Sons of Sludge (Postmortem Anomalies Book 1)

by Josiah Upton

  And then he sends me on a solo drug deal, right next to their headquarters. Aren't I supposed to be the one lacking common sense?

  I look over at Gordon, and he's not what I would expect of an APA agent. I imagined a tall and slender man in a dark suit, but he's wearing tan shorts and a colorful button-up shirt. Clumsily eating his sandwich as he hums and checks for oncoming traffic. Is this really the kind of man that I should fear? All he said was that he worked on scientific research, cures and treatment. He mentioned nothing about Hybrid Reanimates, much less catching them or killing them. Maybe the words “APA Headquarters” caused an uncontrolled panic in me. Perhaps not everybody working for this agency is out to get me.

  But I still can't let my guard down. I keep my fingers close to the door handle, in case this goes bad and I need to bolt. Not that I could run anywhere fast enough, though.

  “The APA Headquarters.” My throat constricts as I say the words.

  “That's right,” he mumbles with his mouth full of food.

  “So do you deal with those...” I almost give the proper name for what I am, but I shouldn't seem too knowledgeable. “...those undead monster things?”

  “No, that's another department entirely. There's three parts to the APA, also known as the Three C's: Cure, Collar and Containment. The Collars are out in the field, investigating and tracking and seizing. Those working in Containment are at the facilities, people like Caesar.” His name is said with a certain amount of disgust.

  And while I could have guessed that the containment facility works closely with the government, I was unaware that they were actually an extension of the agency, making Caesar a direct employee of the APA. This, in addition to everything else wrong with that psychotic man, equals out to someone I should definitely not have encountered. One more strike against Gibbs.

  “What's left is my department, the Cure,” Gordon continues. “Most of my time is spent in labs, conducting research and running tests. And Zaul, those 'undead monster things' are called Hybrid Reanimates.”

  “Yes, of course. Hybrid Reanimates.” I wonder why he corrected me with the appropriate name. If it were Caesar he'd insist that I call them Uggers. But my mind focuses on the title of Gordon's department, the Cure. Could such a hope exist to reverse my morbid condition? “So you're trying to find a cure for Hybrid Reanimates?”

  “No – well, yes. Sort of.” That doesn't sound very reassuring. Maybe a positive outlook for my life would be asking too much. There's probably no such thing as a happy ending for beasts like me. I look back out the window, at a large truck in the next lane, as Gordon continues. “My area of research is more focused on the first phase of the Hybrid Reanimate process, which is the Hubrens Virus. Do you know what that is?”

  Of course I do, it's what turned me into this monster. But would the average teenager know about it? They must, it's a key element in Reanimate History, which is a part of the mandatory National Curriculum that Mr. Neal spoke of. “Yes,” I respond, watching the tires of the truck next to us spin on the wet road, my eyes mesmerized by their rotations.

  “During the first phase, children infected with the Hubrens aren't technically Hybrid Reanimates, or at least not yet. And neither are adults with the virus, if they were infected after puberty. All the genetic samples that I use in my research come from humans.”

  “And so the APA thinks a cure exists for the Hubrens?”

  “Good question, kid.” Gordon rummages through his paper bag until he pulls out an apple, and sinks his teeth into its skin, drops of juice falling on his leg. “Funding for my department has been cut so drastically that I wonder that myself. It used to be a priority, back when we were based in Atlanta, where I started working for the agency. But then those geniuses in Congress moved us out to Cañon City, and shrank the research budget while almost doubling Collar's and Containment's. Faith in a cure for the Hubrens Virus has become something of a pipe dream.”

  “Pipe dream?”

  “An unrealistic hope,” he explains. “Most people think the search for a cure is just a big joke.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Gordon clears his throat, adjusting his rear-view mirror to look for vehicles that aren't behind him. The truck passed us some time ago. “There's a lot of things that I think, but that's not what the government pays me for.”

  The Jeep falls silent, the only sounds being the rain as it falls on the car and the occasional bite Gordon takes from his apple. If the opinions that he holds are so unpopular that he won't even discuss them with a teenager, how are they viewed by the people at his work? Even word of these radical ideas has trickled down into his daughter's school, a student calling him a conspiracy theorist.

  The National Curriculum presented to the youth of this generation has been regarded as truth since their early childhood, but I've only learned of it today, so my mind isn't conditioned to take it without questioning. It makes me curious what Gordon and his daughter believe. If it is reality, or if it's just misguided and misinformed, as Mr. Neal declared.

  But why should I care? How will any of it change anything? Whatever did happen one hundred years ago, I'm still the loathsome horror that I am today. And even if a cure for the Hubrens Virus was found, that window for me closed over four years ago. The only amount of normalcy to be achieved is through a life of illusion and deception, with makeup and medication. And one way to preserve the facade is through ordinary human behavior, such as more pointless small talk.

  “I didn't see a Mrs. Grest in your house. Does Genny's mother work too?”

  Gordon takes one last bite off his apple, then rolls down the window and throws the core out onto the wet road, heavy wind rushing into the Jeep, threatening to blow the wig off my bald, gray head. The window rolls back up and Gordon checks the rear-view mirror again. Still no car in sight. “She doesn't work, Zaul. She's dead.”

