by Josiah Upton
My fingers fumble at the handle of my desk drawer, open it, and begin rummaging inside. They're searching for something, a forgotten object from my past. A tool I disowned many years ago, but for some reason never got rid of. As if I knew, deep inside, that a day like this would come again. Once the clutter is cleared away, my eyes see it at the bottom of the drawer. It's like running into an old friend, one that knows your darkest secrets.
My razor blade.
I take the cold steel in my fingers. There were so many days when I felt as if I were falling into a dark, black hole. No light. No hope of ever clawing my way out. Nothing made sense, except the brief rush of life that the pain brought. Mentally, I knew something so stupid and destructive wouldn't change anything. But the depression was too great, the pull of despair too strong. It feels like one of those days...
I throw the blade back in and slam the drawer shut. Weak, pathetic little shit, I think to myself. That's not who I am. Not anymore. I can't sit in my dark room, hurting myself and feeling sorry for myself, while the boy I love takes my fate in that facility. Even if I hate him for doing it, I can't waste his sacrifice so selfishly.
As I stand by my window, I see Caesar Ortega step onto his front porch. It's his day off, but he's dressed in uniform, his face freshly shaven. He's not even smoking his customary joint. He's eager to march down to that facility, to punish Zaul for the foolish ass he made of him. Caesar looks up at my window, a menacing smirk on the face that I punched less than an hour ago.
And I’m sure he's eager to punish me, for showing friendship and compassion to someone he believes doesn’t deserve to exist. For hitting him when I defended what he sees as mankind’s enemy. And definitely for the kiss I gave to a “freak”, right in front of him on his own lawn. Yes, he is ready to punish me, and he’ll do it by tormenting Zaul, more than the average Hybrid at the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility. In fact, if he gets the chance, he'll probably kill him. Who knows what he can get away with behind those walls?
Caesar gives me one last sneer, before walking down the street in the rain. I think I'm going to be sick.
I open my bedroom door, and nearly fall over when I see my dad there, his hand raised to knock. I love my dad, and I know he would do absolutely everything to comfort me, but right now I can’t handle a heartfelt father-daughter conversation. Especially not after he helped with Zaul's plan of getting turned in.
“Genny,” he says, my name falling out of his already open mouth. He always seems so lost and helpless when it comes to his teenage daughter. “I heard a commotion up here, I was wondering if you were alright.”
“I'm fine, Dad,” I say, squeezing in between him and my door frame to get past. “I was just about to go to the bathroom. Excuse me.”
He stands frozen outside my room while I make my way down the hall. Maybe he'll leave me be for a little while...
No, I hear his feet shuffle down after me. “Did you want to talk, Sweetie?”
“Not really.” I quickly enter the bathroom, and shut the door. I don't like it when he calls me that. “I want to be alone.”
“I have to go down to the Collars department before they close today,” he says, his soft voice muffled through the door. “Did you want to come with me? I need to fill out some paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” I question as I open the door, an acidic tone in my voice. “You mean for the reward money, for handing Zaul over to that madhouse down the street? Seriously?”
“Don't, Geneva,” he says with a warning in his eyes. I don't like this name either, but at least he's showing some backbone, which I prefer to the desperate dad routine. “Don't punish me for making the choice any half-decent parent would make. That's not fair. This is what Zaul wanted, and it was only a matter of time before he was captured anyway.”
“Whatever,” I say, looking into the mirror, wiping the smeared makeup from my eyes. He's absolutely right, but it doesn't take away the sense of betrayal. It doesn't return the rug that was pulled from under me once I realized I loved someone, and then they were taken away. What is right and logical is not what's leaving that dark pit in my chest. “I don't want to talk about this now.”
“Then when?” he asks, hands on his hips. “When will it be convenient for you to let me know what's on your mind? It seems like most of my life as a parent is spent waiting for you to say something real. But instead all I get is sighs, eye rolls, and 'whatevers'.”
