by Josiah Upton
“Balance,” Robert repeats, opening a wooden box on his desk, “is what makes the world work. If I let people like my son take total control of this facility...” He plucks small stones out of the box, and places them on the left hanging bowl. “The scales will tip drastically, and the next thing you know, every Hybrid Reanimate in containment will be exterminated. One by one, shot in the head, until all are dead.” The bottom of the left bowl hits his desk with a metallic thud.
He then removes the stones, and starts stacking them on the right bowl. “But if Hybrids are treated with total civility, given all the rights of, say, human prisoners...” The scale begins to tip. “There will be public outrage. Most people out there hate and fear you. If they don't believe that proper humiliation and punishment is being dealt to what they believe are monsters, then the containment system will be dismantled, and we're back to total extermination.” The bottom of the right bowl hits the desk. “Balance is the key to your survival within this place. I have my part to play, and people like my son have theirs.”
I look down at the plate of meat, and at the scales, and the smile that still sits on Ortega's elderly face. It all doesn't make sense for me. “Why do you care?” I ask. “Why is the safety and well-being of the things everyone else hates so important to you?”
“As I told Officer Krecker earlier, I've been doing this for many, many years. And if you'd believe it, I was a lot more like my son when I started this facility. I hated Hybrids, was disgusted by them. But along the way, I started to see things more clearly. I realized what I was dealing with in here, and it wasn't monsters. They were people, just...” He breathes deeply. “Different.”
I swallow the bite in my mouth, considering Robert's words. They sound a lot like the things Genny used to say to me. Definitely not what I was expecting from a containment director at all. But in the end it doesn't really matter. Once this man dies, Caesar will be right there to fill his shoes. And it looks like that won't be too long from now.
“Like I said Zaul, everyone has their part to play. I'm interested to see what your part is.” He looks back down at the paper lying on his desktop. “Your Corridor results were impressive, to say the least. Particularly your Appetite. I can't recall the last time a Hybrid coming to my facility scored a 1. Your Libido Restraint was 5 – average…”
My thoughts return to that lustful illusion known as “Betty”, and how I failed. I'll be more than happy if I never have to go through that again, and I pity any other male Hybrid that will in the future. But what about the females? What sort of Libido Restraint must they undergo? What would Genny have to experience? I can't linger on this thought for very long before Ortega continues his discourse.
“Your Strength Level...” His eyebrows raise, and he lets out a short, wheezing chuckle. “Well, that's impressive too, just in another way. But your Aggression was only 3, so that's nothing to worry about. Overall, between your Corridor results and the way you've conducted yourself in the last few minutes, I'd say you're exactly what we're looking for.”
I stop chewing, and put my fork down. “For the Brains Club?”
Ortega smiles, nodding. “I can guess you spoke with one of the members, before that little show Caesar put on. The Higher-Functioning Hybrid Reanimate Echelon is a unique opportunity for unique individuals like yourself. You'll have higher quality food, designated group time with both male and female members, access to library materials...”
“Library?” I ask, leaning out of my seat. “You mean books?”
“A reader?” Ortega questions. “Yes, Zaul, access to books. And, the chance to assume a position of leadership and responsibility among your peers in the Common, and through assignments within the Facility.”
I recline back in my chair, thoughts pestering my mind. “I still don't understand why you would give these things to flesh-hungering creatures. How would that benefit you, or anyone else?”
“Balance,” he says, tapping the scale with a finger, making the bowls bounce up and down. “If members of the Brains Club are seen as esteemed and rewarded, others in the Common will try to emulate that. You give incentives for civil behavior, you encourage civil behavior. Have consequences for barbaric behavior, discourage barbaric behavior. Caesar's wrath...” He taps one side of the scale. “...my rewards.” He taps the other. “Parts to play. Are you willing to play, Zaul?”
This still doesn't seem to make sense, but given a choice between him and Caesar, the option is abundantly clear.
“Yes sir,” I say. “I'm willing to play.”
