by Josiah Upton
“You spoke with Gibbs on the phone?” I ask. Caesar nods. “So, you know why I'm here, right?”
“Relax, man. We'll get to that. I like to chill for a while before getting down to business.” There's a goofy grin on his face, the first smile I've seen on him. And I don't understand what he means by chill. “C'mon, let's have a seat.”
I don't want to have a seat. I want to leave. But I follow him anyway, down the dirty hall and into the living room, trying to act naturally and keeping an image of that question in my mind: Who are you? “Zaul Jarreux, human,” I mumble quietly.
“You say something?” He looks at me over his shoulder, but still walks and manages not to trip over the many obstacles in his way. I shake my head.
We end up in a dark living room, windows covered with heavy sheets and a light overhead with only one working bulb. Caesar plops down on a discolored couch, and motions to the one across from it. Separating the two is a coffee table, and the contents on top of it are astounding: a virtual mountain of unlabeled bottles and plastic bags, each containing pills and tablets of different colors and sizes. As I sit on the grimy couch across from him, he knocks a few containers off of the table until he finds a small bowl, where he rests his lit paper. “So, Zaul – what do you do, man?”
“Excuse me?”
“For work,” he sighs, somewhat annoyed. “For an occupation. What do you do, man?”
“Oh – you mean a job. I don't have one, I'm a student.”
“College?”
“No, high school.”
“Wait...” Caesar sits up, disbelief on his face. “You're just a kid? Gibbs sent a kid?”
“Well, I'm seventeen. And I'm...” I don't know if Gibbs told him he was my fictitious uncle or not. Better keep that to myself. “I'm just doing him a favor. I've known him for a while.”
Caesar continues to stare, appraisingly and suspiciously. It makes me uncomfortable. I don't want to talk about it, but I need to take the focus off me and put it on him. “What about you? Gibbs said you work down at the Facility.”
“That's right.” He settles back down into the filthy cushions. “I'm the Containment Captain, charged with the care of all those freaks. Making sure they eat and have a place to sleep. Makes me sick.”
I'm not feeling so well, either. Caesar – a man living alone in a rundown house, selling drugs and fantasizing about Reanimate genocide – is Colorado Territorial's Containment Captain. How does something like this happen? And how is he treating individuals like me? What is he doing to them when no one is looking, and what is he getting away with when they are? I have no illusions about what I am. I know I am a monster, and so are others like me. But this reality doesn't seem right. For perhaps the first time, I feel the need to defend my condition. Maybe I'll do that by tearing out Caesar's...
Flash.
“Did you know the APA requires a mandatory rehabilitation program for Uggers in containment?”
Uggers – I haven't heard that one yet.
“Can you believe it? The government using your tax dollars to develop 'fine motor skills' for the Sons. Damn ridiculous.” Caesar shakes his head and inhales more smoke from his lit paper. “I will admit, however, that recreation hour can be pretty entertaining for me and my guys. Watch an Ugger try to play Bingo or dodgeball and you'll piss yourself laughing. The few that can actually understand are so competitive they almost kill each other. Maybe if we would just let 'em, we'd be rid of the Sludge by now. Guess I would be out of a job, though, huh?”
As he starts to laugh I almost pass out from the Mortetine's assault on my Prisoner. Is it because I've taken too much, or is it from having to work overtime in response to everything that Caesar is saying? It's so effective that I can't even function. I feel like I'm about to melt into the couch, joining who knows what other substances are hiding in the cushions. I start to drift in time, and tune out as Caesar continues his tirade, his hateful words turning into mush before they reach my ears. How long am I going to feel like this? Forever?
“Zaul!” My name brings me back, Caesar shouting it as he snaps his fingers. He's looking hard at me, appearing almost worried. “I'm losing you, man. You alright? You on something? You're starting to look like an OD'd Ugger.”
O-deed? Is that bad? It doesn't sound good, especially when he's comparing me to a Hybrid Reanimate. And he should know how one acts and looks like, he works with them everyday. What the hell was Gibbs thinking? I need to get the meds and get the hell out of here, before Caesar starts putting the clues together, and before I die from an overdose...
