by Josiah Upton
Mr. Neal sighs, turning to me. “You've just seriously injured your fellow classmate. Don't you think you should atone for that?” I remain silent. “What about you, Dalton? Airing Zaul's private medical information to the entire student body?”
“They have a right to know who – or rather, what – he is,” Dalton sneers. “We aren't safe with him in the halls.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” the teacher says sarcastically. “You think Zaul, who has been attending this school for two months, taking tests and turning in homework, is a Hybrid.”
“I know he's not a Hybrid!” Dalton barks. “But he's not normal, either. You heard what his file said, he's got the Hubrens! He's a Phase I Carrier... or, whatever it was. Maybe he's half-Ugger, or something.”
“Half-Ugger?” Mr. Neal chuckles, shaking his head, the fat jiggling on his neck. “A Hybrid Hybrid Reanimate? There's no such thing.”
“Look, I know what I saw!”
“And I know what I know,” Mr. Neal hisses, leaning in toward Dalton. “I admire your passion, Mr. Harris, but the conjecture you are spewing is absolutely absurd, accusing students of being something that is impossible to be. You either are, or you aren't. There are no gray areas about this, or in anything else. There's the living, and there's the dead. The human, and the animal. The law-abiding, and the criminal.” He pauses, a chubby finger in the air. “The right, or the wrong. And you, son, are wrong.”
“I'm just...” Dalton begins, but Mr. Neal ignores him, walking around the office floor with his hands behind his back, like he's conducting one of his class lectures.
“Confusion about such absolutes is what nearly destroyed this nation in the first place. The world was meant to operate a certain way, to have a certain order. Someone decided to interfere with that, and the dead came back to life. We eradicated that threat, and order was restored. But then, someone interfered yet again, and now we have the Hybrids. When people interfere with the way things are supposed to be run, bad things happen. One of our very own teachers is learning that lesson today.”
His last sentence catches my attention. “A teacher?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Neal stops and sighs, interlacing his fingers in front of his corpulent gut. “A certain faculty member decided to question how the educational system of this great nation is mandated. Earlier this week, a certain student came to me, claiming that a certain English teacher had a disagreement with the National Curriculum.” His eyes lift up from the floor, meeting mine. “The student said this offense was brought to light by you, Zaul.”
I swallow hard, the image of Mr. Jensen's perpetually jolly face coming to mind. I suppose he won't have much to smile about now, thanks to me. “What will happen to him?”
“In addition to a heavy federal fine, he will no longer be employed at this school. Today is his last day.”
I sink down into my hard plastic chair, aware that my own selfishness has ruined a man's career, and possibly his life. Normally, I wouldn't be fazed by something like this, especially since I didn't care much for him. But I can't fight the overwhelming sense of guilt, and the realization that my existence has done nothing but destroy things. I'm a disease.
“I hope this has put things in perspective,” Mr. Neal says, turning to face Dalton. “Even if such a thing as a 'half-Ugger' existed, one would have no regard for order, as its very being defies the rules of nature. But Zaul here has demonstrated the utmost respect for order, speaking out against a teacher who decided to interfere with the way things should be run. You were wrong about him, Mr. Harris. Zaul is most definitely human. He is one of us.”
Dalton stares off silently, processing everything he has just heard. I'm not sure if he's convinced yet or not, but Mr. Neal's very unexpected support is favor in my direction. So shouldn't I feel relieved? I don't, especially not when Mr. Neal described me as belonging to his and Dalton's class of character. Putting me in a group with them is like saying Caesar and I are on the same side. The notion disgusts me.
“Unfortunately, Zaul, you must still answer for your fit of violence. That act was not in keeping with your improved reputation of upholding order. Your uncle has been contacted, and will be here shortly to meet with Ms. Womack.”
I groan. I can't stand to see Gibbs, not after this, and not when I'm planning to get turned in anyway. When we both leave here, the time will inevitably come when I must walk in the direction away from his house, down to the bus stop. And he may not be able to restrain me while outside the walls of his basement, but I will have to explain myself, and the consequences that will come to him when I carry out my plan. I think of the moment with absolute dread.
