Unfit

by Karma Chesnut

  Loughlin and I came up with the breeding theory. Intelligent, talented people breed with other intelligent, talented people to create more intelligent, talented people. It all made sense on the surface, but I soon realized there were major flaws in that way of thinking. I informed Loughlin of my concerns, but he told me to keep them to myself, that the Council wasn’t interested in our opinions, just our results.

  And yes, the results were real and the theory completely sound, but what everyone failed to see was that it’s unsustainable. When the first screenings were conducted, and hundreds were hauled away to be sterilized, I finally spoke up. A few people listened, but overall my opinions were unpopular, especially with Loughlin and the Council. Admitting they were wrong would mean surrendering their power, and they weren’t willing to give it up. So they decided to shut me up instead.

  That is why I’m here. That is why I will never get out.

  -Excerpt from Theodore’s journal

  It was midafternoon now, but the sun was already beginning to sink behind the trees, illuminating the hall with a daunting red glow as Buck and John walked in silence. John was sure Buck could sense something was wrong ever since he had come back from his mysterious liaison with the keepers, but if he did, he didn’t say anything. Perhaps the experience with Laurence had taught Buck not to bother asking John for information anymore.

  John wasn’t even sure how long they had been aimlessly wandering the halls, but he didn’t care. He found the walk strangely soothing, relishing in the chance to clear his mind of anything more complicated than the simple exercise of putting one foot in front of the other.

  They had wandered into an unfamiliar part of the asylum some time ago, winding through the halls in an endless maze. No one else was in this part of the asylum, not even the keepers, and the dust collected on the floor made John think no one else had walked through here in quite some time. But Buck seemed to know where he was going, so John silently followed.

  Buck brought them to a stop in front of a large metal door. He shouldered the massive door, pushing with great effort until it squeaked open. The room beyond was in a terrible state, dust and discarded papers covering every surface, suggesting that whoever had been here last had left in a hurry.

  There were about half a dozen stainless steel tables on each side of the room. Only a few feet wide and several feet long, the tables looked about the same size as John’s mattress. In the center of the room was a giant brick structure with large metal pipes coming from the top and disappearing into the ceiling. John counted at least four heavy, iron doors leading into the brick room. Doors may not have been the right word. They started halfway up the brick wall and were barely large enough for a man to crawl through.

  “In the Old World, this was called ‘The Crematorium,’” Buck said, stepping into the room. “This place wasn’t always an asylum. Did you know that? From what I can tell, it’s served many functions over the centuries. Prison, hospital, whatever they needed. At one point, it was used as an internment camp—a place where they sent people they didn’t want to wander around with the rest of society.”

  “Sounds like not much has changed.” John crossed the threshold into the room.

  “That’s where they would burn the bodies,” said Buck, pointing to the brick furnace. “And this isn’t the only crematorium in the asylum. I’ve stumbled across at least five rooms just like this in my years here, but none of them work anymore as far as I can tell. I was thinking you could come here whenever you needed.”

  “What do you mean?” John asked, wondering why Buck would think John would ever want to come back to this horrible place.

  “No one comes here, I don’t even think anyone besides me knows about it. If you need a safe place to stay, this could be it,” Buck said. “I don’t know what’s going on, John, but I know you’re in some sort of serious trouble. If you’re not going to let me help you, the least I can do is give you the tools to help yourself.”

  “Thank you,” said John, unsure of what else to say.

  Buck looked back out into the hall. The light glow had begun to fade as the sun sank behind the trees.

  “It’s almost mealtime,” Buck said. “We better go get Tim.”

  They walked back to the room in silence, where they collected Tim and headed towards the mess hall. The room was buzzing with excitement. The inmates were getting a special treat for dinner—a side of liquefied potatoes to accompany their ration of bread. John had barely sat down with his food when Laurence’s ugly face appeared above him.

  “It’s that time of day, John. I’ll take my payment now,” Laurence said, reaching forward and grabbing the bread from John’s plate.

