Daughters of Death (Postmortem Anomalies Book 2)

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Daughters of Death (Postmortem Anomalies Book 2) Page 5

by Josiah Upton


  I couldn't have my dad come along and help with this, because of that one pesky word he said: legal. To be honest, I don't think there's any legal way to get Zaul out of containment, either. But Gibbs isn't one who operates within the boundaries of the law. He fed and housed an unregistered Hybrid Reanimate for four years. He bought illicit Mortetine from Caesar in order to do it. If I can't free Zaul legitimately, then maybe someone from within the Hybrid Reanimate black market can make it happen. And he’s the one man I know with those connections.

  I've only met Gibbs once, when Zaul was gone from school and I dropped by to see if he was there. The man tried his best to smile and seem cordial, but it was evident he didn't get out to socialize much. It's understandable, considering his severe disability. And from out of the smiling lips of his disfigured mouth came lies, since Zaul wasn't out of town, but locked down in the basement as we spoke.

  Even if I do get to Gibbs in time, there's no guarantee he'll have any information that can help, or if he'll even speak with me. After all, he's going to jail because Zaul blew his cover trying to save me from future containment. The friendship Gibbs forbade him to have with me has ruined everything.

  It's nearly dark when I step off the bus, but a bright glow emanating from the school catches my gaze, a raging bonfire that reaches up into the sky. Thousands of bodies crowd around the blaze, hollering as they toss items deemed contraband by the nation's rampant fear and hatred for anything beyond its borders. I'd almost forgot that the stupid Patriot Burning was happening tonight.

  It's a struggle making my way through the mob. The bodies are so tightly packed together, and no one is paying attention to their surroundings. More than once someone's drink spills onto me, making my clothes reek of beer and liquor. That won't help my case when I talk to Gibbs.

  I finally make it to the door, but it's locked. What was I expecting? My thoughts search for another entrance, but all that comes to mind are more locked doors. My only option would be to break in, and there's no way to do that on this side of the school without someone seeing me. I'll need to go around where there's no witnesses.

  But before I leave, I see someone walking down the hall inside the school, making their way towards the door. It can't be Gibbs, and the figure doesn't match Dalton's. I squint, and my eyes recognize the portly frame: Mr. Neal. If he's in there, he’s discovered the horrific mess inside the office, and the APA is on their way to clean up, then send Gibbs away to prison forever. I tuck off to the side, waiting for him to burst through the door, screaming wildly about the bloody Hybrid attack that has just occurred on school grounds.

  He doesn't. The door opens slowly, and he strolls out at a leisurely pace. If Mr. Neal is anything, he is loud and easily excitable, so he didn't discover the office. In his arms is a large cardboard box. I'm tempted to look inside, but notice that the door is quickly closing. While my former history teacher waddles toward the reveling congregation, I stop the door with my finger, and slip inside once he is out of sight.

  I get an eerie feeling walking down the dark hallways of the empty school, and images of what I might find in that office begin to play in my mind. Some small part of me wonders if Zaul was telling the truth, if he really did just knock Dalton out and left him with Gibbs. But what if he killed him? What if he killed Principal Womack, and Mr. Jensen – as weird as he seemed – wasn't a Hybrid, and had nothing to do with this? What if Zaul...

  I can't continue these thoughts. That's not who he is. The other alternative is that I'll find nothing in there, and he made the whole story up, just to convince me and my dad that getting turned in was the only option, and a very time-sensitive one. If that's what he did, I'm going to be madder than hell.

  That theory is destroyed, however, when I near the office, and notice a crimson shoe print just outside, the dark liquid congealing on the linoleum floor. He was definitely here, and it was bloody. I take a deep breath, and reach for the handle. It turns, but the door doesn't move. Something is blocking it. The view through the skinny rectangular window is obscured too, a dark piece of paper taped over it.

  “Hey!” I say, pounding on the door. “Gibbs, I know it's you in there.” I wait for a moment, but only silence follows. “It's me, Genny. Zaul's already turned in, you can come out now.”