“Mr. Harris,” he says, turning to Dalton. “Since you are legally an adult, your parents do not need to be contacted, unless you wish them to be. However, as a student of this school, you still need to speak with the Principal regarding your infractions. I suspect an attitude of contrition would benefit you.”
“Huh?” Dalton asks, confused.
At that moment, the office door opens, and another adult walks in. I thought everyone had left, off to prepare for the Patriot Burning. At first I don't think anything of the newly arrived body, but then I see the face it's attached to.
Mr. Jensen.
“Howard!” the English teacher chirps gleefully. Unless this man's annoyingly perpetual cheer is absolutely unshakable, he doesn't yet know that he will soon be unemployed, or that I am the one to blame for it. That terrible feeling of guilt fills me, and my eyes instinctively shoot to the floor. Who knew an abomination like me could experience such shame?
“Hello, Brad,” Mr. Neal answers, clearly surprised to see the man he was just talking about. “What are you still doing here?”
“Vicky wanted to see me,” Mr. Jensen answers, the goofy grin still stuck to his cheese-like face. He's totally oblivious to what's about to happen to him. “Meeting about school supplies, or something.”
“I see,” Mr. Neal says, clearing his throat nervously. He stands there silently for a long beat, until the awkwardness is too much for him to take. “Well, I must be on my way. There's still much to be done for the Patriot Burning tonight.”
Though I thought it was impossible, Mr. Jensen's smile grows even broader, nodding enthusiastically at his fellow teacher's bland, uninteresting words. I wonder if even getting fired could break his unreasonable optimism, and remove that clownish expression from his face. It seems so permanent.
“Oh!” Mr. Neal expresses suddenly, as if he's just remembered something. “Could you do me a favor, and keep an eye on these two boys? They've just found themselves in a bit of trouble. Mr. Jarreux is waiting for his uncle to arrive, and when he does, they need to see Vicky. Can you make sure they do?”
“No prob, Howie!”
Mr. Neal's eye twitches at the use of the nickname Howie, but keeps his composure. “Thank you. Brad. I'll see you at the Burning tonight.” His pear-shaped frame waddles out of the office, and I am finally, now and forever, free from that man's noxious presence.
But it's not over yet, and now I have Gibbs to look forward to, and the meeting with him, Dalton and Vicky Womack. And the ever-joyful visage of Brad Jensen that is now before me. Between that, and the reality that my actions had a direct impact on the destruction of his career, it's too much to take. In fact, when I'm sure Mr. Neal is long gone, I'll just leave, and avoid the coming mess altogether. There's no way Mr. Jensen would call the police on me.
“So, Zaul...” he begins, dashing my hopes of avoiding one last conversation with him. “Find yourself in another pickle?”
Pickle? I don't understand...
“He attacked me,” Dalton spits. “Again.”
“Uh-oh,” Mr. Jensen expresses slowly, with a comically fake frown, the mock-concern dripping from his tone. “That's not very nice, is it? Like I always say, it's better to offer hugs than hits. Kisses instead of kicks.”
“This freak shouldn't be touching anyone, let alone kissing them,�
� Dalton sneers. “He's infected with the Hubrens virus.”
Mr. Jensen slowly turns to him, the smile coming back to his face. But the smile this time is... different. Something's not quite right about it. It reminds me of the day we began reading The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the day I brought to everyone's attention that the book wasn't approved by the National Curriculum. That one male student began to argue with Mr. Jensen, and, for just the briefest moment, his sugary veneer cracked, suggesting that he really is capable of anger.
More than anything, it's his eyes – they don't seem to match the expression forced out by his stretching mouth. The look of it all is unsettling.
“I don't believe that's any of your business,” Mr. Jensen says to Dalton, the words escaping out of his strained, smiling lips. I never thought I'd hear him say something like that. “And besides, it's not a person's medical condition that makes them who they are. Not their parents, their skin color – what society labels them. People are who they make themselves to be.” He turns to me now. “Wouldn't you agree, Zaul?”