  I doubt this is considered small talk. I resolve to keep my mouth shut until we will arrive in Pueblo, when I can escape into my basement and be done with all of this.

  My sight goes back out the wet window, to a glazed vision of sparsely vegetated land as it rolls up and down in elevation. The rhythm of the raindrops, the low rumble of thunder in the distance – I find it hypnotic. I realize that my Prisoner isn't snarling at me, demanding me to devour Gordon. Maybe it is the Mortetine, or the calming weather outside the Jeep, that has quieted him somehow. As if he is taking a nap. In fact, I feel so relaxed that I lean my head against my seat and drift off.

  Chapter 10

  I awake to sharp eyes piercing mine. A girl is standing in the sun, glaring at me through the Jeep window with arms crossed as the wind blows blonde hair over her face. Her silent presence is so cold that it chills me on this warm day. She definitely remembers who I am, as I remember who she is. Genny.

  “Zaul,” Gordon says quietly, his large hand shaking my shoulder to rouse me. “This car only has two doors. You'll need to get out, so Genny can get in.”

  I hear him, but my sight is locked on her. I can't move, I'm frozen. In a way, I'm afraid to open the door to her. Why should I fear a human girl, one as small as this? Is it because she knows that I am to be feared, and yet she does not fear me? No, that can't be possible. If she really knew what I was, she couldn't look at me like that, with an unflinching intensity. She would scream at her father to get out of the car before I eat him. The more likely possibility is that she hates everyone and everything. After all, Gordon said that she didn't play well with others.

  And how well will she play with me right now? Will she tell her father that she saw me in school earlier today, effectively uncovering the lie I told him? If I wasn't honest about that, he might wonder what else I've said is truth or fiction. Maybe he'll question Caesar's relationship with my supposed uncle, and what exactly I was doing in Cañon City. And if he starts to put together the pieces that Mr. Ortega couldn't, then it's just one short call to the Collars at the agency he works for, and it's all over. My entire c
over might be at this human girl's mercy.

  I'm taking too long to open the door, so she uncrosses her arms and does it for me. “Whoever you are, you're sitting in my seat.” Well, at least she's pretending not to recognize me. Rage rises, but followed only by a small flash. The Mortetine in my system is running dangerously low, I must have slept most of it off. But there's no way to take any more pills, my backpack is behind my seat and I have a Grest on either side of me.

  “Genny!” Gordon chastises. “What's the matter with you?!”

  She momentarily takes her icy stare off of me to acknowledge her father. “Dad, it's hot out here, it's been a long day and I want to go home. The guy not removing his ass from my seat is keeping me from resolving these issues.”

  Gordon must have a little natural rage rising in himself, because his teeth clench and his eyes squint. I predict a father-daughter confrontation. “Excuse us for a moment, Zaul.” He hastily unbuckles his safety strap and exits the Jeep, stalking around the back to where Genny stands. He shuts my door, in an attempt to keep the conversation private, and then leads his daughter a few feet away from the car. I hear the rise and fall of muffled voices as the two argue, only comprehending broken portions of the exchange. He's upset by the way she's acting, and she mentions something about what Mr. Neal said in History class. I just wish they would hurry their quarrel along, so he can drive me down the street...

  My house, it's just down the street. I walked there from school earlier this morning, I could do it now. The ground is dry and the skies are clear, no threat of rain washing my makeup off. Freedom, from Caesar and Gordon and his daughter and everything else on this miserable day, is just a couple blocks away. I open the door and crane my neck out to face the Grests. “Sir? My house isn't far from here, I could walk...”

  “Nonsense, Zaul. I will drive you. Just stay in the car.” He shuts my door again and turns back to his daughter. In the mirror I can see them both alternate between finger pointing and arm crossing and head shaking and eye rolling and the placing of hands on hips. It's like a bizarre dance to music that isn't there. My knee-jerk reaction to an intense disagreement would involve violence, not bitter words or animated body language. I find the act of verbal confrontation among humans to be very strange.

  Another minute goes by and the voices get quieter. Is a resolution at hand? Yes, they're walking back to the car. Genny opens the driver door and pulls the seat forward, climbing into the back of the Jeep. Gordon follows, sitting next to me as he closes the door. I can smell both of them now, their trapped scents mingling in the closed air. My Prisoner is keenly aware of this, and starts to make some noise. I wonder how on Earth I survived the entire drive out here.

  Gordon looks at his daughter in the rear-view mirror. “Genny?”

  She sighs heavily, and speaks as if reading from a book. “I'm sorry for being so rude to you. It was very impolite.”

  “And?” Gordon questions, eyebrows raised.

  “And...” Genny adds, sighing again. “My name is Genny Grest. It's nice to meet you.”

  She obviously didn't mean it, so why did she say it? I guess I'm not the only one capable of acting. I'm forced to mask my condition, while others must sometimes mask their anger, their contempt. I return the sentiment in kind. “I am Zaul Jarreux, a... uh, it's nice to meet you, too.” And with that Genny and I share a lie together, a lie to Gordon that we've never met before this moment. I'm not used to sharing things.

