by TW Brown
Feeling like the village idiot, I stood and confronted my victim. I had just killed a jack o’ lantern and was now covered in a sticky, squashy mess. As I retrieved the bolt from the ruined vegetable, I took in the rest of the porch, decked out with paper skeletons and strings of bat-shaped lights. The irony of a zombie apocalypse occurring the weekend before Halloween was not lost on me.
Of course, we didn’t call them zombies. Not in public where a Guardian could hear us, not indoors when our residence might be bugged, but we all thought it. The government called them mutations; we called them mutes. They were the result of too many people and not enough work. Instead of creating jobs, the government would offer to pay all your expenses if you signed the necessary paperwork to let them experiment on you. Then, instead of toiling away like the rest of us, you spent your days doing—well, I don’t know what. I’ve never not worked.
But all the experiments had to do was exist, and take whatever drugs or gasses or tests the government foisted upon them. Sometimes, the drugs were good, and idiots became intelligent while bald men grew hair. Some lost hair, like my mom’s friend Lupi did. She had a beard, but after taking government drugs, it fell out. Then her skin turned purple, but a very nice shade.
When the drugs were bad, you got mutes. They didn’t talk, or think, or do anything but eat. They didn’t care if their prey was alive or dead or rotting, they just wanted something to snack on. Every so often, we’d find one gnawing on a chipmunk or pigeon at the edge of the city, then the Guardians would come and collect the poor sap. Not that it mattered, since the mutes were technically dead.
I admit, I have a hard time wrapping my mind around that one. Near as I can understand, the drug kills your body, but due to some mind-body disconnect your body doesn’t know it’s dead. I never knew that my body needed to know if it was alive or not, but I guess so. Who am I to argue with government scientists?
This wave of mutes came at the tail end of the best weekend of my life. I met him Friday night at The Club, the local dive where kids who had just turned legal hung out until they found the nice places. I’d been sitting near the back with my usual crew when he walked in, wearing a plain black hoodie that he somehow made sexy. I’d never seen him before, but I knew the two he was with, and I made a beeline towards the threesome.
“I’m Jesse,” he said, before I could ask either of our mutual friends. “Wanna get out of here?”
I sure did. I can’t even tell you what we did that night other than we were together, talking about everything and nothing. Around midnight we ended up lying on the hood of his car, wrapped in a blanket while we watched the night sky. We spent Saturday and Sunday night the same way; somehow the warmth of Jesse’s arms kept me from caring about my cold, aching joints.
Monday morning rolled around, the gray rain in stark contrast to the beautiful sun we’d enjoyed all weekend. I mentioned that these were the worst days for me, since the constant drizzle would keep my herd of siblings inside and driving me nuts, when Jesse said he would call into work. His mom and sister would be out all day, and we’d be able to curl up on the couch and drink cocoa.
“Won’t you be punished?” I asked. Missing work was a serious offense in the New Republic, with punishments ranging from reduced wages to public humiliation. A few weeks ago, someone I work with left early without getting the proper form signed. The next day, he was flogged in the town square until his back was shredded and dripping red.
I did not want Jesse flogged, not for me or anything.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, flashing me that smile that had won me over from the moment we met. “I get a few sick days.”
“Won’t your pay get docked?”
“S’alright,” he replied. Still, I tried to talk him out of it; I didn’t like the idea of him losing money, or possibly his job, but he hushed me. “Listen, I’ll be fine. I’ve never used a sick day before. I’m not a habitual offender.”
A smile spread across my face. Jesse was using his first sick day ever just to hang out with me, and I don’t think anything could have made me happier. “Well, just this once,” I replied.
We left his car in the community lot. Vehicles weren’t allowed near the residences, not since the bombings orchestrated by the rebellion a few years back. They hadn’t happened near here, but we all bore the brunt of the rebels’ punishments, the least of which was that no personal vehicles were allowed within two miles of a residence. Since I normally walk everywhere (a personal vehicle is something my family just can’t afford) the two mile trek didn’t bother me, but the drizzle steadily increased to a cold rain. By the time we reached Jesse’s house, my fingers were numb and my teeth chattered away in my skull.
