by Josiah Upton
“You wish I was different,” I respond, having to look away. “You wish I was more human than monster. More alive than dead. That I could be what you thought I was before yesterday.”
She starts shaking her head. “No, Zaul, I didn't mean...”
“Don't lie,” I growl. “You wanted someone in your life before you died. You wanted a boyfriend, a first kiss. But all you got was me, and that wasn't good enough, was it?”
She grimaces, trying to pull away from me. I don't let go. “Zaul, please...”
“You wouldn't say these things if I was normal. If I was human, you'd want me in your life then. I would be your real boyfriend, not just a fake one when you thought Dalton had discovered me. Tell me, was that out of pity, or just fear that other people would know what exactly your only friend was?”
Genny is trying to say something, but I can't understand because she's whimpering now. Putting on a good act. Almost as good as my act, the lie that brought me to this pain in the first place. There is no light or warmth for me. No heat or excitement. No hope of affection to occupy my pathetic undead brain with. Nothing but the dark corridor, and my eternally isolated existence. This painful truth burns inside me.
“You would kiss Dalton before you would me!” I bark, losing the civilized tone in my voice, becoming more animalistic. “Gibbs, Mr. Neal, Caesar – ANYBODY BUT ME!”
“YOU'RE HURTING ME!” Genny screams, finally ripping her hand out from my grip. She falls to the floor, holding it out limply, an expression of utter pain on her wet and pale face. In my careless Rage, I harmed her. I am a monster.
“I'm sorry,” I say, moving towards her. “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry...”
“Stay away from me!” she screams, scooting her body back a foot. She uses her one good hand to get herself up, then starts backing away from me quickly, back to the stairs that lead out of my basement. She stops when her foot touches the first step, almost making her fall backwards. Her eyes are locked with mine, for what seems like an eternity, until she deals the final blow. “I don't ever want to see you again. Ever.”
And then, she's up the stairs and out the door.
I've ruined everything.
Chapter 32
The weeks drag by at an agonizing pace. Everyday is the same as it has been for the first two months: Wake up, devour pork, get ready, go to school, fight the Prisoner, come home, share a few superficial words with Gibbs, devour more pork. Then, finish out the night with some reading, maybe some more pork, then go to sleep. Wake up, do it all over again.
But what makes it now so unbearable is Genny. When we cross paths at school, she goes out of her way to ignore me. She's taken a seat as far from mine as possible in Mr. Neal's History class, and leaves immediately when the bell rings. She's making good on her wish to never see me again. And even when I'm not in school, my thoughts are occupied with her. How she no longer wants to be in my wretched life, or to have me in hers. How different things could be if I wasn't a monster.
If I hadn't hurt her.
The only thing that compels me to preserve this daily routine is the remote possibility of an opportunity to speak with her again, and express how truly sorry I am for what I said and what I did. Hope for the slightest chance that she will listen, and an even slighter chance she will forgive me. The only thing pushing me along down the dark corridor is getting my human friend back, while she's still human enough to remember me.
And the only way to make myself available for such an opportunity is to maintain a firm grip on my impulses, and keep the Prisoner locked up tight. This requires Mortetine, and I'm due for a refill today. The thought of enduring another meeting with Caesar fills me with dread and disgust. I hate it, I fight it, I tell myself I can manage without the pills. But in the end, it's something I must do.
It's Friday morning, almost two weeks since Genny's visit to my basement. I should be at school today, but Gibbs thinks getting my Mortetine supply is more important than my attendance record, so he called and told them I was sick.
I grab the next bus going to Cañon City, grateful there are only a few other passengers riding with me. The last time I made this trip, a female Hybrid in disguise sat next to me. The APA stopped our transit, escorted her off the bus, and she violently attacked an agent before running away, earning her a bullet in the back of the head. Is that why there are so few passengers today? Out of fear for what might be sitting in the seat next to them?