  “Give it back, Laurence,” said John.

  “What was that?” Laurence said, bringing John’s bread to his mouth and taking a large bite.

  Unable to control himself, John lunged up and slapped the food from Laurence’s hand. John prepared himself for Laurence to strike back, but he just laughed. Scooping the bread off the floor and picking off little pieces of dirt, Laurence handed the bread back to John.

  “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it, Johnny. Of course, you can have it back.” Scrunching his face into exaggerated dismay, Laurence continued, “But, oh dear. Now I seem to be without payment and that simply won’t do. My silence comes at a price, Johnny. Or did you already forget about our little arrangement?” Beckoning John to lean forward, Laurence whispered in his ear, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you keep your food in exchange for one small favor.”

  “And what would that be?” John asked.

  “I have a few enemies that I need someone to take care of,” Laurence whispered.

  This had been his plan all along, then. To wear John down until he was desperate enough to do Laurence’s bidding.

  “Why can’t you just leave the boy alone, Laurence?” Buck interrupted, returning from the meal line.

  “Oh, he doesn’t know?” Laurence said, bringing one hand up to cover his mouth. “Oh, Johnny, you can’t keep your friends in the dark like that. I could tell him for you if you’d like.”

  “Stop, Laurence,” John said.

  “Maybe he could even do the honors for you. I’m willing to bet he’s pretty good with a scalpel.”

  “Shut up!” John screamed. The entire mess hall went deadly quiet as every pair of eyes turned to John and Laurence.

  “What did you just say to me?” Laurence hissed.

  “I said I’m done. I’m done letting you starve me half to death, I’m done letting you think I would ever do your dirty work. But mostly I am done with you.”

  “Need I remind you? I own your scrawny little ass. All I have to do is say one word, and—”

  “That’s just it, though. I don’t think you’re going to say anything,” John said.

  Laurence laughed. “Really? And why is that?”

  “Because I think you’ve overlooked the very important fact that blackmail only works so long as the victim thinks he has something to lose. But I’m sure you’ve thought this through. Perhaps you can explain to me how starving to death is a better alternative than letting you tell everyone about my condition?” The look on Laurence’s face suggested he hadn’t considered it. “Perhaps we can work out a different deal. Your silence in exchange for mine.”

  “You don’t have anything on me,” Laurence said, but John could detect a hint of fear in Laurence’s voice.

  “Maybe not,” John said, closing the gap and lowering his voice so only Laurence could hear. “Or maybe I know that man didn’t attack Tim on his own. Maybe I know you were the one who put him up to it. And I’d be willing to bet this isn’t the first time you’ve tried to undermine your brother like that. Skinner’s smart, after all. I’m sure he already suspects what you’ve been up to. So how do you think he’d react if a witness came forward with hard evidence that you’ve been trying to stab him in the back?”

  John stepped away.

  “You have not
hing,” Laurence seethed.

  “Then why don’t you call Skinner over here and let him decide?” John said, calling his bluff.

  But his open act of defiance had been too much for Laurence to take. Without warning, Laurence cocked back his fist and punched John squarely across the jaw, sending him staggering to regain his footing. A familiar bitter, metallic taste filled John’s mouth, and without thinking, John threw himself at Laurence, tackling him to the ground.

  Straddling Laurence as he lay prone, John hit him again and again, blind rage filling every inch of his body.

  It was as if John was standing behind himself, watching someone who looked a lot like him mercilessly beat a man to within an inch of his life. Because that’s what he was doing, furiously throwing blow after blow, unaffected by his prey’s groans or desperate attempts to shield his face.

  He couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to stop himself. Every molecule in John’s body was on fire, taking every ounce of anger and frustration out on Laurence. Except he wasn’t Laurence anymore. He was George, Amos, Skinner, Loughlin—every doctor, keeper, coworker, and stranger who had ever told him he was nothing more than a worthless waste of flesh.