“Good,” he says, rising up from his chair with effort. “Then we'd better get going.”
“Where?” I ask, looking down at my plate. I'm still not finished with my pork lungs, and leaving them behind doesn't sit well with my Prisoner.
“For a walk,” Ortega answers. “You’re technically not in the club yet, but I have absolute certainty that you will be. And every member gets a tour of the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility.”
Chapter 9
Zaul
With one officer behind me and the elderly Robert Ortega leading the way, the pace at which we travel down the halls is agonizingly slow. I’ve never wanted to run, since the muscles in my undead legs creak and groan with every movement my body makes. But after five minutes and only covering a few yards, I feel the need to break into a sprint. At least this is more time away from the Common, though, and out of Caesar's grasp. The longer I can draw this out, the better.
We pass through a set of doors into a large empty room, and Ortega's hobbling comes to a stop. “This is where we hold Recreation Hour. Once every day, all Hybrids have the opportunity to engage in a variety of activities, to exercise their mind and body. And there's something for everybody, regardless of intelligence level. Some days we'll have competitive games, other days there will be puzzles to complete, or perhaps some arts and crafts. One year, we even put on a play. That was a lot of fun.”
“Fun,” I mutter, looking out over the empty rows of tables and chairs. Of all the words to describe life in containment, I never thought fun would be one of them. As a Hybrid, I still have trouble grasping what that word even means.
“Mandatory rehabilitation programs are required by the APA,” Ortega continues, “to develop fine and gross motor skills, and to improve social functioning. They've never told me what the ultimate goal for this is, though, since no Hybrid will ever be needing these skills outside containment. None of you will ever leave. But whatever the reason, I think it's a good idea.”
My eyes travel to the far wall on my left, and I notice three doors. Above each appears to be a colorful sign, but the letters are obscured by a large cloth covering them up. “What are those?”
“Something else once implemented by the APA,” Ortega explains, his voice dismissive. “A mistake. Thankfully I was able to convince them to discontinue their use. I just hope it stays that way. Let's continue Zaul.”
The man begins his slow walk again, not having answered my question at all. I take one last look at the doors, wondering what hides behind them, before following him on to the next part of our tour.
The section of the facility we enter is bright, cold, and smells a mix of astringent cleaner and animal flesh. It isn't a very pleasant scent, but my Prisoner still rouses a little at it. Gibbs's often-repeated lesson, that I will always be hungry, enters my thoughts. As if Ortega can read my mind, he retrieves two Mortetine pills from his suit pocket and hands them to me. I swallow them, and can already feel the medication going to work.
“This is the kitchen, where we prepare all food for the containees. Once you are in the Club, you will be assigned kitchen duty from time to time. It's pretty simple, and it offers yet another opportunity away from the drudgery of the Common. Let me show you something.”
He moves toward a large steel cylinder in the middle of the room, beckoning me to follow. A wide set of stairs leads down from the top of the cylinder, and at the bottom is a large metallic chest
. He opens the top of the chest, where an icy fog escapes, and reaches in, searching for something. His arm returns from the box, the carcass of a dead chicken in his hand. My nose wrinkles. There was once a time when the only meat supply Gibbs could get me was chicken, and I despised the taste of it.
“Take this chicken, and go up the stairs.”
I eye the frozen chicken for a moment, before reluctantly grabbing it and making my way up the steps. At the top of the cylinder is a flat surface, with black and yellow stripes across it, and attached to the stair railing is a box with three buttons: black, green and red.
“Press the black button,” Ortega instructs. I do so, and the top of the cylinder opens, revealing a deep pit with two sharp, screw-shaped columns laying horizontally at the bottom. “This is the Juicer. It's how the food gets to the Meat Pipes in the Common. Press the green button.”
My fingers press it, and the Juicer rumbles to life. The two mechanical columns at the bottom begin to spin, creating a high-pitched squeal that digs into my ears. I can guess what will happen next.
“Drop the chicken into the Juicer,” Ortega shouts up to me.