This makes me think of Dalton, and how convinced he was of my true identity. Thanks to Genny's fast thinking, she shook him off the trail, but I know for a fact his suspicions still exist. Occasionally I'll pass him in the school halls, and he'll glare at me, knocking over smaller students just to maintain his stare for as long as possible.
He promised he would figure out what was wrong with me, and suggested I watch my own back when he does. Has he succeeded yet? Will there be another APA checkpoint along the highway, this time to take me away? I wouldn't be too surprised. After all my slip-ups, all my moments of indiscretion, I'd think things would have caught up with me by now, and given me what I deserve.
However, I arrive in Cañon City without incident, and in a way I'm a little disappointed, because now I have to undergo another encounter with Caesar. I toss a few extra Mortetine down my throat before exiting the bus, knowing I'm going to need it. As I step out into the street, the looming image of the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility greets me once again. My immediate thought is of Genny, and her impending future there. Even if she truly never speaks with me again, I would still do anything to keep her from that place. Tear the entire structure down, brick by brick, if I could
But what good would even that do? It seems she's already imprisoned by her own despair, resigned to her fate and unwilling to entertain any other options. There's nothing I can do to change her future, and the feeling I get is one of pain and frustration. I shake the thoughts from my mind, and head down the street.
As I walk, I realize that the air has become considerably cooler these past few days. It's the end of October, and winter isn't too far away. Every season for the last 4 years, the cold has crept down into my basement, slowing my unnatural muscles, making it harder to move. This will be my first winter out in the world, and I'm not sure how I'll manage fluid motions in such low temperatures. I wonder if Gibbs has even considered this.
I come at last to Mr. Ortega's front door, and reluctantly knock on its faded and peeling surface. There's only a moment before it swings wide open, and to my surprise the Caesar standing before me is neither scowling nor eyeing me with wild paranoia. Instead, he's smiling.
“Zaul!” he exclaims, leaning out to slap my shoulder. At first my reaction is hostility-fueled Rage, but I soon realize the gesture wasn't meant to be aggressive. Though I have no idea what's going on right now, I play along and force my mouth to return a smile. Caesar waves me inside eagerly. “Come in, man. We got some stuff to talk about.”
I follow him on the usual trail cut through the garbage and dirty laundry in the hallway, wondering what this “stuff” is that he is so excited to discuss with me. I glance briefly at the poster of the dead Hybrid Reanimate, his dead and hollow eyes greeting mine, before sitting down on the disgusting couch across from Caesar. He's leaning forward, that stupid grin still plastered to his face. It's as if he's waiting for me to say something, even though it was him that wanted to talk. This is getting annoying.
“So,” he finally speaks, pulling his usual rolled, lit paper out from nowhere to smoke it. I still don't know how he does that. “You got to see some action last month!”
“Huh?” I express, now more confused than before. “What action?”
“That Ugger getting nailed out on highway 50!” His free hand taps the back of his own skull, making a dull slapping noise to simulate a shot to the head. I now understand why he's so giddy. “You were on the bus. You saw the whole thing, right?”
“Right,” I answer slowly, curious as to
how he knows I was there. “How did you...”
“I was at work when it happened,” he interrupts, through the puff of smoke escaping his mouth. He places his paper down in a filthy bowl, but immediately picks it back up again. “News of it spread like fire all over the facility. It was all anyone could talk about. And the bus lines only run at certain times, so I kinda figured you were on that one. But I bet that was pretty cool, huh? Seeing the Sludge get purged, firsthand?”
“Definitely,” I say, searching for the words to feign a shared excitement in the execution of my kind. What I said to Mr. Neal after our zoo field trip comes to mind. “It was a real eye-opening experience.”
“Yeah, man. Eye-opening.” His speech is slow and lazy, his glazed eyes staring out through the haze of smoke, at nothing in particular. “I bet if they'd caught what went down that day on film, and showed the whole damn country just how vicious those bastards can be, everyone's eyes would be opened. Things would be a lot different, I can tell you that, man. Yeah...”
