by Josiah Upton
I had gone through almost every book, newspaper and magazine in the basement, seeing thousands of pictures showing life before The End. Many were of a variety of vehicles. Big ones, small ones – ones with two wheels, four wheels. Different colors, different shapes, different purposes. A dollar sign and a string of numbers attached to them, meaningless.
But I didn't see any of those vehicles when I ventured out of the basement. Just buses and trucks, moving people and things. I asked Gibbs where all the different vehicles were – he simply replied, “They're gone.” Not until today, during Mr. Neal's Reanimate History lesson, did I learn what had happened.
Before The End there was an estimated eight vehicles for every ten people in the country. But during the End War all automotive factories stopped running, people caring more about surviving than making cars. And after that, what little manpower and technology was left went to work rebuilding New America. Transportation became no longer a luxury but a necessity; buses and trucks. Personal vehicles never came back to production.
Occasionally I'll see something out of the ordinary on the road, maybe a black car for official government use. Once I saw a red, sleek machine fly down the street, definitely pre-End. I thought about that car for weeks. I've heard of humans having a thing called a “hobby”, an activity for simple personal enjoyment, and maybe archaic transportation is mine. So when Gordon said he could give me a ride, I couldn't hide my enthusiasm.
“Yeah, I got an ancient heap. Twice as old as me,” he laughs.
“So it's from before The End?” He nods, and I unthinkingly take several steps toward him. My face feels strange and stretched, so I must be smiling. Gordon perceives this as threatening, because he backs up against the front of his house. I tone it down. “Sorry. I just find things like that, uh...”
“Fascinating?” he offers.
“Yes!”
“Me too, kid.” He relaxes his body language, and returns a small smile. “So, I assume you're willing to hitch a ride with me into Pueblo?”
Wait, a forty-five minute ride alone with this man, in a tight space, where his concentration on driving will leave him virtually defenseless? I picture a red sports car crashing into a ditch off the road, Gordon's blood streaked on the windows after I lose control and let the Prisoner out. This might not be a good idea. But what else can I do? All other options end with my makeup washing off in the rain, and then either death or containment. “Yes,” I say reluctantly.
“Well, I suppose we should get inside. I have to leave in just a few minutes.” Gordon turns to his neighbor, a certain amount of irritation returning to his face. I can tell their relationship is strained, at best. “Caesar, I'll see you around.”
“Yeah, sure.” Caesar sniffs his nose and rubs it, walking backward towards the porch steps, “Maybe we can plan a block party or something. Zaul...” He offers a small nod to me before trotting back down the steps and out into the rain. With that I am finally relieved of Mr. Ortega's overbearing presence, but then I remember that I'll see him again in another month. I think next time Gibbs should wheel down to Cañon City and deal with this errand himself.
Gordon steps into my peripheral vision and interrupts my thoughts. “Zaul... that's an interesting name. Sounds like an old French Canadian one. Does your family come from the Far Northeast? Around Quebec?”
I'm not familiar with the region he is talking about, or why the origin of my name matters at all. “I'm originally from Lake Charles, sir.”
“Oh, so it's Cajun, then.” I don't know what he means by that, but I nod my head anyway. Anything to stop his bearded jowls from flapping. He's looking less like a man and more like a meal. Next chance I get, I'll need to take some more Mortetine. “Well, my name is Gordon. Gordon Grest.”
Grest. That disruptive girl in my class, the one that snapped at me for staring at her outside the restrooms – a student said her name was Genny Grest. He extends an open palm for a shake, but I can't because I might crush his hand. After an uncomfortable moment he realizes that I won't return his gesture, and quickly lowers his hand. I try my best to make up for it by smiling. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Grest. Now, why exactly are you going into Pueblo?”
“I have to pick up my daughter Genny. She goes to school out there.”