“You want something real?” I spit, my hand up in the air. I'm going to regret saying this, but I can't hold myself back any longer. I can't keep it all inside. “Just a minute ago, I was contemplating running a razor blade over my skin. Because right now, I don't know who I am, or what's real, or if I even want to continue this sick game called life!”
The tears finally come. Not just a few that manage to escape my eyelids' stronghold, but the full waterworks. My body trembles, my legs feel weak. My father's hands are still at his sides, but I collapse into him, knowing that his arms will catch me. They do, and they wrap tight around me, like they have countless times over the years.
“There's no happiness for me, is there?” I say between heaving breaths, my face buried in his shoulder. “Everything good gets taken away: Mom, my future, my love. There's nothing for me...”
“Shh,” he says, running his hand over my hair. “There's always something, Genny. Always.”
“I'm sorry, Dad,” I confess, leaning back to look up at him. “For acting like this. I was being stupid and selfish. I'm so sorry.”
“No, Genny. It's not stupid or selfish to be in pain. Trust me, I know how it feels to be lost. Ever since your mother died, there were so many times I wasn't sure if I could be a good father. I wasn't sure how I would face each sunrise, or if I even wanted to. But there was always something to keep me going. You just have to find what that is for you.”
What is there for me? What could possibly motivate me to keep going, when there is nothing but dark and lonely days of waiting ahead? That promise I made to Zaul comes to mind, the one I made so foolishly. That is something I can hold onto. “Right before Zaul was taken away, I told him that I wouldn't let him rot in there. I promised that I would find a way to get him out. Do you think something like that is even possible?”
A strained look comes over my father's face. Regardless of what he'll say, I already know what he believes. “I don't think so, Genny. Once a Hybrid goes in that facility, they don't come out. It's locked up so tight, even I can't get in there, and I work for the APA.”
“But if there was a way to get him out of there,” I say, “would you help make that happen?”
“If there is a way – a safe, legal way – to have Zaul released from the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility...” He pauses, crossing his arms in front of his chest. My dad must think I'm insane. “Yes, I will do what I can to help Zaul. It's the least I could do, after what he's done for us. But I really don't think there's anything that can be done. I'm sorry, Genny.”
No. I refuse to believe that. If Zaul could find a way to save me from my impending containment, I can find a way to get him out. I just don't know where to start. But one thing keeps popping into my mind, a place where I might find answers: Pueblo.
“We'll talk about this when I get back,” he says, his hand on my shoulder. “If you want to, Sweetie.”
“Okay, Dad,” I say, turning back to the mirror. “I'll see you then.”
But I already know that might not happen, because I might not be here. As soon as I hear the rumble of my dad's Jeep fade away down the street, I throw a hoodie on and start walking towards the bus stop. There's only one place that I know where to start. Gibbs.
Chapter 5
Zaul
Bright fluorescent lights shine from overhead as I walk down the long, empty hallway. The only sound heard is the loud clunking of the officers' boots echoing off the walls. No one is saying a word. Maybe barking orders or threats isn't necessary when you have the power to cripple y
our captive with a shock at your fingertips. And where are all the other Hybrids? It seems I'm the only one here.
My eyes focus on the back of Krecker's neck, which I now notice is completely covered by the tall, thick collar of his uniform. Some protection from the jaws of a Hybrid, I assume. And though I can't see it, I know the flesh that hides behind. My stomach burns. The recently-ingested Mortetine responds, cramping my abdomen with nausea. I despise the feeling, but it also offers just a little bit of relief in my constant fight against the Prisoner.
“Hungry, Ugger?” Krecker says over his shoulder as we near the end of the hall, seeming to read my mind. The other officers laugh riotously at this. A low growl gestates in my throat, but instead of letting it loose, my fingers tug at the metal collar that wraps tightly around my neck, as the Mortetine calms me down. Strong medication and the promise of another massive shock is an effective combination for making me control myself.
