This story was the result.
In a former life Lesley Smith was a freelance journalist, but now writes fiction fulltime. Her debut novel, The Changing of the Sun, is out now and she is hard at work at other instalments of the Ashteraiverse, including a sequel called The Parting of the Waters and a short novel called A Star Filled Sea, both funded via Kickstarter and due out this summer.
Lesley's hobbies include baking, archery, and binge-watching box sets on Netflix. She lives in a small English market town with three cats and her guide dog, Unis.
She blogs at www.lesley-smith.co.uk and lives on Twitter as @LesleySmith. You can also find out more about the Ashteraiverse on the official Facebook group: www.facebook.com/groups/1607302972847560
Hybrid
by Geoffrey Wakeling
CHAPTER 1
“SHUT THAT BLOODY DOOR, FREYA.”
His cry rushed down the corridor towards her as if a dam had just been overcome by torrential floodwater. The sound echoed, bouncing along the unfurnished walls, before spilling over the lip of the laboratory doorway and intermingling with the tragic tones of Joni Mitchell that accompanied her working day.
“Freya! Shut. The. Door.”
His cry was increasingly urgent and breathless as he clutched the end of a frayed and stained bench, the branching crimson etchings on his shirt steadily becoming overcome by a blanket of red. She tore her eyes from him for a moment, as if attempting to lift her white knuckled hands to the override button with a forced stare. It didn’t work, and her fingers remained tightly clenched on the thin metal surround of the security quarantine door.
He can make it. He has to make it. I can’t do this by myself. Run. Run.
“RUN!” Freya finally screamed, her call coming only seconds before she glimpsed the dark shapes over his shoulder. Her plea was even greater now, though she saw it was fruitless, for her mentor was wilting towards the floor.
“Save yourself. Protect the subjects. Don’t let it all be in vain. There’s a place for Pacifier, you know it. You’re the brightest kid I’ve ever known. Pacifier 6 is yours.”
The words still rang through her head hours later. Pacifier 6 is yours.
“I can’t do this alone,” Freya mumbled, trying to shake away the image of his slumped body as it was overrun with Frothers. The rancid foam splattered from their decaying mouths to his twitching body. Limbs convulsed and muscles were torn as their teeth sank into the blood-drained flesh, devouring every morsel with their unquenchable appetite. They’d not yet set eyes upon the seventeen year old girl who sat slumped and sobbing on the other side of the two inch thick, quarantine lock door.
“What was that? Speak up, Freya?”
“I can’t do this alone.”
“My dear girl, whenever have you been alone?” Mrs Gilbert offered an arthritically gnarled hand towards Freya and helped pull her from the floor. Those feasting upon her mentor’s flesh had left the hallway now, and she sat alone in the laboratory as the songstress’ dulcet musing continued. “Now, where’s Professor Baidlin?”
Tears pricked in Freya’s eyes again; hot and salty. They only aggravated the stinging, and she blinked them away quickly, though not fast enough to elude Mrs Gibert’s keen eye.
“Well, I suppose it’s not to be unexpected with the work you two are doing. Pacifier 6 will be yours now.”
There it was again. Why did she have to bear this responsibility? What made them all think she was their saviour?
“Now I know what you’re thinking,” the middle-aged woman carried on, pulling Freya with her as she swept out of the room, right by the quarantine door and through the halls. “That you can’t do it alone, that it’s an impossible task. But you can’t think that way. You mustn’t think that way. You’re but a young girl, and the future will be bright for one that can cure the world’s problems.”
“Maybe I don’t want to cure the world,” Freya said through gritted teeth as she attempted to wrench her arm from the claw-like fingers.
“Don’t take that tone with me. You might be a genius, but God knows, Baidlin gave you a long leash. You need to toe the line now. You need to set an example. It’s a fraught place we live in…death is expected, not pushed to the back of one’s mind and forgotten about as once was. You can change that. You can save humanity.”