Chapter 8
I don't give much thought to probabilities. But the chances of running into Genny Grest at school, then getting a ride back home from her father after his neighbor sells me illegal drugs forty miles away, all on the same day – that's just strange. And all those things she said to Mr. Neal, about incomplete and inaccurate history? She must have gotten them from Gordon. That one student claimed Genny's father was a “conspiracy theory nut job”. Why am I only dealing with peculiar individuals today, all of them interconnected? If I have to interact with humans, why can't they be the normal ones?
“Come inside,” Gordon says as he opens his screen door. “I just need to make myself a quick lunch, and then we'll be on our way.”
The mention of lunch causes my stomach to growl, then churn. I'm medicated enough to go inside the house, but I don't think I can survive the entire car ride. After I follow him in and he disappears down a hallway, I pull the Mortetine bag out of the backpack and stash a few pills in my pocket. I'm going to need those later.
“Zaul?” I hear Gordon call from around the corner. “Did you close the door? I don't want the cool air to escape.”
“Yes sir,” I answer back, shutting the large wooden door behind me. The floorboards creak as I step further into the Grest house, which is much cleaner than Caesar's. In fact, it's almost spotless. But with no stench of smoke or garbage hanging in the air, it is that much easier to smell Gordon. I think my nose even detects Genny's scent, confirming that she lives here. The smell brings images to mind, of her blonde hair and dark clothes. Blue eye shadow on her pale face. Tall boots clunking along the linoleum floor.
The trail seems to be stronger by the stairs. I gravitate towards them, eyes looking to the top. Her room must be somewhere up there. How would it feel to be a normal teenager, with a real bedroom to sleep in, instead of a dark cellar? Or eating everyday food, and enjoying it? Learning in school without fear of losing control? Having parents, making friends? I'll never know these things. My Prisoner makes sure I remember this, focusing on Gordon's scent as he moves to the kitchen. As long as there's Rage and Lust and Hunger, I can't possibly enjoy anything. I move away from the stairs, and from thoughts of a life I can't have.
Gordon is humming to himself while he assembles a sandwich, much like the percussive sounds Vicky Womack made earlier today. These humans seem to not endure silence well. “Zaul, would you like something to eat?”
I see the bread and vegetables and containers of pasty liquid on the counter, but no meat to be found. “Thank you, but I'm not hungry.”
“So,” he speaks, still uncomfortable with the silence. “What do you do with your time? Do you go to school, are you employed?”
“School, sir.”
“Oh, really? Where do you go?”
This question poses a big problem. I'm supposed to be at the same school as his daughter this time of day, and yet here I am. Should I lie? No, he might pick her up before dropping me off, and she could recognize me. A strange sensation tickles my brain at that thought, though I don't know what it is. I ignore it and brace myself to tell the truth. “Pueblo High School, sir.”
He stops making his lunch to look up at me. “Pueblo High? That's where my daughter Genny goes to school. Do you know her?”
“No,” I say, back to lying. “I don't really know anybody, I just moved here recently.”
“I see. But why aren't you in class right now? It's the first day of school.”
“Like Caesar said, I was feeling a little sick today. So I didn't go.”
“But if you're sick, you should be at home and in bed. What are you doing all the way out here?”
I'm running out of stories, and patience. Gibbs knows what
I am, so rarely do I have to lie to him. But around all these people – Vicky, Caesar, Gordon – it seems most of what I've said today has been the work of fiction. Maybe with all this acting, I can start a drama club at school. I could be the world's first Hybrid Reanimate performer. I feel a bubble in my throat. Laughter? Maybe. But I stifle it, needing to answer Gordon. “I... I live with my uncle, and he and Mr. Ortega are old friends. He is disabled and has difficulty getting out of the house, so he had me bring something to Caesar for him.”
That's the best I can do. It's vague, and doesn't tie in my supposed human illness at all. And if he asks what this suspiciously ambiguous “something” that I brought to Caesar was, I have nothing to say. Gordon looks blankly at me for a moment, and I fear my weak explanation won't stand up to his scrutiny. But then he goes back to making his sandwich.