  Who’s going to stop me? Please, someone needs to stop me, John thought as he watched himself beat Laurence’s face into a bloody pulp. The battle had been won. John had completely and utterly dominated Laurence, and everyone had witnessed it. He could walk away now, leave Laurence to lick his wounds. But in that same moment, John knew Laurence wouldn’t let it go. They would only end up fighting this same battle again another day. More than anything else, John wanted this to end. Permanently.

  But this wasn’t him. This wasn’t the man Morgan had married, the man who would be a father in just a matter of months. The hands that were now beating a man to death would be the same hands that would soon hold a perfect, innocent baby.

  The anger blinding John cleared for just a moment and, in his hesitation, Laurence pounced. He struck John hard in the gut, forcing the air out of his lungs. John was on his back now, gasping desperately as Laurence threw his body on top of him, his knee positioned against John’s neck. John tried to push him off, but Laurence put his full body weight behind his knee, crushing John’s windpipe. John’s world blurred as his lungs screamed for air, the energy in his muscles draining from lack of oxygen.

  Through John’s hazy vision, he saw a figure run up behind Laurence and wrap their arms around his neck in a chokehold. Surprised by the unexpected attack, Laurence reeled up, releasing John. Coughing for air, John looked up to see who had come to his aid. Tim’s tiny body hung off Laurence’s back, whipping through the air like a rag doll as Laurence tried to shake him off. Tim’s hold around Laurence’s neck was tight though, his wrists locked around his elbow, one hand still gripping his fork.

  Laurence reached over his head, grabbed a handful of Tim’s hair, and yanked the boy up and over his shoulders. Tim flipped through the air and onto his back, hitting the floor less than a yard away from where John still lay. Tim let out a shriek and shielded his face with his hands as Laurence lunged at him.

  John tried to reach for Tim, but Laurence had already thrown his full body weight on top of the boy, screaming with rage.

  And then he was silent.

  As soon as Laurence had landed, his body went limp. Tim screamed. John grabbed Laurence by the shoulders and rolled him off of Tim. Laurence’s eyes were wide in fear and pain, Tim’s fork sticking out of the side of his neck. Blood spurted from around the prongs completely embedded into his flesh.

  “What is going on here?” Skinner shouted, pushing his way through the crowd and stopping as soon as he saw his brother. Laurence struggled to breathe, his hands against his neck where the fork was sticking out.

  “It was an accident,” John said, shielding Tim from Skinner’s view.

  Skinner knelt on the ground and carefully lifted Laurence’s head, cradling it in his hands. “What did you do?” In one swift motion, he yanked the fork from Laurence’s neck.

  “Don’t take it out,” John shouted, but it was too late. Laurence grabbed at his own throat, trying to stop the stream of blood as he gurgled and sputtered for air. John leaped to Laurence’s side and pressed both his hands against the wound, applying as much pressure as he dared to try and stop him from bleeding out, but fearing he was unintentionally suffocating him.

  “Get away from him,” Skinner screamed, grabbing John across the chest and throwing him off of Laurence, allowing his neck wound to bleed freely once again.

  The keepers were on them now, pressing rags against Laurence’s neck as they picked him up and quickly carried him off to the hospital wing, Skinner right on their heels.

  John stood there, gasping to catch his breath. It had all happened so fast, he still wasn’t sure he had been able to process it all. But one terrifying thought kept replaying in his mind—had he just taken responsibility for killing the brother of the most dangerous man in Emerson Asylum?

  Buck, Tim, and John sat in silence in the yard. Buck’s hands shook as he used the sleeve of his jumpsuit to try and wipe Laurence’s blood from Tim’s face. John looked down at his own hands, stained with dried blood. His whole body trembled as he desperately tried to brush his hands clean on the sides of his pants.

  A few members of Skinner’s gang entered the yard. John strained to hear their conversation for news on Laurence’s condition. His blood froze as he distinctly heard one of the men say, “He didn’t make it.”