They reached an intersection, and Mrs Gilbert led Freya towards an open door.
“Now, get yourself cleaned up and shake off those doubts.” She reached inside and clicked on the light. “And, Freya…mourn for him later. Your uncle was a good man, a compassionate man, but most of all, hugely ambitious. You’re his legacy. You need to save us.”
The door was closed behind her without another word.
Her uncle’s bed was unmade in the corner, his belongings still scattered from where, each morning, he’d crawl from the cot, his eyes bloodshot and dark, and knock his meagre possessions over the floor. Whilst he grumbled, cursed and swept them back towards his bed, she’d dutifully fluff her own pillow and fold the thin duvet as best she could.
Only hours had passed since she’d conducted this daily ritual, and she gazed at her own bed — it felt like days.
What the hell am I going to do?
She surveyed the room, heavy with the insurmountable burden now placed upon her. She’d been his aide, his technician. She was not, and never had been, the innovator.
Freya moved across to the thin mirror that hung above the badly plumbed sink that dripped constantly and haunted her dreams, before studying in her reflection. She’d never been the classic beauty, but some said her awkward and unbalanced features were quite striking. That hadn’t stopped the bullying, particularly from the stereotyped bombshells of the class. They were all dead now, she supposed.
There was blood in her hair which, in her attempts to escape, had been whipped across her face in great red streaks. She turned the tap and began to massage away the crusty marks. A small clean patch appeared, and she drenched herself with increasing ferocity as she realised just how far the dirt had crept in. Tears swam in her eyes again, and this time she allowed them to fall as she pawed at her scalp, pulling brown matted hair away from her eyes. Her nails dragged across her face, uncovering the pale skin but inadvertently replacing dirt with fresh, pink scratches. Freya noticed blood on her hands and wrists too, and she began desperately scrabbling at the stains, sobbing and allowing her heart to break; both for the past and for what was to come. Bright crimson appeared below her fingertips, mingling with the water and spreading a red film across her skin. More followed, and her tears dried as she scrutinised the area, reaching out for a piece of tissue paper to dry the spot. Her stomach sank as her hope wasn’t realised and, for the second time that day, her heart began to race with fear.
There it was — small and unnoticeable, but a scratch nonetheless. The more she rubbed it, the more the blood flowed. She was almost certain the break wasn’t fresh, but several hours old. She began to panic, and attempted to recall her day’s movements, trying to identify exactly when the tiny but significant tear had occurred. No wound was insignificant now. Every injury had to be documented and treated with the utmost caution.
She couldn’t let them see it. They couldn’t find her like this.
Rushing across the room she threw her belongings to the floor, ripped the duvet from her bed and pulled on her long-sleeved nightshirt, grabbing the material with her fingers so it was held over both wrists. Her mourning was over. If she spared him her thoughts, she’d see him again. He’d be there, waiting for her in the dark gateway that led to death…waiting as she passed him by and began a far worse fate than his.
CHAPTER 2
“Take out their teeth,” Freya demanded, arriving in the skills lab with a sense of determination. She’d focused her mind on the short walk through the dingy, dirt and occasionally blood-smeared hallways of their community; there was no time for hysteria.
“What?”
“Are you sure?
“H
ow do we do that?”
The voices rang out across the room; various sitters manning each station where their ‘tamed’ Frother sat conducting its work.
“I don’t know how,” Freya continued. “Just do it.”
“Where’s Baidlin?”
“Dead. Because of those things. Now do as I say.”
They eyed her suspiciously, and she suspected it was not for the fact they were being ordered around by a seventeen year old, but more her sudden onset of leadership. Even she was slightly alarmed as to where the authority came from.
“And do it one at a time in a different room,” she added. “I don’t want panic spreading. These are the last ones we have, we can’t afford any accidents.”
Freya marched amongst the benches and avoided the stares. She pressed her hands onto the workstation that was fixed to the opposite wall to steady herself, glancing momentarily at the thin red tear on her wrist. She turned back to the room quickly, pulling her sleeve down once again to hide the noticeable mark.