“Friends? No offense to your uncle, but I didn't think Caesar was capable of having friends. He's a difficult neighbor to have. Won't take care of his yard, blasts music alone, late at night. He is either drunk or doped up, almost always going on about 'Ugger' this, or 'Sludge' that.” Gordon quickly turns away from the kitchen counter, the knife that he used to spread white paste on his bread aimed my direction. It doesn't look sharp, but I've had enough weapons pointed at me today. My fists clench. “You know, that man can be very crude. You wouldn't believe the things I've heard him say to my daughter.”
“To Genny?” I ask, strangely intrigued by the mention of her. “Things like what?”
Gordon turns back and quickly finishes making his lunch. “Inappropriate things. I'd rather not talk about them.” He throws everything into a small paper bag and folds the top over. “C'mon, we'd better hit the road.”
He stalks out of the kitchen, towards a door under the stairs, not even looking at me. He seems displeased. I don't understand – if a subject offends somebody, then why do they bring it up? Gibbs's speaking may be infrequent, but at least it's reliable and devoid of unpredictable emotion. I never thought I'd miss that, but I'm starting to. I just want to go home, down to my hole in the earth. I follow Gordon, hoping the steps will bring me closer to it.
We go through the door and down a few concrete steps, passing shelves stuffed with canisters and shiny metal objects. There's a strong odor in the air, similar to one I smell when a bus or truck drives by. This must be a garage, which means we are close to his vehicle. A small amount of giddiness overtakes me, and I almost push him out of the way to see what wheeled machine awaits my curious eyes. It isn't the red sports car I envisioned, but a tan, boxy contraption. I am nonetheless very excited.
“Have you ever ridden in anything other than a bus, Zaul?”
A small glimmer of a memory flashes in my mind, of being moved out to Pueblo in the back of a dark truck once, about four years ago. Anything else would be before my Phase II transformation, which of course I cannot recall. “No sir, I haven't.” I move to the rear of the vehicle, where a fifth wheel stands, high off the ground. I try to spin it with my hand, but it doesn't move. Strange. “What type of vehicle is this?”
“A Jeep. I think it was made in 2020, just before The End.”
“2020 – that means it's...”
“Yep,” Gordon replies. “This baby is one hundred and seven years old. My father found it in a car dealership, a place where hundreds of cars once sat, waiting to be bought or driven. He was working for the government, leading a team of scrappers to abandoned cars on old highways and parking lots, salvaging metal and other materials for the rebuilding of the country. Most cars were unworkable after being out in the elements for so many years, but this one was sealed away in a storeroom, never driven. His superior said that if he could make it run again, he could have it. So my father changed the fluids, replaced the tires and worked a new battery onto it.
“No one thought it would actually turn on, but then he turned the key and the engine roared to life. He brought it home, and I was known as 'the kid with the dad with the car'. Everybody in our neighborhood wanted a ride, but my father rarely took it out of the garage. When it needed service, he made me help him, so we were the only two who actually knew what to do under its hood. Just before he died, he gave it to me. And here it is.”
“Do you keep it in the garage most of the time?” I ask, now walking around to the front, running my fingers over the silver letters that read JEEP. I've noticed that not once in the past few minutes have I thought about eating Gordon, but have only eagerly listened to his story. This hobby is proving to be a good distraction from my Prisoner's cries.
“I used to not drive it. I can easily walk to work, and I'll take the bus for anything else.”
“Then what changed?”
“Genny's education. We used to do homeschool, but last year she decided she wanted to be around other kids her age. Cañon City doesn't have a school, and most people who live here are either employed at the Facility, or work where I work. This isn't exactly a family community. Pueblo High is the next closest school, but their buses don't come out this far, and the public lines don't match up with her school schedule. So, I have to drive her to and from every day.