Overdose. OD. Yeah, I need to leave.
“I'm not feeling well. I think I'm sick.” Those are the words I try to say, and I think they come out well enough for him to understand, but my speech is falling apart. In more time, who knows what other functions I'll start to lose. “I think I should get going.”
“Alright. I understand, man – don't want you to vomit on my couch or anything.” He extinguishes the burning paper and stands up, but stoops and starts rummaging through the containers on the coffee table. “Let me get you your stuff, and you'll be on your way. It was Mortetine, right? Four hundred?”
Pills, Mortetine – I feel like I never want to hear those words again. But I'll have to down four hundred of those over the next month, just to survive around all that moving and breathing meat. My stomach heaves. “Yes,” I say, my knees buckling as I try to stand, and I pull the folded paper currency out of my pocket. I've never had to pay for anything so I don't know money's worth, but it seems like a lot is there. “How much do I owe you?”
“Five large.”
“Uh...” I fold the bills over in my hand, but don't see any with the word “large” on them.
Caesar sighs. “That means five thousand dollars, kid.”
“Oh, right.” The way he talks makes almost no sense to me. I count out the cash and hand it to him, then hold out my hand for the plastic bag of pills that he holds in his. He almost gives it to me, but stops just before it reaches my fingers. Frustration, Rage, flash. It seems like this nightmare will never end.
“Four hundred is a lot of Mortetine, and Gibbs says you'll be back next month for another four hundred. Was there an explosion of new business in Pueblo that I haven't heard of, or what? I didn't think there were that many users out there.”
“I don't think I understand...”
“Have you ever tried this stuff? Just one will have you floating on clouds for hours. It might take two, if you're a heavy user.” Caesar pulls the bag closer to his chest and walks slowly around the coffee table towards me. My body tightens, my undead heart thudding rapidly. His face stops just one foot away from mine, the scent of his skin invading my nose. The trash, the mildew, the linger of his extinguished smoke – it's all gone. All I can smell is him now. “Surely this isn't for just a few local junkies. So tell me, what is Gibbs planning to do with so much Mortetine?”
I know exactly what the plan is. It's all for me. Chemicals to pump into my system, to feed the illusion that I'm just like everyone else. That I'm not the same as what that thing in the picture was, just before a bullet was lodged in its brain. It's all part of the lie that I don't know whether I can continue to preserve or not, especially around people like Caesar. And if he's figured out the truth about this transaction – that the drugs are for me and I'm one of the very things that he so obviously abhors – then it's all over. Soon it will be either my blood or his on the furniture and on the floor. Maybe in my mouth.
I wasn't ready for this. I feel like I've only just learned how to swim, and now I'm thrown in with the sharks. I hate Gibbs for this. And I hate my invisible parents for commissioning his care over me. I hate Caesar, my Prisoner, myself. The Rage grows deeper and fuller, and the flashes are smaller and fewer. If he makes one more move towards me, I don't think I can hold back any longer.
Caesar smiles, and pushes the bag onto my chest. “He's planning to go big time, isn't he? Starting his own operation? If
he's moving up in the business, tell him I'm interested. I have the supply, he has the demand. We could make a lot of green together. Okay?”
For as much hateful thought and attention that he gives to Hybrid Reanimates, I'm surprised Caesar doesn't make a connection between them and the large quantity of Mortetine I'm buying. He thinks it's all about addicted humans and new money opportunities and illegal drug empires. A slight relief to me. But it also makes me wonder, what Gibbs was doing before taking me into his care. Or, what else he could be doing now. “Yes, I'll let him know.”
“Awesome.” He takes a step back, and holds a clenched fist up toward me at stomach-level. I don't know what that means. I do the same, and he lightly slams the bottom of his fist on top of my closed hand, then hits it from underneath, then bumps his knuckles against mine. Very strange. “I'll see you next month.”