  “You shouldn't say your name,” a muffled voice calls through the door. “The brute is locked in a closet, but he still might hear you. You don't want him to know you're here. He could implicate you in...” He pauses, and I hear a deep exhale of raspy breath. “In all of this.”

  I assume he's talking about Dalton, which means Zaul was telling the truth. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing those horrific images were just my imagination, and that there's still time to talk with Gibbs. “Okay, but I still have to speak with you. I need to ask some questions, before someone finds you out. A teacher was already walking through the halls just a minute ago.”

  “Questions?” Gibbs asks, unfazed by his impending discovery and arrest. “What could I possibly tell you that you don't already know? I assume Zaul already covered it all.”

  “The things he knows,” I answer. “But you didn't tell him everything, did you?”

  “If you're looking to find out who his parents are, that's not going to happen...”

  “That's not what I'm talking about,” I say, getting frustrated. Every second wasted is another chance for Mr. Neal's waddling body to wheel around the corner again. “Over the last four years, you used the Hybrid Reanimate black market for everything you needed to take care of Zaul, to hide him, right?”

  “Yes,” Gibbs says, a reluctant intrigue in his voice.

  “Of all the people you dealt with, did you ever come across someone that could...” I hesitate, realizing just how crazy this sounds. “Someone that could get a Hybrid out of containment?”

  A long pause follows, before I hear a wheezing gasp from the other side of the door. He's laughing. “You want to break Zaul out of Colorado Territorial? The most heavily-guarded containment facility there is, with a man like Caesar Ortega in charge, and the APA headquarters right across the street?”

  “Never mind,” I groan, planting my forehead on the door with a firm thud. “It was stupid.”

  “Z-15,” Gibbs says, the laughter gone from his voice. “I don't know who it is or where they are. I don't know if it's one person or several, or if they're even real. But when it comes to getting a Hybrid out of containment, I've heard the name Z-15 across the channels. But I'll tell you this: even if you do find them, and negotiate whatever ridiculous price they're asking for, I've never, ever heard of a Hybrid getting out of Territorial.”

  A loud banging comes from inside the office, and the muffled screams of someone who is very upset. That must be Dalton, finally fed up with being held captive, and deciding to do something about it.

  “You'd better go,” Gibbs tells me. “That door won't hold him in there forever, and a man in a wheelchair can't stop him once he's out.”

  “Thank you,” I say, turning to leave, but stop. “And I'm sorry for all this.”

  “Not your fault. Zaul knew the dangers, and he made his choice.” He pauses. “It's unbelievable, that a Hybrid would go willingly to containment to save a human. Don't waste that.”

  “I won't.”

  A few minutes later I'm out the school doors, and back in the teeming mass surrounding the bonfire. The sun has set completely, and everyone is drunker, their shouts becoming more boisterous. I have no desire to stick around for the festivities. But as I move toward the bus stop, I hear a grating voice echo out of loud speakers.

  “Good evening, and welcome to the Annual Pueblo Patriot Burning!” The crowd roars, and I catch just a glimpse of the short, fat man holding the microphone. It would make perfect sense for Mr. Neal to emcee this event. Maybe I'm feeling extra masochistic today, but I decide to stick around, just to see what kind of vitriol he's willing to spew. And maybe I'll find out what was in that box he carried out of the school.


  “I am extremely pleased that the city chose Pueblo High to host the festivities, celebrating one hundred years of a Reanimate-free, United State of New America!”

  The crowd cheers again, throwing fists up in the air as they chant, “U.S.N.A!”

  “You know,” Mr. Neal continues as the sound dies down, his voice echoing over the crowd. “Before The End, October 31st was celebrated as a different holiday, called Halloween. Children would go from door to door, asking for candy, dressed up in a variety of costumes: princesses, superheroes, celebrities... and monsters. But then, the real monsters came. The dead rose and walked the streets. They went from building to building, door to door, not looking for candy, but the flesh of the living. This great land tore itself apart as our darkest nightmares came to life. And what did the rest of the world do?”