I observe the frozen creature in my hand. It's dead, but still completely intact, beak and feathers included. “The whole chicken? With the bones and everything?”
“Yes!” Ortega replies.
I stare into the chicken's lifeless black and yellow eyes. I doubt he ever imagined this is what would become of him after his death. But at least he stayed dead, unlike the poor souls who will be eagerly sucking his remains through hoses when the next meal time comes. Now that I know exactly what the meat mush is made of, I'm all the more certain I won't be eating it.
I suspend his cold carcass over the open mouth of the Juicer, and let him drop. As soon as he hits the bottom, his body explodes with a quick buzz, instantly liquefying into a pink paste, and disappearing. Without being instructed, my fingers touch the red button, and the machine slows to a halt. I close the top of the Juicer, and descend back down the stairs.
“You might wonder why we need such a large processor,” Ortega says, walking away from the Juicer. “We use a variety of sources for the containee diet: pork, poultry, lamb, fish. Some of it in pieces, others whole. Whatever we can get our hands on. We even drop entire cattle carcasses into it, using a crane, and the equipment has to be big enough and powerful enough to handle that. Because when you're feeding a couple thousand hungry Hybrids four times a day, we don't have the time or staff to reduce the size of the animals.”
Ortega stops, looking up with a thoughtful expression. “I know it may seem gruesome, but I once saw how hot dogs were made. It's basically the same thing. Moving on.”
The next part of the tour takes us into a large, square room, scattered with pillars. In the middle is a semi-circular control station, manned by a single officer, and on the surrounding walls are several sealed doors, dull moans and screams sounding out from them.
“This is the Lock. I assume you heard Caesar use the phrase 'Shock 'n' Lock'?” Ortega says, turning to me. I nod. “When you commit a severe enough infraction to warrant punishment, you receive a high level electrical shock from your collar, and then you are placed in one of these cells for 24 hours. This is also where we permanently house all containees that are too dangerous for the Common – as determined either by their Corridor test numbers, or for extremely violent behavior. And just because you're in the Brains Club, doesn't mean you're exempt from going to the Lock. I've had Ezra in here more times than once.”
Ezra, the talkative Hybrid I met in the Common? I couldn't imagine what he would do to get himself in here, except maybe for not shutting his mouth. “I assumed only those with low intelligence or restraint would get put in here,” I say absently.
“Low restraint?” Ortega asks. “Definitely. But not always low intelligence. The two aren't irrevocably connected. In my many years here, I've seen low-intelligence Hybrids become the best behaved containees, while some of the 'smart' ones commit the most heinous offenses. It's not always easy to determine what lies in a man's heart, and the same goes for Hybrid Reanimates.”
“Heart?” I ask, looking at the officer standing guard at his station. If he’s listening in, he’s not showing any reaction to Ortega's words. “You think that something like me has a heart?”
“Desires, emotions, dreams, regrets, compulsions...” he says, shaking his head as he looks at the closed doors. “All that lies behind every one of these doors. Yes, you have a heart. Everybody does, even my son. The problem is, some are better at hiding its contents than others.”
Once we exit the Lock, Ortega retrieves his glowing tablet from inside his suit, reading the time. He waves Officer Krecker over to us from the far end of the hall. “I must be going now. I’ve got to submit your Corridor results to the APA’s Hybrid Behavioral Department, and go through the formalities of assessing your inclusion into the Brains Club. The paperwork takes about a day or so to be processed. In the meantime, just take things low-key. Standing out will only draw negative attention, from both containees, and officers.”
Krecker stops in front of Ortega. “Yes, sir?”
“See that 1822 returns to the Common,” Robert says. “Also, there’s the matter of this threat Captain Ortega has leveled against any containee who happens to interact with 1822. Do me a favor, and make sure that threat is rescinded in the Common.”
Krecker swallows loudly. I can smell the sweat beginning to secrete on his forehead. “You want me to go against Captain Ortega? In front of all the containees?”