While I follow him to the front door I take one last look at his decorated wall, at all the images and words. They are the same as before, except now the Mortetine's power is diminished. This man would kill me without thinking twice. Why should I give him that chance in the future? A sense, some sort of primal precognition urges me to eliminate this threat now. My eyes track the back of his head, a few beads of sweat dripping down his neck. My teeth could easily puncture the skin, and tear out a large chunk of flesh. It would be fast, he wouldn't even know what happened.
Caesar opens the door with one hand, but I notice that the gun is back in his other. Did his body sense a threat as well? Or does he always equip himself when going to the front entrance? If the Mortetine is losing its ability to control my urges, the possibility of a bullet gets the job done. Maybe my Prisoner isn't as unreasoning as I thought – his desire to survive must override all others. Caesar gets to live another day, and I am still Zaul Jarreux, a normal human.
“You say something?”
“No,” I blurt, meeting him at the doorway. “Thank you for seeing me today.”
“Pleasure is all mine.”
I make to walk out the door, anxious to be free of these closed quarters, but I sense something terrifying. Though it's the middle of the day, the outside seems darker than Caesar's living room. Wind rushes in through the house's entrance, and on it is the scent of moisture. Just then a loud crack tears through the sky, my fists clenching so hard in response that they might crush themselves.
“Oh, Zaul, I hope you brought an umbrella, man.”
Chapter 7
Rain is pouring down from the sky, onto the grass and street and rooftops, making everything wet. I go out there, and my makeup will be ruined. My disguise will wash away. If the drug-dealing, Hybrid-hating Containment Captain standing behind me doesn't notice, people at the only bus stop in Cañon City will. A bus stop located just outside the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility. But if I stay here, there's a high likelihood of me losing control, killing and eating Caesar. Could I sneak some more Mortetine into my mouth and endure him until the rain stops? No, he's watching me intently. Probably wondering why I haven't left yet. Gun still in hand.
“Well?” he says, gesturing his arm out the door. “Are you gonna leave?”
“I don't like the rain.” It's all I can say, and it's the truth, though I can't explain to him my aversion.
Caesar chuffs. “What? You think you're going to melt or something? It's just water, you baby! Get your ass out there!” His gun raises slightly, not exactly trained on me, but it's pointed more in my direction. I can't stall much longer.
“Do you have an extra umbrella I can borrow?” The gun raises a little higher, Caesar's face gets a little tighter. “I – I just got over a nasty cold. I don't want to catch another.” I don't think I've ever suffered a cold. Not sure if my condition would even allow one. But it's what I offer, and I hope he takes it. This is my final attempt.
“No, I don't have one you can borrow. But...” He tucks his gun into his pants and under his shirt, opens the screen door and looks out over his porch. “Maybe Gordy has one. Come on.”
Gordy – I don't know a Gordy. It sounds like a name, which means it's attached to a person. Someone else to get tangled with in what I believe is the worst day of my second life. I might not survive any more of this on my own. As Caesar walks out into the rain I quickly open the plastic bag and snatch three pills, cramming them in my mouth. Caesar looks back at me just as the bag is resealed and thrown into my backpack. “It's just the next house over, let's go!”
Next door, a well maintained house sits in contrast to a street full of dilapidated dwellings. I can make it that far. I grab an old but dry newspaper off the porch to protect my head and neck for the journey, and chase Caesar down the path he makes across the yards. I'm not very coordinated, so I hope I don't trip and land my face in the soggy grass. I march up the steps and stand off to the side of the porch, while Caesar bangs on the screen door. “Yo, Gordy!”
There's no response. Caesar bangs and calls out again, just as the door is answered by an unseen individual. “What? What is it?” hisses a voice from behind the screen door, presumably belonging to this 'Gordy'.
“Need to borrow an umbrella,” Caesar demands. A moment of silence passes, rather lengthy, making me wonder if this man will ever answer. I look up and down the street – these two houses appear to be the only ones occupied, but he has his right by Caesar's. What a horrible nextdoor neighbor to have.