  The crowd shouts again, angry and passionate.

  “Nothing!” Mr. Neal screams. “That's right, they did nothing. The world's greatest empires, our allies – nations that we called 'friend' – they turned their backs on us. Left us to eat ourselves from the inside out. In just one day, countries that we had aided, time and time again, became our enemies. Stabbed us in the back. But I say, never again!”

  The people roar.

  “Never again will we rely on someone else to save us!” He grabs an item from the gigantic pile of contraband and throws it in the fire. Everyone around me jostles and churns, pulling me this way and that.

  “But,” Mr. Neal's voice returns, clearly exhausted from this rousing speech. “The enemies aren't just outside of our borders. They're in our land, living among us. They're elected officials, keeping this nation from marching forward into the era of progress. They're those Facility freaks, down the road in Cañon City, eating up raw animal flesh and our tax dollars!” Angry shouts rise. I cringe. “And the enemy is even right here, in this school, teaching your children.”

  A stunned hush falls over the crowd. Mr. Neal stoops down, and lifts up his large cardboard box, retrieving a book from it.

  “A certain teacher was terminated from our employment today, after a student revealed to the faculty that he had his students read this...” He holds the book up for everyone to see. “The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson.”

  That's what Mr. Jensen had Zaul reading in his English class. Little does this crowd know that the teacher was a Hybrid in disguise, that he killed and ate the principal, and is now lying dead in the building right next to them.

  “It is an old book – written by an Englishman, no less – and it tells the story of a man as he battles between the monster and human side within him. Now, what does that remind you of?” The crowd mutters, most spitting the word “Uggers” with a palpable amount of spite. “That's right, Hybrid Reanimates. I personally read this filth, and it's abundantly clear that anyone who makes impressionable students read this has only one goal in mind: inciting some sort of understanding in – and by extension, sympathy for – those inhuman monsters.” This enrages the mob as they curse and cry into the night sky. “And what do you think I should do with this propaganda?”

  “Burn it!” they all cry. “BURN IT!”

  Mr. Neal lugs the box to the fire, raises it over his head dramatically, and tosses it into the flames. Everyone cheers wildly. “Let the Patriot Burning BEGIN!”

  Everything erupts into full-blown debauchery. The drinks start to pour, a band on a stage next to the bonfire begins to play. People are acting lewdly, unashamedly kissing and groping each other. A small group of young men run naked through the crowd, smacking the asses of women that they pass. Some are offended, most are not. It's a sickening display of blind patriotism and ignorance, a thinly-veiled excuse for a descent into anarchy.

  A drunken man grabs my waist from behind, laughing, and I elbow him as hard as I can in the ribs. While he's doubled over on the ground, I slip through the crowd, escaping the threat. This isn't safe and it's time for me to leave.

  But just as soon as the party started, it comes to a screeching halt. The music stops, and gasps escape into the night, along with a few screams. A large opening forms on the west side of the crowd, many people falling over themselves as they back away. At first I think it might be the APA Collars arriving in full containment gear, answering a call made by Dalton once he escaped that office closet. But when the part in the crowd comes to me, I finally see what the commotion is about, and it's more shocking than what I could have imagined.

  Hybrid Reanimates.

  Chapter 7

  Genny

  Roughly twenty approaching members of the undead cause the crowd to shrink away in fear. Except, these Hybrids aren’t clawing or snarling at the humans around them, but peacefully walking in single file, clean and clothed in formal suits and dresses. Following closely behind them is a small group of humans in matching suits and dresses, their hands raised, a small remote grasped in their fingers. I assume they are synced with the collars around the Hybrids' necks, but in reality I have no idea what's going on here.

  The Hybrid at the front nods and smiles as he passes. He even lifts his hand to wave, and those closest to him flinch in fright. Once he arrives at the bonfire, he politely asks the singer of the band for the microphone. The singer drops it on the ground and backs away quickly. The leading Hybrid doesn't seem offended or surprised, but leans over to pick it up.