“You look like a drowned rat,” observed Jesse’s sister after a quick introduction.
“Manners, pest,” Jesse said as he playfully swatted her shoulder, and their mother apologized. Then they left, sister for school, and mom for work.
“Where does your mom work? In one of the factories?” I asked. Most of the working mothers did factory work since the government aligned the shifts to mirror those of the school. The mill even had a daycare for those with small children.
“Nah, an office,” he replied. “C’mon, I’ll get you something dry to wear.”
And so we trekked soggy footprints across the carpet as Jesse led me to his room. I noticed that his residence was nice, far larger and in better shape than mine. I lived near the border, and while the walls were sound and the roof didn’t leak, that was about all we got. We had a separate kitchen and bathroom, and everything else was crammed into one large room with no closets or windows. Add the constant noise from the neighbors, and you have a recipe for madness.
Jesse’s place, on the other hand, had what appeared to be several bedrooms (An actual room just for sleeping! What luxury!) and the hallway was carpeted. Carpet! He led me to a tiny, well-organized room, which I surmised was his by the black hoodie tossed across the bed. He rummaged around in his closet for a minute, then held out a flannel shirt and sweats.
“I’m okay,” I said as I waved them away. Wearing Jesse’s clothes was a bit too intimate.
“Hey.” He put his hand on the nape of my neck; despite the cold rain his skin was warm and dry. “You’re shivering. Just put them on, okay?” I nodded, and he pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Do you want to take a shower to warm up first?”
At first I thought he was kidding. I was already cold and wet, thus negating my need for a shower…unless they had reliable hot water. Huh. Hot water. Separate bedrooms. With closets. Carpeting.
“You have hot water?” I asked, and he nodded. “Are you rich or something?” I demanded. Not that I have anything against rich people. They just tended to work for the government and be total scumbags.
“Or something,” Jesse replied. “We get this place ‘cause of my old man’s job. He works for the electric company, so he rigged up a hot water heater.”
Electric company. I could accept that explanation, for now, just like I accepted those dry clothes. Jesse grabbed another set of sweats and left to change in the bathroom, instructing me to hang my sodden clothes over the door and meet him in the kitchen. When I did, I found him waist deep in a cabinet.
“About that cocoa,” he said, his voice echoing in the depths of the cabinet. “The cupboard seems to be bare.” He held up a cocoa tin and turned it upside down to prove its emptiness. His head was still behind the door, so he couldn’t see the huge grin on my face. The empty cabinets and lack of cocoa proved he was like me, just a regular citizen trying to scrape by, not a rich boy slumming at The Club.
“But I did find some tea,” he declared as he emerged from the pantry holding the box aloft like a trophy. “You look good in my clothes,” he said as he caught sight of me. The waist on the pants was so large that the drawstring bunched it up like a paper bag, and the shirt came to my knees.
“I look like an elephant,” I corrected. Jesse shook his head as he folded me into
his arms.
“Only I get to see you like this,” he murmured, “which means that this outfit is my favorite.” Then he kissed me, soft and sweet, and I was so not cold anymore. When we parted, he held me a bit away from him, his brown eyes searching my face with such intensity it made me uncomfortable.
“Tea?” I asked lightly.
“Tea it is,” he said, and in no time we were snuggled on the family couch with a ratty old afghan and two steaming mugs of tea. The well-worn furnishings reinforced Jesse’s claim of not being rich, and I let myself relax against him. While he fought with the ancient Picture Vision in his quest for a gladiator movie, I burrowed further under the blanket, feeling so warm and content I was asleep before Jesse found good reception.