The man finally speaks. “Are you high again, son?”
“Hey, don't call me 'son'!” barks Caesar, finger pointed into the house. “I'm just about as old as you, Gordy.”
“Well, you don't act like it. And don't call me Gordy.”
Caesar plants his hands on his hips and takes a few steps away and down the porch stairs, shaking his head as he looks up into the rain, angrily kicking at a puddle. He has such a short fuse. If he had been infected with the Hubrens as a child, what kind of Hybrid Reanimate would he be? Probably a very dumb one, but also an incredibly violent one. He pivots and comes back to the door, this time with a slight increase in courtesy. “Gordon, may I borrow an extra umbrella, please?”
“Caesar,” Gordon chuckles dryly, “you're already soaking wet. What do you need an umbrella for?”
“It's not for me. It's for my friend.” I cringe at the word friend, but I also feel the Mortetine relax me again. Caesar points over to where I'm standing, Gordon opens the screen door and pokes his head out to look at me. I realize I'm still holding the newspaper over my head, so I drop it and shake the rain off my hands. Gordon is middle-aged as well, with a balding head and dark beard. As I'm sizing him up he's doing the same to me, and I can tell he doesn't like what he sees. He pulls his head back inside the house and lets the screen door shut.
“I don't know him. Why should I let him borrow anything?”
“Because it's raining and he has to wait at the bus stop for a ride to Pueblo. You don't want him to catch a cold, do you?”
Gordon sighs and opens the screen door again, stepping out onto the porch. He's slightly overweight, and he waves his arms around in the air when he talks. He has meaty arms. “No, I don't want him to catch a cold. That's actually a misconception, anyway. But what the two of you have failed to realize is that bus lines between here and Pueblo only run every two hours. He'll have to sit in the rain for another...” He checks the watch attached to his plump forearm. “Hour and thirteen minutes. It might be best if he waits at your place. The rain will probably stop by then.”
“Uh-uh, no way.” Caesar shoots a livid glare my direction, as if I had known this all along but intentionally decided to show up at his house and ruin his day. But I had no idea. I feel unbelievably stupid for not knowing this, and then unbelievably angry at Gibbs for not foreseeing this problem. Just one more thing to scream at him about – if I ever make it home. “This dude is not staying at my place. I gotta be at work soon.”
The illusion that I am Caesar's “friend” is quickly fading. If Gordon knows about the illegal activities he's into, he might see
me as a user who just bought some drugs. The chances of him helping me are slim. I can tell this by the look on his face – his very beefy face...
My stomach turns and I brace myself on the porch railing. “You okay, kid?” Gordon calls out. I nod my head and hold up a hand behind me.
“He's feeling kind of sick,” Caesar explains, again taking up his transparent ruse as a decent human being. “You think you could just let him stay here, until his bus comes?”
I slowly rotate to face Gordon. His arms are crossed and he is looking at me discerningly, like I imagine a father would his son. Wondering whether to trust this youth, or to deny the request made on his behalf. In reality no one should trust me, but I hold out hope that he will, and that I can make it home to see the end of this miserable day, which is one of many in this miserable life.
“No,” he says bluntly. “I have to leave somewhere soon. But, if you're willing, I could give you a ride to Pueblo. That's actually where I'm headed, believe it or not.”
“A ride?” I ask, confused, then excited. “You mean, you have your own vehicle?”
From the time I first arrived in Pueblo until this last spring, I was completely confined in the basement. For years all I saw were concrete walls, wooden stairs, and the limited view of Gibbs's kitchen and living room from behind my steel barrier. But when Gibbs finally let me outside for training exercises, I saw things that I had only learned to read about in books. Things from the days before my transformation, but that I couldn't remember. It was all new to me.
The first day Gibbs took me out for a walk – much like an owner would his dog – I stepped onto a river of concrete, and was almost pulverized by a giant mass moving at high speeds. I saw more and more of these vehicles as I accustomed myself to walking down the street, but almost all of them fell into just two categories: trucks for transporting things, and buses for transporting people.