by Josiah Upton
“Yeah. Drawing helps me feel better when I get really depressed.” What's making her really depressed? This concern I find in myself is surprising. She looks away from her sketches and brightens her expression a little. “Did you bring them, the comics?”
I lay my backpack on her bed and unzip it, carefully pulling out the plastic sleeves and handing them over. Her eyes grow wide with excitement. I like the feeling it gives me. “January 2004... that's over 120 years old! I can't believe you have these, and they're in perfect condition, too. Was your great grandfather a collector or something?” No, but the dead former owner of Gibbs's house apparently was. I nod, having no other way to answer. “Cool. Are these the only ones you have?”
“I have another 30 or 40 more back at home, all in sleeves like these.”
“And you've read them all?”
“Yes.” Well, almost all of them. The first few I tried to look at were destroyed by my clumsy and easily frustrated Hybrid Reanimate fingers. It took time to sharpen my fine motor skills enough to handle them properly. “And do you have any?”
“I do.” She gently places the comics down on the bed and walks over to her closet, talking to me as she searches for something inside. “Most aren't that old. Some are from nowadays, others from when my dad was a kid. But...” She walks back with a small stack of paper and plastic in her arms, laying them next to mine. “...I do have these three. They're not in as good of condition, but they're still readable.
“Check this one out.” She holds up a plastic sleeve containing a faded cover of an exploding Iggy Riot. “You already know this guy. My dad gave me it for a birthday present. And look at this.” In her small hands is a strange comic of a cartoonish girl with abnormally large eyes, and the text around her is in characters that I have never seen before. I can't understand one bit of it. “This is a Manga, from Japan. I snatched it from one of those stupid Patriot Burnings when no one was looking.”
“Patriot Burnings?” I ask, puzzled.
“You're from the Former State of Louisiana, right? They don't have those there?” Once again, I don't know. I shake my head. “Throughout the year people gather up things that they find, things that came from outside the country, and burn them in a big public demonstration on October 31st, the night before New Independence Day. There's supposed to be a huge one this year, a hundred years since the killing of Subject Z-14. Most of the items found are things imported from before The End, since the embargo set during reconstruction makes it nearly impossible to trade with other nations now. This Manga is pre-End, so technically it isn't illegal to have, but it's, uh... frowned upon.”
Mr. Jensen's copies of Dr. Jekyll and Mr, Hyde, and the critical words spoken by that student, come to mind. Reading that book must be more forbidden than I thought. I also think of all the things in my basement, and whether any items would be “frowned upon”.
“Does your father know you have this?”
“Yeah, but he doesn't really care. He thinks all that Patriot Burning business is ridiculous. But he did tell me to be careful who I show this to. So far, you're the only one.”
“Me?”
“I guess I trust you or something.” She smiles again, and looks absently around the room, until she realizes that I'm staring. I don't mean to, but I can't help it. I feel compelled to look at her, especially when she says things like that, things that suggest she really is my human friend. Our eyes are locked for a moment, then break away as hers move down to comics on the bed. “This one is my favorite, though.” She pulls out one last sleeve from the stack and hands it to me. “It's about zombies.”
The word confuses me. I look at the faded cover and see a mass of decaying corpses shambling toward a fleeing band of human survivors. “You mean Reanimates?”
“No, zombies. Reanimate was a term coined during The End, but this was printed before that.”
“Before? How is that possible? Did they know what was going to happen?”
“I don't know,” Genny says thoughtfully. “But this isn't the only thing. My father says that zombies were portrayed in hundreds of books, comics, movies and music, long before The End ever came. He says it was so saturated in our entertainment culture that when the first Reanimates appeared, people instinctively knew to take out the head, and to quarantine those who were bitten. Makes you kinda wonder, huh?”
“Wonder what?”
“Was past fiction a foreshadowing of future reality, or did future reality imitate past fiction? Or was it all just a coincidence? From what I can tell, the zombies in that comic are pretty damn similar to the Reanimates from a hundred years ago. Or, at least what we've been told about them.”
I look down at the cover, at the empty eyes of the zombie as it moves towards its prey. And the horror on the faces of the humans is indescribable. Though this was only meant to be a story, it came to life. Fantasies conceived in the creative minds of men fleshed itself into reality as my ancestors stalked the land, mindlessly seeking to consume every last ounce of human flesh and blood. This is what I came from.
I don't look at Genny, trying not to appear too personally invested in the subject, when I ask, “Were any stories told about... about those Hybrid things, before they came?”
“I'm not sure. Probably. Given enough time, I'll bet anything is conceivable.”
I find myself staring intently at her again. She doesn't speak like the other students in school. She's different, weird – but in an enjoyable way. I enjoy her words, her interests. I enjoy her pale skin and delicate hands. I enjoy the way her blonde hair falls in front of her blue eyes. Even when she isn't smiling, I enjoy the pained expression on her face. And our interaction in her room has held enough of my attention that horrible thoughts of eating her haven't even crossed my mind.