“I think she's starting to regret it, though. She doesn't play well with others...” Gordon closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, groaning. I assume this is another sensitive subject. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking about my daughter like this, especially not to a fellow student. It's just... has anyone told you that you seem older than you are, Zaul? I have a hard time seeing you as your average teenager.”
Me too.
“You know what? Never mind. Forget I ever said anything.” Gordon smiles nervously and shakes his hands in the air. Meaty hands. Moving the discussion away from cars has reminded me of where I am, what I see and what I smell. And soon I'll be trapped in this moving box with Gordon for forty-five minutes. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” I lie. Maybe if he strapped me to the roof for the entire ride, he'd be safe from me.
“Okay, then.” He pulls the keys out from his pocket, metal jangling like Genny's many bracelets, and presses a tiny button on one of them. I hear a click and a beep from within the car, and I jerk with surprise. If my joints weren't so rigid I would probably jump back and knock over some shelves. “Oh, sorry. I always forget that scares people. Here you go.” He opens the door for me, then walks around to the other side.
Before getting in, as slyly as I can, I fish the Mortetine from my pocket and throw them down my throat. I'm not even sure if that will be enough. And then comes the task of sitting in the seat. I ease down, muscles groaning and creaking, until my legs are in and I'm able to close the door. My knees are crushed up against the dashboard – this is very uncomfortable. Gordon gets in and shuts his door, and now I feel smothered by his scent, the heat of his presence. The meds go to work, and I start feeling like I did at Caesar's house. Eyes shut reflexively and fingers grip down hard on my thighs. Maybe I can just block it all out. Think about cars.
“Oh, Zaul – your seatbelt.”
“My what?”
“Yeah, buses don't have those, do they? It's that thing, by your shoulder.”
I look around myself but don't understand what he's describing. “What thing?”
“It's a strap, for safety. You just take it and pull and then...”
“Is it this?”
“No, it's... Aw, hell. Let me do it for you.”
Gordon reaches across me to execute whatever maneuver he tried to explain, and as he does his fat neck is a mere few inches away from my mouth. His temple, the thin barrier keeping my teeth from his brains, is eye-level. The Prisoner urges me to jerk forward and snap, but then the Mortetine comes into full effect. It's horrific. My insides roil and twist violently, and I feel a burning in my throat. I feel absolutely terrible, and I must look like it, too.
“Oh my, you look awful. You weren't kidding about feeling sick, were you?” Gordon laughs as he pats my back. “We'd better get you home, son.”
He turns his
keys, and the Jeep roars to life. Slowly but surely, I recover from my Prisoner's vicious inner assault as we pull out into the rainy street. We drive by the Colorado Territorial Containment Facility, and something nags at my mind. “Mr. Grest, you said you can walk to work, but you don't work at the Facility. What do you do for a living?”
“I'm a doctor.”
“In a hospital?”
“No, not that kind of doctor. I'm more involved with scientific research than care for patients. I'm a biomedical engineer. Cures and treatment, things like that.”
“Oh,” I say, a little lost. I don't know much about this. “Where do you work with a job like that?”
“Right... there.” We slow down at a stop sign, and Gordon points to a large black building across the street from Colorado Territorial. Just then lightning cracks and illuminates the structure. It looks newer, built after The End. But there are no signs indicating what exactly it is, just another tall fence to keep people out. Or in.
“What is it?”
“Government building,” he answers absently, pulling his sandwich out from the brown bag and taking a big bite. Crumbs fall out of his mouth as he speaks. “That's the APA Headquarters.”
Chapter 9
I am trapped in an ancient car, driven by a man working for the Agency of Postmortem Anomalies. I was once a living human, I died, but then I woke up – I am a postmortem anomaly. Of the many training aspects that Gibbs covered, one he drilled intensely was avoiding the APA at all costs. They are the ones seeking out unregistered Hybrids, capturing them and putting them in containment. And if they found out that he was hiding me and training me – letting me out into the public – the penalties for him and my parents who hired him would be more than severe.