“Is Caesar your Director, or am I?” Ortega asks. “Let me put it this way: Make it happen, or you’ll be going against me. I won’t have my son’s paranoia singling out containees. If he has a problem with that, send him my way.”
Yes,” Krecker says. “Of course, Sir.”
Robert turns to me. “You needn’t worry about Caesar anymore, Zaul. He’s not as powerful as he thinks he is. I’ll make sure he stays in line. Remember – balance.”
He smiles widely. I only nod, and follow Krecker back to the Common. Of all the things that elderly man said, Caesar behaving himself is one I simply can’t believe.
Chapter 10
Zaul
“Director Ortega told me to rescind what the Containment Captain said about you,” Krecker remarks, pulling his keycard from his belt. “And that’s what I’m going to do. But if I were you, I’d stick to myself. I’ve never seen Caesar come down on a newcomer as hard as he did you, right out the gate. I don’t know what you did to deserve that, but not even the Director can hold back that amount of hate. When Caesar is determined, he doesn’t let up. He’ll find another way to make you suffer.”
I’m well aware of that fact. “Yes, I can imagine.”
Just as he’s about to swipe his card, he sighs and lets it go, and grabs his remote. The push of a button sizzles my neck with low voltage. I grunt in frustration, feeling the need to break Krecker’s fingers from his remote. The threat of a bigger shock – or perhaps a bullet in my head – bids me to push that urge down.
“I didn’t tell you to talk, Ugger. Don’t forget where you are, and what you are. There’s not enough special treatment from ol’ Robbie Ortega to change that. And know this: Caesar may be a crazy son of a bitch, but if it’s between him and you freaks, the officers of this facility will always side with him. Always.”
He swipes his card, and the door opens to the Common. The droning of Hybrid voices comes over me again, reminding me that I’m just one of many in this building. Some of them see me, recognize me from earlier, and avert their gaze. Caesar’s threat still hangs over their heads. Beyond them, I can see his face on the other side. Glaring at me with a subdued malice. I can only wonder if his father can truly hold his hatred back.
Krecker walks out, and holds his remote up to his mouth. “Uggs, listen up. Captain Ortega said any containee talking to or making friends with Number 1822 will get a Shock ‘n’ Lock. Director Ortega is removi
ng this order. You are now free to interact with 1822, and there will be no punishment. I repeat, it is now acceptable to push, grunt and yell at 1822. Smarter containees, please dumb this down for the idiots around you. That is all.”
Caesar places hands on his hips, shouting a word that’s drowned out by the endless noise between us. I fear what other plans his maniacal mind is devising. In my own sick mind, my Prisoner smells Krecker, begging me to take a snap at his face before I’m forced behind that invisible shock barrier with all the other flesh-cravers. My eyes scan the floor for the nearest Mortetine dispenser. I need some.
“Welcome back,” Krecker says with a smile, gesturing towards the crowd. “And speaking of ‘back’, be sure to watch yours.”
Despite the revocation of Caesar’s threat, the undead crowd splits and disperses when I cross the yellow line. Only Muck stays where he is, staring blankly as everyone puts distance between us. To be honest, I don’t care. The more space I get, the better. I depress the red button on top of a Mortetine dispenser. A safe Hybrid is a happy Hybrid. The pills tumble down into the hole, then down my throat.
As I let the chemicals go to work, I see Ezra through a gap in the crowd. We make eye contact. I groan, anticipating him to traverse the mob, just to bother me. But he stands his ground, glancing at Caesar. The vicious man shakes his head, his closely-cropped, graying hair reflecting the fluorescent light. Ezra turns and begins a conversation with some non-Brains containees near him, leaving me all to myself. Despite Caesar’s threat being revoked, everyone is avoiding me like the plague I am. Like we all are.
It’s a miracle. Now I can endure my containment in relative peace, without prying questions or futile attempts at friendship. I sit down at an empty table (which was quickly vacated as I approached), and bask in my solitude. This is a good thing. Yes, I think. This is the way it should be.