“Dinner's ready!” Gordon's voice booms from the other side of the door, just before he opens it. His announcement startles me so much that my hand throws the comic on Genny's bed as if it is on fire. I feel like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't have been, and the shifting of Gordon's eyes between me and his daughter makes the feeling even worse. “Are you two ready to eat?”
“Yes Sir,” I blurt, taking a step from Genny, even though she's already five feet away.
“Good,” Gordon says shortly. “I hope you're hungry, Zaul. I made something special for you.”
Chapter 20
When I hear the words “something special”, my mind automatically pictures a moving and breathing hog, tied up and ready for me to devour. I haven't had a live meal in... I don't know. Perhaps never. I can't remember. But when we descend down the stairs and to the kitchen I hear no oinking or squealing. I only smell a more powerful version of the aroma I picked up when I first arrived, the cooked dinner that I will be forced to consume. This is going to be a challenge.
“Since you're from Lake Charles, I decided to give you a little Cajun taste of home. I've made jambalaya with andouille.” I'm not very familiar with normal human cuisine anyway, but what he just said has me at a complete loss. “Please, have a seat.”
I'm not sure how this is going to work. The only meals I sit down to eat are with Gibbs, on the other side of a steel barrier, or in the corner of the cafeteria by myself as I choke down dry swine stuck between two pieces of disgusting bread. The steaming plate of food I see before me appears to be one-fourth meat, and the rest non-meat. And the sausage looking pieces themselves are a mystery, their scents contaminated by the rice and vegetables mixed with them. I hope it's pork. I'd ask Gordon what it is, but apparently I'm supposed to already know.
I look over at Genny, and she's not eating, just staring at her food like I am. What's her aversion? Gordon sits down but he doesn't start eating either. It's like we're waiting for something.
“Let's say grace.” Gordon grabs Genny's hand in his left, and moves his right hand across the table toward me. What is this? Then, I feel something to my right. Genny's small fingers slip underneath my hand, and a strange sensation comes over
me. So rarely does my skin come in contact with humans. I'm not sure how to describe what I'm feeling, but I think it's pleasant.
Gordon grabs my other hand, and I don't get the same feeling. In fact, I get the impulse to yank his plump arm toward my mouth and start gnawing. Whatever is going on here, it better be done soon.
“Dear Lord, we thank you for the food we are about to eat, and those we have to share it with. Please help it grow our bodies, as we grow in friendship with one another. Amen.”
Oh, it was a religious custom. I've read of such things, prayers uttered by human lips to a silent and invisible deity. I haven't given much thought to that during my unholy existence, except maybe when that necklace uncannily wedged itself into my broken mirror. If such a being were to exist, I doubt he would listen to or care about me. I don't think monsters are eligible for divine favor.
The prayer is over, and Genny and Gordon begin to eat. I pick up my fork and scoop some of the food onto it, dreading the moment when it will touch my tongue. Once inside my mouth I can taste and confirm the pork, but it's ruined. I feel like gagging.
“So, Zaul,” says Gordon, mouth full of food. “What have you been learning in school?”
“Please, Dad, don't subject him to that. He probably gets enough of that from his uncle.”
“That's right, you live with your uncle,” he says, practically ignoring his daughter. “And he's friends with Caesar. How did those two happen to meet?”
With great effort I swallow the food, and it slides down my throat to a Prisoner who is not happy at all. How Caesar and Gibbs met is something that I myself would like to know. I provide the first lie I can think of. “They met in college.”
Gordon nearly chokes on his food. “College? Caesar went to college?”
“That can't be right,” Genny adds. “There's no way they'd let someone like him into an institution of higher education. And I thought his dream was always to run that concentration camp down the street. He wouldn't need a degree for that, just his father's death.”
“Well,” Gordon answers as he turns to her. I'm starting to feel left out. “We don't know everything about him. He could have spent some time looking into other careers. Some years of self-discovery, maybe.”
“There's nothing to discover about Caesar, by us or himself. The only thing he cares about is getting high or drunk and fantasizing about genocide. He must think he's the reincarnation of his grandfather.”
“Grandfather?” I ask.
“Jorge Ortega,” answers Gordon. “The Army Ranger who killed Gerald Hubrens and subject Z-14, the last Reanimate from the The End.” I remember Mr. Neal talking about that event, but I never linked Jorge and Caesar's last names. This explains a lot more about him. “Your uncle never told you about that? Surely Caesar said something to you.” I shake my head. “Really? That's all he seems to talk about whenever I see him. He showed me this big glass case once, full of his grandfather's war decorations. I swear it's the only clean thing in his house.”
“And what about his father?” I ask Genny. “You said something about him and the containment facility?”
“He's the head down there,” Gordon answers for her. “Colorado Territorial was originally a prison, built long before The End. During the country's reconstruction, when it was just months away from demolition, Robert Ortega got approval from the government for retrofitting, and turned it into the nation's first permanent containment facility. He's pretty old now, probably doesn't have much longer to live. And when he dies I assume Caesar will take his place. He has some pretty big shoes to fill in his family, and so you can understand how passionate he is about things.”
“He's still a psychotic weirdo,” Genny mutters.