And that's when I see it. A wave of realization comes over me, and then a wave of horror. The look in his eyes is a very telling one, because I see something trapped inside them. A Prisoner, but not my Prisoner. Mr. Jensen's own inner animal, kept under constant lock and key at all times.
He's just like me.
Mr. Jensen is a Hybrid Reanimate.
Chapter 37
It all makes sense now. That creepy smile on his face. The odd way he smells, how his scent has never tempted my Hunger, just like that female Hybrid on the bus. The way he snapped at that student, and at Dalton, now so clearly reactions from his long suppressed Rage. His love for the story of a man's inner struggle between humanity and savagery. This whole time, I had no idea my English teacher was the same creature as I am. If living as a Hybrid in disguise were an art, he would truly be the master of it.
“I'm gonna go talk to the Principal for a sec,” he says, backing away slowly, fingers pointed at Dalton and I like pistols. “I can count on you two to stay put, right?”
“Yes,” Dalton grunts. And I just nod absentmindedly, still in shock over what I've just discovered.
And then something tugs at my mind: Is he the one the Collars are searching for in Pueblo? Are all those illegal transactions and paper trails leading to him? Perhaps Gibbs was more careful than I gave him credit for. Maybe my secret is still secure, and I am no longer in danger of being captured by the APA Collars. But I have to know.
“Mr. Jensen?” I ask quietly, almost afraid that I spoke. I don't think I've ever sounded so timid before.
“Yes, Zaul?”
“How many years have you lived in Pueblo?”
“Oh...” he breathes, looking up at the ceiling as he places a finger in his hair – which is now clearly a wig – scratching it needlessly. He even has the absentminded human mannerisms perfectly in play. “I'd say about six years.”
It is him. According to Caesar, almost six years is how long the Collars believe an unregistered Hybrid Reanimate has been hiding in Pueblo. It's Mr. Jensen that they're closing in on. Which means my double life is still safe. I can keep going down the dark corridor, still hoping for that light and warmth. I'm no longer doomed to a slow and meaningless end at a cold and disgusting containment facility.
Because now, Mr. Jensen can take my place. I can turn him in to the APA, get the reward money, and save Genny – all without having to sacrifice myself for it. She was right, there was another way, and it just landed right in my lap. There's still hope for our future. I still have a chance to keep my friend.
We can start over, and forget about Dalton and Caesar and Mr. Neal and everybody else. I can help Gordon through his daughter's transformation, become her friend again... maybe more. She won't see me as a monster, because at that point we'll be the same. The image of Coco and Sonny together in that zoo exhibit, however dysfunctional the environment was, fills my thoughts, and gives me a strange hope that I never thought I could feel. We could be happy.
This changes everything.
“Why do you ask?” Mr. Jensen questions, breaking me out of my daydream.
I hadn't thought of a good excuse why I would ask him that, and panic starts to gnaw at me, as if my poorly planned question will reveal what I'm thinking about. But how could he possibly know what I know? What Caesar told me in his living room a couple of hours ago, several miles away? He couldn't. “No reason,” I say, looking down at the floor.
“Well, okey dokey, then!” he says with enthusiasm as he walks back towards Vicky Womack's office, completely unaware of my intentions. Soon, losing his job will be the least of his worries. A call from me to the APA will send him on a one-way trip to the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility.
The guilt returns, knowing that I'm turning in one of my own kind, a fellow Hybrid Reanimate who is also living a concealed life. I wish I could have a moment to speak with him – the pretense gone, both of our masks off. Maybe ask him how he's done it all this time, if he has any family or friends, or if he ever found that light and warmth I'm so desperately seeking. But I don't let myself think about it for too long, because I don't have that kind of time. And if what Caesar said was correct, Jensen will inevitably get nabbed by the Collars anyway, and better I claim the money for it while there's still a chance. I'd like to think there's another way, but there isn't. And I'd better act fast.