“I could eat,” I respond. We stop at another large door at the end of the hall. Krecker retrieves a plastic card from his belt, and swipes it through a slot.
“You're in luck,” he says, letting his keycard snap back to his belt. “It's just about dinnertime.”
I hear a low rumble, and at first I think it's my stomach, responding to the mention of dinner. But it's coming from behind the door in front of us. Whatever is on the other side, it's loud and constant. I lean forward slightly to get a better listen, but jerk back when the door jolts and disappears, sliding into the wall. As if a dam has just broken, the quiet rumble has become a loud roar once it pours out of the open doorway.
And then I see them.
Several hundred Hybrid Reanimates crowded together in a large, open room. A sea of blue veins and gray scalps, jostling in a current that stretches several yards away. The deafening roar is a mixture of moans, grunts, howls, and a shouting conversation I happen to witness between some nearby Hybrids. I've never seen so many members of the undead. So many creatures just like me.
“Welcome home, 1822!” Krecker shouts. I can barely hear him. “Welcome to your new family!”
Family...
I tense at the word. A faceless image of my parents comes to mind, a mother and father that I never once saw since returning from the dead. So many times Gibbs sat in his wheelchair on the other side of steel bars, cryptically assuring that my parents cared. That they paid him big money to keep me safe, and to prepare me for life as a disguised Hybrid in a world that I am compelled to devour.
But their foolish plan didn't work. Everything fell apart once I arrived in Pueblo this morning. Someone will soon find Gibbs in that bloody high school office – along with Dalton, who has probably regained consciousness at this point. When the Agency for Postmortem Anomalies discovers Gibbs's involvement in the Hybrid Reanimate black market, he'll spend the rest of his days in prison. Perhaps the trail will lead back to my parents, wherever they are, and they'll join him, further guaranteeing that I'll never see them again.
Maybe Krecker is right. Maybe this shuffling, moaning congregation before me is the only family I can ever hope for. My new brothers, and my new...
I sniff the air. There are no females here. They must be in a separate part of the facility. Considering the Lust, that's certainly a good idea.
“This is the Common,” Krecker explains loudly, fighting for audibility over the teeming mass of Hybrids. “You'll be spending most of your time in here: eating, sleeping… ticking off the days until you finally expire.”
He starts stepping down the staircase that crops out from the doorway, and the officer behind nudges me to follow. As I descend, a few Hybrids near the front of the crowd eye me with their milky-white pupils. Even though we are the same, the attention is unsettling. I've read stories about humans in prison, and the new inmates always have to watch their back. I wonder if this will be the same.
When we reach the floor Krecker points to a thick, yellow line that stretches in either direction, creating a boxed perimeter just a few yards from the surrounding walls. For some reason, there are no Hybrids outside of it. “You see that, 1822?” I nod. “That is the No-No line. Once you're inside the Common, don't cross it. Ever.”
“What happens...” I begin, but stop short when a section of the crowd gets noisier than before. A small circle has formed around two Hybrids. They shout back and forth, stomping their feet and pounding their chest. I can't understand what they're saying, but I don't need to. Their faces, their tone of voice, and the way they eye each other as they move in rigid circles; it's clear what's happening.
After another brief exchange of shouts, the two lunge at each other, arms locked in a tense grapple. Fingers claw, teeth snap. Nearly every spectating Hybrid is screaming in amusement. They separate for a moment, then one of them charges clumsily, wild Rage in his eyes. At the last second, the other moves out of the way, sending his attacker hurtling through the crowd, knocking several onlookers down. He gets behind and starts pushing, bringing the other closer to the edge of the Common. He teeters on the yellow line, then falls over, bringing a few others with him.
Everyone on the wrong side of the line screams, clutching at their collared necks, convulsing in pain. The shock lasts for a second longer before ceasing, their bodies falling to the floor. And then the shocks come again. This alternates, back and forth, until the Hybrids slowly make their way back into the square, only able to move in the short rests between shocks. It looks like absolute hell.