“And he's still our neighbor,” snaps Gordon. “You need to show a little more respect. People have reasons for the things they do, even if we can't see them or understand them. He didn't ask to have the father or grandfather that he does.”
“You're actually defending him, Dad?”
“No,” he sighs, placing his hands together over his plate. “I don't agree with his attitudes or the way he lives his life. In fact, I very much don't like him. All I'm saying is that people are who they are. In many cases, it's not something that they choose.”
I feel like these words are meant for me. All these years I've hated myself and the thing that I am, but I never chose this life. The Rage, the Lust, the Hunger – as despicable as my condition is, it's not my fault that I have it. It's not my fault that the dead rose 100 years ago, or that a maniacal scientist created a virus resulting in a bastard breed of human and Reanimate. And it's not my fault that my parents were infected with this disease when they made me, that I grew ill as a teenager and died, and returned as something they could never love. It's not my fault.
“And speaking of Caesar,” Gordon continues, “there's an incredibly heavy piece of equipment down in the basement that he promised he'd help me move almost a month ago, but I doubt he'll ever make good on that. Do you think you would be up to helping me?”
“Dad...”
“No, I'd be happy to.” I look down at my plate, and the mass of food I've yet to eat. Anything to take me away from it would be a welcome reprieve. “We can do it right now, as long as it doesn't take too long. I've got to catch the bus back home in a little while.”
“No, it'll only take a minute. And I'm giving you a ride home, anyway.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, remembering the last dreadful trip I took out of Cañon City. As much as I hate riding the bus, I think I would prefer it over being trapped in the Jeep with Gordon again.
“I'm positive,” he says as he stands up. “Follow me.”
As I rise from the table I notice Genny isn't getting out of her seat. “Are you not coming?”
She looks over her shoulder and waits for her father to disappear. “I don't like going down there.”
“Why?”
“It's embarrassing. There's all sorts of junk down there. He talks a lot about Caesar's house being dirty, but his basement isn't any better. And...” She pauses, absently pushing food around on her plate. “After my mom died, he spent a lot of time down there. Too much time.”
“But you were only four. You can remember the change?”
“You don't forget your dad disappearing for hours on end, leaving you to take care of yourself. Whatever he's doing down there, it consumes him. Sometimes he'll come upstairs and it's like he's a different person. I just... don't like the basement.”
Chapter 21
Genny was right, the basement is a mess, much more cluttered than my own. How strange, that a Hybrid Reanimate's basement is tidier than a human's. I have to take care as I descend the stairs, cautiously tiptoeing over stuffed filing boxes left on the steps. On each lid I see a seal and the words “United State Agency of Postmortem Anomalies”. I'd almost forgotten who Gordon's employer was. His research must be that which consumes him down here.
“As you can tell, I tend to take my work home with me. I really need to clean this place up sometime. If my wife Cassandra could see this place now, she'd throw a fit. She was always the more orderly one.” I follow his voice to the bottom of the stairs, where I'm greeted by a large wall of filing cabinets. Gordon has already weaved his way around them and disappeared. It seems I'm walking into a maze. “Zaul? Where are you?”
I can hear him, and smell him, but don't know how to get there. There's too many things in my way, and I'm getting frustrated. I want to smash down everything in front of me. “I am next to a big, black, cabinet thing. With lots of wires coming out of it.”
“That's the server rack,” he calls out to me. “Go between that and the bookshelf, all the way down and take a left.”
I follow his instructions, which take me along an outer wall, lined with a few doorways to other rooms, making this a very large underground level, larger than my own basement.
“Zaul.” His voice is now only a few yards away. I take the left and emerge into a
small corner packed with an arrangement of colorful screens, Gordon standing by them. “Sorry. I know this place like the back of my hand, but to everyone else it can be kind of a labyrinth. And as you can imagine, I don't get too many visitors down here.”
Scanning the mass of screens I see charts, graphs and other complex data, none of it making any sense to me. He said he tends to take his work home with him, but if I didn't know otherwise, I'd say this was his primary workspace. “What was it you needed me to help move?”
“It's this big thing over here.” He walks up to a large white box against the wall. “My laboratory at work was going through updates about fifteen years ago, and this was one of the first things to go. I told them I was interested, so they let me buy it off of them for a deep discount. Just wish the wheels weren't missing from it.”
“What is it?”
“It's a biosafety cabinet, used for handling hazardous materials. I originally planned to construct a cleanroom down here, but then Cassandra got sick and all that was put on the back burner. My work lab is going through updates again, and this time they're getting rid of a much more advanced cabinet, one that is its own virtual cleanroom. I'll probably need help moving that one in, as well.”
“So, we're taking this one out?” I ask, thinking about all the clutter that we stepped over to get here. “We should probably clear the stairs, and a path to them.”
“I would agree, if we were taking it out the way we came, but those stairs are too narrow.” He rolls a metal frame with two wheels up against the cabinet. “We'll be taking this up the other set, which leads out into the backyard. I had to put it in just to get most of this stuff down here. Now, I'll use the hand truck to move it, but you'll need to help me lift it and ease it back so it doesn't fall on top of me. It weighs about five hundred pounds. You ready?”