They had eight left; eight pieces of hope. When the end had begun, as rabid Frothers tore across the land leaving little alive, there had been nothing to do but run. Yet, amongst that tide of death, there’d been reason to live. As far as she was aware, any promise of returning the ravaged to their former selves was gone — the disease, the virus, was unrelenting in its control. But, in the process of attempting to find a cure, her uncle had found Pacifier; a drug that eliminated the dead’s lust for flesh and reduced them to walking slaves. Only, it didn’t work…not for any reliable, consistent length of time.
The majority of the dead were useless husks once treated, reverting back to crazed beasts as the drug wore off. However, about 22per cent — by her own statistical findings, no less — retained former skills. Those who’d once been bricklayers, cooks, tailors and gardeners could still be put to work. It took some training to get the expertise to remerge, and it was limited to manual trades; she’d found no computing genius yet, though the current state of the world no longer demanded such skills. To rebuild, they needed workers. And, if she could hone Pacifier down to the perfect drug, they’d have all the labourers they needed.
“Leave that one. I’ll do her myself.”
The last of the eight was being led from the room. The Frother’s sitter looked relieved as Freya took hold of the reins and led the creature to the isolation chamber, taking care to slide the door to a close behind her.
“You really are a disgusting thing,” she mumbled.
She flicked the chain around the Frother’s neck so that it converted into a strengthened baton, before pushing the creature towards the shackles on the wall. There was nothing but a small groan as it stumbled backwards and the wall clamp automatically sprung around its neck. Freya let the chain go slack again, before carefully tying each arm and leg into the bindings.
The thing wasn’t much older than herself, Freya saw, as she stood back and eyed her prisoner with distaste. Once a youthful girl, its skin had become leathery and cracked. The muscle and fat had disintegrated away, leaving an anorexic profile of rubbery sinews and gaunt features. It had hair; thick, wiry and dark that formed a matted cloud of black above her dead eyes.
“I don’t know why we even bother,” Freya said, wrinkling her nose. Even Pacifier couldn’t remove the stench. It was hard to think that the rancid thing before her was capable of causing such terror, such death. Now, constrained in shackles and under the influence of mind-calming drugs, it was nothing but a pathetic laboratory rat.
Freya turned her attention to the bench behind her, casting her eye across the rusty and bloodstained tools. It didn’t matter; there was no fear of infection to these things. Teeth. What would get teeth out? A pair of particularly gruesome pliers lay abandoned towards the end of the bench, the handles clean, but the grooved vices congealed with blood and hair. She picked them up, scrutinising the horror that was plastered across the tool. These would do. These were perfect.
She turned, device in hand, and looked to where her victim was snared against the wall. Those young eyes had been so pretty once, that skin mostly likely unblemished and supple. But no longer. Now, death had overcome the girl inside, had stripped away sentience and compassion. Now, there was nothing more than a loathsome beast reminding Freya of everything and everyone she’d lost.
Stepping forward, Freya snapped open the pliers and pushed them against the Frother’s thin, rubbery lips. Its mouth was open, unaware of what was to come, so she wasted no time in snapping the tool shut and wrenching with all the force she could muster. A gargled scream came from the creature as Freya staggered backwards. Fragments of bone shattered to the floor as the pliers whipped upwards, and Freya looked to see dark, viscous liquid seeping from the creature’s mouth.
Three down.
She sighed heavily at the task in hand. What had her life become?
Stepping back towards her subject, she pushed the pliers forwards. This time, however, the lips remained closed. She probed the skin harshly with the end of the metal but to no avail, the Frother had its mouth clamped shut.
“Hmmmm. Think you can get around me that way, do you?” Freya said, her lip curled, and thoughts of her uncle swimming across her vision. The anger she fought so hard to hide, that she locked away deep inside, began to bubble as if it were molten lava being released from a volcano. It only took moments for it to explode; there was no stopping it now.