Once I hear Vicky's office door close, I quickly get up from my seat and walk behind the receptionist desk, my eyes searching frantically to locate a telephone. I've never used one before, but how complicated could it be? I find it, and pull the folded APA reward notice out of my pocket.
“What are you doing?” Dalton asks, rising slowly to his feet, taking a few steps my direction. I don't answer him, because I don't have the time or concentration to come up with a convincing lie. I can only deal with the task at hand.
At the bottom of the paper I find a long string of numbers, surely the combination I must input to make this contraption contact the APA. I lift the small and easily breakable plastic device from its square base, holding it awkwardly up to my face. A long and annoying tone travels from it and into my ear. It must be working. I move to punch in the numbers.
But then a hand suddenly appears, its forefinger pushing a button on the telephone, killing the high-pitched tone.
“I asked you a question, freak,” Dalton snarls. My first instinct is to grab his finger, snap it off, eat it, then resume my operation while he writhes in blood and pain on the office floor. But that would give my Prisoner too much control, and Dalton's screams might alert Vicky and the Hybrid Jensen, who are just down the hall. I take a deep breath, and lift my eyes to meet his wicked gaze. “WHAT – ARE – YOU – DOING?”
“I'm making a telephone call,” I utter in a low, rumbling growl. It's taking everything in me to not attack him. “An important one.”
“To who?” he asks, his eyebrow raising sharply. “Your freak girlfriend? Checking in to see if she's an Ugger yet?”
I don't answer him. Opening my mouth might end with it clamping down on his face. Instead, I place my hands on the entire telephone and pull it forcefully out from under his forefinger. I set it down a few feet away, out of his reach, and try to enter the numbers again.
“Hey!” he shouts, stalking quickly behind the desk to interfere again. But then he stops cold, one hand in the air, like an invisible force is holding him back. His eyes are wide with tension, darting around everywhere, not stopping on anything in particular. “Zaul, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” I ask, momentarily distracted from my task.
“Shh!” he hisses quietly, waving his hand in the air. At first I think he's putting on an act, or is perhaps totally insane. But then I hear it too. The high-pitched whimpering of a frightened female, coming from the direction of the principal's office. Vicky. Then, a loud thud is heard, like the slamming of a heavy hand on a hard surface, joi
ned by a vicious, feral grunt that doesn't sound entirely human. Mr. Jensen just found out he's been fired, and he isn't taking it very well.
The sound of multiple things hitting the floor comes next. A sharp shriek escapes down the hall, but is cut short and muffled, like a hand has been clamped over the mouth it came from. Dalton's jaw goes slack with horror. He wheels around sharply, and starts walking quietly in the direction of the commotion. He doesn't know exactly what's going on down there, what he he will discover if he opens that door, but I do. Mr. Jensen has finally reached the breaking point, his facade as a overly cheerful human has crumbled, and his Prisoner is set loose. Vicky Womack will become the sacrifice for this beast, and it will consume her completely. If she isn't dead already, she soon will be.
And that's when I smell the blood. Human blood. Too much of it to merely be the result of a small scratch, or even a broken nose. No, it must be everywhere – on her clothes, on the floor, on the walls. On Mr. Jensen's lips, as his teeth dig into the human flesh that he has craved for so long. That I have craved for so long.
My Prisoner begs me to walk down that hall.
Just go take a look.
You haven't done anything wrong.
You didn't kill her, you didn't eat her.
In fact, she's already dead. She can't be brought back now.
Just take a look. Smell the blood, smell the flesh.
Have a little taste. Just a little one. And another.
Feast on her. Join your brother, and devour her completely.
Feed me. FEED ME. FEED ME!
FEED ME FEED ME FEED ME FEED ME FEED ME FEED ME...
While I fight desperately against the Hunger rising within me, Dalton continues slowly down the hall, stopping just outside the door. I should tell him not to open it, I should tell him to run away. Even if he is my enemy, even if I absolutely hate him, he doesn't deserve to die at the hands of Mr. Jensen in such a violent way. I should say something, but I can't. I'm too crippled by my Prisoner's assault on me.