“That's what happens,” Krecker says, eyeing me with a wicked smile. “We only have a few rules in the Common, Ugger. Don't touch the Containment Officers, don't cross the yellow line, don't kill each other – and do take your meds. You get your pills from the dispensers found throughout the Common.” He points to blue, waist-high boxes scattered across the floor. “Take one every hour. If you don’t stay medicated, I’ll know – even with your freakish level of control. I’ve been doing this a long time.”
His gaze shifts to nine tall and slender structures, equally separated within the Common. Each have several metallic hoses hanging down from the tops, making them look like trees of steel. “Those are the Meat Pipes. They run for 15 minutes, four times a day. If you wanna eat, you'd better find yourself a spot, and don't give it up. None of these other sick bastards will.” Krecker looks down at his belt remote, as if reading time from a watch. “In fact, dinner's about to start any second now. You'd better get in there.”
I look back to the Meat Pipes, wondering what sort of sustenance could possibly come out of those hoses. The possibilities are unappetizing, to say the least. I'm in no hurry to get in there. But the look on Krecker's face when I turn back around informs me that the introduction is over. He glances at his remote again, pressing buttons. “You have three seconds to get in the Common, Number 1822, before you get shocked for being outside the no-no line. 1... 2...”
I don't waste any more time. I cross over the yellow line, and into the Common.
I feel like an animal trapped in an over-crowded cage. Everywhere I go, there's a Hybrid no more than a foot or two away in all directions. When there isn't, there's an immovable chair or table in my way, bolted to the ground. The further in I travel, the more condensed it becomes. My shoulders constantly bump into others. Some give me livid glares, baring their teeth at me, while others don't notice. Or don't care.
I like my space. This is especially true when around humans, for fear that the symptoms of my undead condition may be incited. But even among these other Hybrids, these fellow creatures that look and smell just like me, I feel suffocated. I've had it easy for too many years, having a basement all to myself. No one to share with, no one to bother me. This is going to take some time getting used to. But I guess time is something I have plenty of now.
The collective atmosphere in the Common quickly changes once a buzzing blares throughout the room. I hear the clanking of metal on metal, and notice that greedy hands are snatching the hoses that snake down from the Food Pipes. It must be din
nertime. They bring the hoses up to their faces, and clamp down tightly to release a stream of gelatinous goo into their open mouths. Even though I'm constantly, ravenously hungry, I'm not hungry enough for that just yet.
Pockets begin to form within the crowd, much of the population moving towards the Pipes, packing tightly around them. I take the opportunity to get some space of my own, and take a seat in one of the open areas.
“1822,” says a voice from behind me. My hand instinctively grips my metal collar as I turn around, expecting to see an officer with his finger poised over the shock button of his remote. Maybe to punish me for not clawing desperately at the Meat Pipe hoses like everyone else. For not playing the Hunger-crazed monster he expects me to be.
But there is no officer. Only another Hybrid, sitting calmly with his arms crossed, a contemplative look on his face. “You new?”
“Yes,” I answer, the act of conversing with another Hybrid feeling very strange. I hadn't done that since speaking with Mr. Jensen this afternoon, and that was before I found out he wasn't human.
“Why aren't you eating, 1822?” he asks.
This one isn't of the average Hybrid Reanimate intelligence. I look back at the Meat Pipes, the Hybrids clambering for the hoses. Mush overflowing out of their mouth, running down their chins and staining their clothes. I see one scooping up some from a puddle on the ground, shoving it into his bloated cheeks. My nose catches the scent of the “food”, and I try to identify exactly what it is. I can't. All I know is that it's meat, as the name of the Pipes suggests. A small echo of my Prisoner's hungry cries resound from within, but it isn't strong enough to overcome my reservations. “I can wait.”