At this point, I don't know how much of his behavior is the result of drugs in his system, or some sort of strange fantasy playing out in his head. But I can't stand to hear it anymore. I can already feel the Mortetine in my own system burning away, putting me in danger of loosing control, and Caesar in danger of a Hybrid attack. And it would be “eye-opening” indeed, as my fingers would pluck them from their sockets...
I shudder at how quickly my violent thoughts can escalate. I move to speed things along, pulling the money out of my pocket to at least begin the actual transaction. But before I can speak, Caesar does. “I wanna show you something, Zaul. Something I think you can appreciate.” A strange smile creeps across his face, and he stands up. “Follow me.”
I want to object, insist that I can't stay very long, but he's already walking down a hallway I have never used, nor have ever intended to use. I sigh deeply, looking around his dirty living room for the large bag of pills I need, hoping to locate it, take it, leave the money and go. The last thing I want to do is stay here longer, and go deeper into this house. Caesar may not have had a gun in hand at the door, but I know there's at least one around here somewhere. Probably more.
I search for a moment longer, daring even to check under the couch cushions, but the Mortetine is nowhere to be found. The only way I'm going to get it is by playing along with this demented man.
“Zaul? You comin', buddy?”
I sigh again, this time bordering on a growl. “Yes,” I answer back, sneaking a few of my own pills into my mouth, before following his voice down the hall, having no idea what to expect.
Chapter 33
Through the pungent stench that saturates this house, my nose sniffs out his fresh scent from a room at the end. No light escapes from the door, except for a faint glow at the back of the blacked out room, coming from a large glass case Caesar is standing by. I pause in the doorway of the darkened area, feeling apprehension towards the situation. The outcome cannot be predicted, but the few possibilities that cross my mind are messy and unfavorable – either for me or for him.
But it seems unlikely that Caesar is planning to attack me, because his back is turned. Whatever is in that glass case, he is staring at it intently. His hand waves me in with a quick flick over his shoulder, and I reluctantly enter the room.
As I come closer, the objects in the case are clearer to see, yet their identity and importance still elude me. Small metal tokens attached to colorful ribbons, a few shiny rings, a large piece of cloth folded neatly into the shape of a triangle. The most bizarre thing I see is a human-sized doll, its facial features and lower body missing. It wears a dark green jacket and tan hat, and I see this identical clothing worn by a posing human in a series of framed photographs, his face stern and resolute.
“What is all this?” I ask as I scan each item, momentarily forgetting who I'm standing next to.
“My Grandad's war memorabilia. Awards, decorations, his dress uniform.” Caesar finally pulls his gaze away from the display, looking at me with a smile that seems genuine. “Staff Sergeant Jorge Francis Ortega, of the 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment. The man that ended The End.”
What stands before me makes sense now. Gordon mentioned seeing this glass case once, describing it as the only clean thing in the house. I can see what he meant, as every square inch is absolutely spotless. Even the filth and garbage that fills the rest of the dark room is kept at least five feet away from this monument to a long-dead human. Caesar truly idolizes his grandfather.
But if what Genny believes really happened one hundred years is true, then it's all just one large monument to a lie. Jorge Ortega never led a mission into a secluded biological facility, he didn't shoot Gerald Hubrens, and he didn't kill the last Reanimate known as Subject Z-14. He didn't “end The End”. But does Caesar have even the slightest notion of that? It's clear he doesn't, the way he beholds the items of this case, lost in some sort of century-old dream. If I were to even hint at an alternate history, his reaction would be volatile, at best.
“Do you know about my grandfather?” he asks, placing his hand on the glass.
“We learned about him in school,” I answer. “He seemed like... a brave man.”
“The bravest,” Caesar says, almost as a whisper. “And what he did on that day wasn't his only act of valor. He saw a lot of action throughout the End War. Purged a lot of Sludge. He even fought the living, those backstabbing bastards overseas, before this whole mess started. Did you know that?”