  Panicking, John turned to Buck. What would happen now? He didn’t have to wait long to get his answer.

  “Hunter!”

  The name rang across the yard, echoing against the asylum walls. Skinner stood across the way. Rust-colored stains covered Skinner’s jumpsuit and his face was smeared with blood. Seething through his teeth, he made his way towards John.

  “Buck, get Tim out of here,” John said, standing to shield them both as Skinner advanced.

  The yard fell silent. Everyone was watching the confrontation, most likely wondering what sort of show they would get today. Skinner stopped in front of John. His gang gathered, forming a circle around the two.

  John stood firm, his arms at his sides.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” John said, and to his surprise, Skinner smiled.

  “I know,” Skinner whispered so only John could hear. “But they don’t,” he added, nodding to the crowd.

  So that’s what this was, a show of strength. It did not matter to Skinner that Laurence’s death was an accident. Maybe John had done him a favor by eliminating his inconvenient little brother. But by taking out his right-hand man, John had made Skinner look weak.

  “I don’t want to fight you.”

  The others chuckled. But Skinner didn’t laugh. He stood there, his gaze fixed on John. John counted at least a dozen men surrounding them.

  “I thought you were the kind of man who liked to solve his problems himself. Maybe I was wrong,” John said. He was stalling, using up time in hopes someone would stop this before it started. Surely the keepers wouldn’t allow another patient to die today. To Skinner’s thugs, this was all a game. But there was something different about Skinner’s demeanor; a strange, unsettling look in his eyes.

  More and more men gathered to watch. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a keeper approach and push his way through the crowd. But then he stopped, folded his arms and leaned back, a grin spreading across his scarred face as he made himself comfortable.

  Skinner smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s just going to be you and me.” Skinner circled John slowly. “Have you ever killed someone before today?”

  Surely the question was meant to catch John off guard, but he knew better than to let it work.

  “If I had to guess,” Skinner continued, “I’d say that was your first. Don’t worry, the first time is always a little uncomfortable.”

  Skinner rushed at John, his arm drawn back, ready to strike. John dodged it easily enough, but
Skinner anticipated his move and swung back with his elbow, catching John in the nose. The crowd whooped and hollered as blood gushed down John’s face and into his mouth.

  Skinner raised his arms and shouted triumphantly at the crowd as John wiped the blood with the back of his sleeve, smearing it across his face. For a moment, John considered maybe he should be content with this beating, but the thought of conceding to Skinner made his chest burn in rage. A show of submission may have been enough for Skinner’s thugs, but John knew Skinner would not let it end at that and he refused to roll over again. John stepped back into place, his fists at the ready as Skinner began circling him.

  “You just need a little practice,” Skinner said, “and after a while, you’ll see that taking a life can be quite cathartic.”

  Skinner moved to hit John again, but this time John blocked his punch and landed one of his own in Skinner’s stomach. Skinner doubled over, coughing as the crowd responded with sympathetic gasps. John could have sworn a few of Skinner’s men even cheered.

  “Well done,” Skinner coughed, wiping his chin with a smile. “I always knew you had it in you.”

  Even when receiving a beating, Skinner was a smug bastard. John ran at him, blinded by rage as he reached out to catch Skinner around the waist, but Skinner stepped aside, pushing John into the dirt.

  “Maybe I spoke too soon.” Skinner sighed as John jumped to his feet. “You’re getting emotional and it’s making you sloppy. I’m starting to suspect it was just pure, dumb luck you beat Laurence in the first place. I’m gonna teach you how to win a fight on purpose.”

  Reaching into his shirt, Skinner pulled out a blade—the same one John had seen Skinner use to kill before. Small and contorted, the makeshift, serrated edge gleamed menacingly.

  “Let’s see if you’ve grown back a pair,” Skinner said, extending his homemade knife towards John.

  “What sort of sick game is this?”

  “No game. I’m simply trying to teach you an important lesson. Take it.”