seems to have a problem with everything, isn't participating either. Probably out of choice rather than ignorance. Mr. Neal continues his discourse. “In October of that year, after nearly a month since the last catch and kill operation, the APA prematurely announced that we had wiped out every last Reanimate.”

  The APA I am familiar with. They are the nation's Agency of Postmortem Anomalies, the branch of government overseeing the registration and containment of all Hybrid Reanimates. I don't know who's in charge, I don't know their history (apparently they've been in operation for over one hundred years) – I'm just aware of what happens if they find out what I am. Find out that I am unregistered and living among the general public. Best case scenario would be placement in a Hybrid Reanimate containment facility. Worst case scenario would be a bullet in my head. In other words, for someone with my condition, the APA is bad. Very bad.

  “But we hadn't killed them all. The APA received an anonymous tip about a doctor named Gerald Hubrens, who was conducting illegal experiments on humans and Reanimates in a secluded biological facility. As the military prepped to storm that facility, Hubrens was in the process of artificially inseminating...” Stifled giggles spread throughout the class, and Mr. Neal turns from the chalkboard to eye everyone sternly. “C'mon, guys. Let's be mature here. As I was saying, the doctor artificially inseminated an unwilling female human with a synthesis of his own genetic material, and the sludge from the last Reanimate, an undead man, simply labeled 'Subject Z-14'.