“Know what?” I ask, surprised by how intrigued I am, even if the stories aren't true.
“Before The End, U.S. Army Rangers were mostly deployed to conflicts outside of this country. They could be sent on a mission at a moment's notice, and dropped into a fight on the other side of the world in less than a day. The Rangers were as tough as they made 'em.
“But then the Sludge came, eating and killing everyone. Infecting survivors, turning them into merciless, brain-dead monsters. It was too much to handle. All military forces were called home, we needed everybody. We needed soldiers like my grandfather, people who wouldn't run when the nightmares came to life. People who would do whatever it took to keep the living safe.”
Caesar turns to me again, the smile gone, his eyes wild with something I can't identify. “My Grandad ended The End, but the war isn't over. The Sludge is still here. And now, it's even worse than it was before. At least back then, everybody knew who the enemy was. We shot them on sight, burned their bodies and spit on the ashes. Now, I have to babysit their bastard descendants. I have to feed those sick freaks of nature, knowing the whole time what they really want to eat is me. It isn't right.”
The reverence in his voice is gone, and the usual hate-filled speech has returned. But does he have a point? Is there some truth behind his animosity? My ancestors did almost destroy the human race, and I do hunger for human flesh. This condition has brought nothing but pain and torment and violence and suffering. Thousands of parents have agonized over the future of their children, the steep price paid for contracting a disease. It caused that Hybrid girl in Gibbs's basement to tear away at his flesh, and that agent's neck to get ripped out on that bus.
It caused me to hurt the only good thing in my life.
Maybe the Sludge should have been purged, a long time ago. Then none of this would have ever happened. I never thought I would say it, but maybe Caesar is right about my kind.
“People have forgotten who the enemy is,” he continues, “but I haven't. Just like the Sludge runs through those Uggers' veins, my Grandad's blood runs through mine. Purging is what I was born to do. It's time I fulfill my destiny.” He silently looks at the artifacts in the case for a moment longer, lingering in another reality, before switching the light off. Only his burning paper offers a small light in the blackness.
Why are we standing here like this? Why did he say that? Does he know about me? My body tightens severely, almost certain that Caesar will fulfill his “destiny” by shoo
ting me in the dark. My first instinct is to jump on him, attack him before he attacks me. But the tension evaporates as he walks away from the case, taking his smell with him. “C'mon, kid. I got your stuff.”
I follow him down the hall, and into his kitchen. He's at the refrigerator, reaching for something on top of it. My thoughts immediately go to Genny's visit in my basement, and the mistake I made of letting her see the contents of my own refrigerator. I can't help but think that maybe if I hadn't, she would still be in my life. Still be my friend.
Caesar pulls down a box of disgusting, dry, sugary breakfast food that humans eat, and opens the top. Hidden inside is my month's supply of Mortetine, which he pulls out and hands to me. I breathe a sigh of relief, no longer hindered in getting what I came for by this man's erratic actions, or unpredictable tangents.
“Is it still five thousand?” I ask, pulling the cash out of my pocket.
“Yeah,” he says, taking the money in his hand. “And this will be the last one.”
I freeze, squeezing the plastic bag tight enough that my fingers may break the capsules inside. Did I hear that right?
“Last one?” I question, unable to meet his eyes. I stare at a dirty tile on the floor instead, panic overtaking me. “What... what do you mean?”
“Like I said, purging the Sludge is my destiny, and I've never forgotten that. But I have become a little... I guess you could say, distracted.”
He walks past me, and I haven't decided yet if I want to heed my Prisoner's cries to tear him apart. I slowly swivel to follow him out into the living room, hoping he couldn't possibly mean that he is...
“Done slingin' Mortetine. I'm out. It was a good little side business, but it's too risky. I have to consider my higher priorities, and getting thrown in prison for drug trafficking and theft of government property won't do me any good.”