“I’ll teach you.”
She dropped the pliers to the floor with a clatter and turned back to the bench. Scalpels, scissors, razorblades; all useful, but not what she wanted. She lifted the claw hammer slowly, allowing the elation to fill her, balancing the tool in her hand and feeling the weight shifting through her fingers. She smiled. The claw had lost its sheen and sharpness; to her benefit.
“You know, we could have done this the easy way,” she said aloud, turning slowly on the spot.
The creature remained silent on the wall, its limbs splayed out like a starfish, its eyes unfocussed, and its body utterly vulnerable to attack. Yet its mouth was firm and determinedly shut; it wasn’t as vacant as it made out to be.
“If you won’t let me have your teeth, I’ll just have to take your jaw,” Freya screamed, allowing her emotions to get the better of her before lunging towards the girl and smashing the hammer down on her face. There was a splintering sound as the blunt weapon met with the leathery skin, before a horrifying moan filled the air. Beneath the flesh something snapped, bone moved, desiccated flesh stretched like thick elastic. She swung the weapon and attacked a second time, unable to tear her eyes away as the creature writhed in its restraints, powerless to escape and unable to attack. She couldn’t stop now, and Freya brought the hammer down time and time again, allowing the rage to overtake her.
They’d done this. These creatures. They’d pay.
The splintering sounds began to subside and the noises turn to squelching as the hammer caught in the skin and tore the thickened hide from its place. Brown, sticky ooze sprayed across the wall and filled Freya’s eyes as the hammer bore down unceasingly upon its victim.
Her family. Her friends. Her uncle. Even those unrelenting bullies. All gone because of this thing.
There was a hand beside her, clawing and pulling, and she wrenched herself away thinking it was the creature’s long, bony fingers. It wasn’t, and soon she was on the floor as her instrument of torture was ripped from her. There were knees on her chest, hands on her neck, and she cried out at her confinement.
“What are you doing?” Mrs Gilbert screamed, “She’s our best seamstress.”
Freya roared in rage, fighting off the hands that dragged her away from her prey. There were too many of them. They gripped, wrangled and snaked their way around her until she was forced to relinquish everything but her screams of hatred for the beast.
It hung there, a shackled menace, twitching and jerking with disgusting animation amidst the gore of treacly body fluids that were spattered across the r
oom. How did it live when her Baidlin was gone? How would she ever learn to accept this horrific new world?
CHAPTER 3
The room seeped into her consciousness gradually — three bright lights in the blurry darkness.
What the hell happened?
Freya squinted, before quickly blinking in an attempt to clear the fogginess from her eyes. She cracked her neck from side to side, instantly feeling the pang of an ache running down her back.
Where am I?
She leant forwards and felt the restriction; the neck brace prevented her from moving more than six inches from where she sat. She flung a hand towards her face, and found they were both restrained to the wall.
“Oh no,” she cried out as the ball of panic inside grew exponentially. She knew where she was now. The three lights, the dark interior, the rusty fixtures on the wall; this was the place people were put to die.
“Help,” Freya screamed as her skin flushed with icy terror. “It’s me, Freya. I’m fine. I’m not hurt. Please, listen to me. Help!”
Her senses were alert now, and she looked towards where her hands were individually strapped into straps on either side of her. They’d neglected to tie her feet, but they weren’t of any aid to her. She’d seen this before, this process. ‘The Chamber’, that’s what they called it. It was the room where the infected transitioned. These walls were the last things they ever saw before human eyes and consciousness were eroded by viral death. It was the first step on the passage to hell.
“HELP!” Freya screamed again, writhing around in the straps in a bid to loosen them. She was unable to prevent the panic rising to her throat, and could do nothing as tears pricked in her eyes.
Why am I here? This was not the place of those temporarily losing control. This was the…
The Z Chronicles Page 17