When I woke in the unfamiliar room, I stiffened, only my eyes darting about. All children were taught that the government could take you at any time, for any reason, and if you should find yourself in such a situation the best defense was cooperation. Then I saw our empty mugs, and remembered that I was in Jesse’s house. I didn’t fight the yawn as I stretched, trying to work out the crick in my neck. My hair was still damp from the rain, and I remembered Jesse’s offer of a shower. A hot shower.
I got up from the couch and discovered that Jesse wasn’t in the kitchen, so I padded down the hallway to his room. He wasn’t there, either. I also noticed that my clothes were gone, along with Jesse’s jeans and hoodie. Figuring that he was called into work, I headed toward the bathroom, the promise of a steaming shower calling my name.
Imagine my surprise when I found Jesse lounging in a tub of bubbles.
“You are rich!” I shrieked. I tried to storm out, but in an instant, Jesse leapt from the tub and blocked the bathroom door, dripping water and bubbles everywhere.
“Sit and let me talk to you,” he said. I tried to glare at him over my shoulder, but those brown eyes got me again. I sat on the toilet, and Jesse crouched before me, his soapy hands taking mine. “Ask me whatever you want to know.”
“Are you rich?” I asked.
“No,” he replied with a small laugh.
“Then explain this house, these bedrooms, all this hot water!” I demanded, my hands gesturing wildly at the tub. “If you aren’t rich, you must be a—” I stopped, because what he was—what he had to be—was too awful to accuse anyone of.
“Go ahead,” he said softly. “Say it.”
“Guardian,” I finished. “You’re a Guardian.”
“Yeah.” That was all he said, one word to explain how he was a government flunky, how it was his job to round up the undesirables, experiments gone astray, little kids out after dark. A Guardian.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, snatching my hands away. “And what did you do with my clothes?”
“I put them in the dryer,” he explained.
“A special Guardian dryer?” I snapped.
“No. A regular dryer. My dad really works for the electric company.” He rose up on his knees, so his face was level with mine, and tried to nudge my chin towards him. I refused to budge, so he wiggled between the toilet and the wall. “Mina, don’t be like this. I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to get to know the real me, not just assume I’m one of those assholes.”
“You are one of those assholes,” I pointed out.
“No, I’m not.” He tried to tilt my chin towards him again; this time, I let him. “There are lots of Guard-ians. I patrol schools, keep the pervs and mutes away. I’m not allowed to round anybody up. I don’t hurt anyone. Seriously.” He smoothed back my hair, and got suds in my ear. “A lot of Guardians are jerks, that’s true. I only became one for my family.”
“You did?”
“After my mom had my sister, she wasn’t doing too good. We couldn’t afford medical care unless we got on a government plan. My dad was too old, so I signed up.”
That was true; the government offered not only great pay, but medical benefits. You got to see real doctors, not half-baked witch doctors selling snake oil. “How much longer do you have to serve?”
“As long as I want,” he replied. “Someday, I’ll quit.”
“Someday?” He nodded. I could work with someday. “How do I know you mean it?”
“What if I tell you something that almost no one knows? That I’ve never told anyone?”
“Guardian secrets?” I teased.
“Better!” he insisted, grinning at me.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He put his hands on my shoulders and gazed very intently into my eyes. I would have bought the serious act if he hadn’t laughed a bit.
“My middle name,” he began. “It’s James.”
I laughed so hard I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, so hard I knocked my forehead into his. “Jesse James? A Guardian named Jesse James?”
“Later, I’ll show you my cowboy getup,” he said, reminding me that he was naked, wet, and most likely cold. I reached for a towel, but he stayed my hand. “Oh, no,” he admonished, pulling me to my feet. “You’re getting in this tub with me.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
***
When I woke again, it was due to a rumbling noise like a train or garbage truck. I figured that Jesse had left the Picture Vision on, but hey, since his dad worked for the electric company I bet they got all sorts of free usage.
“Turn it off,” I mumbled against Jesse’s neck. He murmured that there was nothing to turn off, then the very walls shook. Jesse’s eyes snapped open and he leaned over me and yanked up the window shade.