  “Good evening, Pueblo,” he says into the microphone. “My name is Benjamin Rigg, and I am the president of the Benjamin Rigg Foundation.”

  “What you doing here, Ugger?” a man calls out from the front, and many others echo his response.

  “I'm glad you asked,” Benjamin says, his white eyes glowing in the light of the bonfire. He seems much older than any Hybrid I've seen before, and there's a certain peace about him. I wonder if his calm demeanor is just from years of practice, or a sufficient amount of that drug Zaul had to take.

  “I'll be happy to answer your question, as well as any other questions you may have regarding the Benjamin Rigg Foundation.” He smiles and nods, seemingly oblivious to the utter hatred and fear that surrounds him. “Our number one goal is to educate the general public on Hybrid Reanimate issues, hoping to foster an accurate picture of our condition, and to raise awareness of lapses in Hybrid containment welfare.”

  “Go back to the facility!” another man screams. Others join his cry.

  “I'm glad you brought up that point,” Benjamin says softly, as if he's in some sort of civil debate. “You will be pleased to know that I, as well as the fellow members of the Benjamin Rigg Foundation here with me, are all under the careful escort of our Guardians, properly medicated, and have each passed an extensive test that deems us fit to be present at public functions.”

  “You can't be here!” a woman screams.

  “Actually, we can,” Rigg says calmly. “The law requires that any Hybrid under guardianship to give proper advance notice to the United State Agency of Postmortem Anomalies before attending any public function – which we have – and that we are under the close supervision of our guardians – which we are. Our presence is well within the parameters of the law. If it wasn't...” He smiles, pointing with a limp finger to various APA agents stationed throughout the area. All of them are vigilant, yet making no moves. “...then we wouldn't still be standing. We only wish to celebrate 100 years of safe, Reanimate-free living with this great city of...”

  “You are Reanimates!

  “Purge the Sludge!”

  “Leave, freaks!”

  Benjamin Rigg raises his hand, attempting to address the crowd in the same quiet tone, but his words cannot be heard over the rising clamor. Nobody wants to hear a monster act civilized, they just want them either dead or locked up. Mr. Neal approaches the stage cautiously, and requests the microphone.

  “Quiet, please,” Mr. Neal calls, calming the crowd. “If these Hybrids are indeed allowed by law to gather at this Patriot Burning, then we will respect that. Mr. Rigg,” he says cor
dially as he turns, though some discomfort is laced in his tone. “I don't believe I've ever had the, uh... pleasure, of making your acquaintance. I have heard of your foundation, but never have I seen you out on the streets.”

  A man quickly hands an extra microphone to Rigg, then scurries away. This has just become a public conversation.

  “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” the Hybrid says, clearing his throat. “I started the foundation ten years ago, when I had heard reports of the living conditions others like me were enduring in your containment facility, just 45 miles from here. We have only recently made a few public appearances, mostly in the Denver area where our headquarters is located. But when we heard that Pueblo held the largest Patriot Burning in the former state of Colorado every year, I felt it was due time to pay a visit, and stage a demonstration.”

  “A demonstration?” Mr. Neal squawks, his free hand resting firmly on his plump waist. I can tell his civility is diminishing. “And what exactly are you demonstrating?”

  “That we are people, too. That we have thoughts and emotions, and dreams, and the ability to resist the symptoms of our condition in order to achieve them. We are here to demonstrate that we are not the monsters hiding under your bed.”

  “I see,” Mr. Neal retorts, before looking off the stage, to the small group of Hybrids standing calmly on the side. “There are only twenty-one of you here tonight. How many Hybrids under guardianship are within your foundation?”

  “There are forty-eight Hybrid Reanimates affiliated with us,” Rigg answers.

  “And where are the rest?” Mr. Neal questions, a provocation in his voice. Others within the crowd shout the same question. “If you were looking to make a powerful demonstration, why aren't all your numbers here tonight?”

  Rigg hesitates, still smiling. “Only some of us are considered suitable for presence in the general population. There are differing levels of ability among our members. We all know this, and have accepted it.”

 

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