“We’ve gotta get outta here,” he said as he pulled me out of bed. He disappeared through the bedroom door, but quickly returned with an armload of our clothes, still warm from the dryer.
“What’s going on?” I asked. I deliberately didn’t look toward the window; usually, when someone told you to get going in the New Republic, you got gone first, and asked questions later. If you lived, that is.
“Just get dressed,” Jesse mumbled as he laced up his left boot. He grabbed for the other, but I grabbed his arm. Finally he looked at me. “I’ll talk, but we need to leave. Serious.”
I nodded as I perched on the edge of his bed and pulled my shirt over my head. He finished dressing and plunged into his closet, rummaging around until he located two flak jackets and a duffle bag.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me. Something exploded, and the residence shook again, and bits of plaster fell from the ceiling. Jesse pushed me to the floor and lay on top of me, shielding me from the debris. When the rumbling ended, he rolled to his feet, taking me with him as he broke into a run.
“There’s a pack of mutes headed this way,” he panted. “The rumbling is from Guardians attacking them.” I’d seen those attacks in the past; lots of explosions and flying body parts.
“Where are we going?” Jesse threw open a door, and we ran down a dark staircase.
“There’s a tunnel that’ll take you to the other side of the city,” he said when we reached the dirt floor. “You shoot?”
“Arrows,” I replied. Everyone in the New Republic shot something, or you’d starve and get robbed. Jesse opened a tall, metal cabinet and grabbed a crossbow, then thrust it and a satchel of bolts at me. He started throwing items into each duffel bag; rations, bottled water, wool socks…
“Wouldn’t one bag be easier to carry?” I asked.
“I have to get to base,” he replied, refusing to look at me. I didn’t say anything, but then I didn’t need to; my silence told him how I felt. He was leaving me.
When the bag was packed, he shoved it at me. I didn’t take it, so he let it fall to the ground and folded me into his arms.
“Mina,” he murmured against my neck. “Mina, Mina, Mina, I have to get to base. Otherwise, they’ll call me a deserter.”
“I know,” I said. My throat burned, my voice was ragged, but I would not cry. Not now.
“The tunnel lets out by the market,” he said. “We’ll
put down these creeps and I’ll come get you. Wait for me by the square.”
“You’ll come?” I asked.
“I promise.”
***
I did what Jesse asked and followed the tunnel; but when I emerged, I didn’t see the market or the square. The commercial district was overrun with mutes, not the occasional harmless lurkers near the boundary. No, these were angry, dangerous creatures. They must have ransacked all the food stalls in the market and moved on to still-living snacks. Half-eaten squirrels, birds—was that a horse?—were scattered across the cobbled surface.
The carnage was amazing. Complete. I had been to the market yesterday and it was full of people, full of life. Now, it was still full of people, but they were all dead.
My eyes couldn’t look away, and they swept over the familiar stalls. There was the soup man; just yesterday, Jesse had bought a weak, flavorless broth from him. His soup was horrible, but he was a nice man, told lots of stories about the war, always careful to paint the New Republic as the rightful victors. I think I could see his gnawed off leg poking out from beside the tureens.
The mutes noticed me and I was jolted out of my reverie. I didn’t have time to arm the crossbow, so I threw a rock, then a clod of dirt. Well, this just told the rest where their next meal was, and more mutes than I thought existed came at me. The government claimed that they only experimented on ten, maybe twelve at a time, so if they all mutated they could easily control them. There had to be at least twenty dead bodies dragging themselves toward me now, and was that—
The soup man!
He was one of the mutes!
Cold, clammy sweat broke out across my neck and chest as I ran. I’d heard the rumor, that the government had a new drug that made the mutations not only likely, but contagious. The prevailing gossip was that they could use it as biological warfare: infect one member of the rebellion, and he infects the rest. Then, sit back and wait for them to eat each other. It was brilliant. Diabolical.