  And I'm still not sure why she's pretending not to know me. Genny would have nothing to lose if she told her father of my presence in school. Unless, she failed to mention her visit to the principal's office during their roadside dispute, which I am knowledgeable of. We each have leverage over the other, so an unconscious yet mutual agreement was made to appear ignorant of today's suspicious events in the eyes of her father.

  But a small part inside, one unrelated to my Prisoner, thinks that maybe she just forgot about me. Doesn't recognize me. I don't like the feeling this thought gives me, but I can't describe exactly what it is, either. I've been isolated for so much of my undead life that I can't map out the spectrum of Hybrid Reanimate emotion, if there is such a thing. Most of everything I experience falls into three categories: Rage, Lust and Hunger. All else is usually snuffed out by them before it can develop. And that's what is happening now, as the scents of the small Grest family invade my nose again. Gordon's chubby hands better make this car move before I chew them off.

  “Now that that's settled, we're going to swing by Zaul's house to drop him off, and then we'll go home.” Gordon moves his focus from the mirror to myself, his wide eyes peering at me. I've heard that eyes are the window to the soul, but my Prisoner sees them as the appetizer just before the juicy main course. I can't look at Gordon anymore. “Where do you live, son?”

  “Go straight, take the second left.”

  The Jeep rolls forward, past the school, past students looking out their bus windows at this rare sight. Her father owning a personal vehicle must only reinforce their rumors that Genny is different, odd. I don't know if she resents this strangeness, or embraces it. There's a lot I don't know about her, and I'm confused as to why I even care. I feel like every tiny move I make is being watched and analyzed by her in the backseat. I wonder if she notices the strangeness in me, too.

  “Did you know that Zaul goes to school here as well?” Gordon asks over his shoulder.

  “No,” Genny says bluntly, followed by a stretch of silence. It seems like she doesn't care. That indescribable feeling that I don't like comes back. “What were you doing in Cañon City?”

  She asked me a question, one not cued by her father, purely out of her own curiosity. She wants to know something about me. More things move around inside myself that I can't put names to. But her question requires an answer, and I find myself unable to respond. The words are choked and won't come out of my mouth, like during my first years as a Hybrid Reanimate. I feel... I don't know. Something like discomfort. Gordon notices my speechlessness, and answers for me. “His uncle is old friends with Mr. Ortega, and he was delivering something for him. Which way now, Zaul?”

  “Caesar?” Genny questions before I can speak. “That guy's a pig.”

  “Don't be rude!” retorts Gordon, his eyes set sternly into the rear-view mirror.

  “Well, he is!”

  “Left at this street,” I say quietly, and Gordon turns the steering wheel sharply. My body jerks to the right, and my forehead slams against the window. Gibbs said that my pain receptors are less sensitive than a normal human, so I must have hit it pretty hard, because my head throbs with a dull ache. I feel a spike of Rage come up, but it quickly gives way to horror as my eyes notice something: a large smudge of makeup on the glass. If the color is there it means that it's missing from my skin. My disguise has been compromised.

  Gordon is distracted with driving so I don't think he sees it. But does Genny? I can't look at her, that would reveal the ashy gray patch on my forehead. All I can do is frantically rub the makeup off the window with my sleeve, and under no circumstances turn to face anyone in the car. I see my house just up ahead, my sweet deliverance from this nightmare. Will I make it? If there are any more delays, I just might lose control. “Is your house on this street, Zaul?”

  “Yes,” I groan through gritted teeth. “3218.”

  “Which one?”

  “HERE!”

  Gordon slams on the brakes, and the silence that follows my ferocious roar is only filled with the Jeep's idling engine. I can feel their stares on me, but I don't meet them. I never want to see another human again. I never want to ride in a car or bus or any other vehicle. I don't ever want to leave my basement.

  Creatures like me weren't meant to walk among the living, except only to rape and kill and eat them. In fact, I don't think my kind, a bastard breed of the undead and the living, was ever meant to be – anywhere or at anytime. I'm supposed to have above average intelligence and restraint for a Hybrid Reanimate
, and with years of training even I barely made it through all of this. Maybe Caesar is right, maybe the the world should purge the Sludge.

  “I'm going to go home now,” I mumble to Gordon between heavy breaths, still turned away. “Thank you.”

  “Yeah... I mean, sure thing, son. Glad to help. You just go inside and get some rest, okay?”

  “Yeah.” I swing my door open and move to exit, but something stops me. From the corner of my eye I see a small, pale hand on my shoulder. It belongs to Genny. The girl that seems to hate everyone and everything so much is touching me.

  “Zaul, your bag,” she says softly.

  The backpack, the Mortetine inside – I don't want it. I've done enough acting today to last me for the rest of my unnatural life. I think I'll stop taking the meds altogether, and revert back to my true self. Brood and snarl and howl all alone in my dark basement. Refuse to cooperate with Gibbs until he just gives up. Perhaps my parents will come out to collect me, finally explain what the point to all this is. If they even exist. But I'm done pretending to be normal, it's too hard.

  I shrug her hand off my shoulder and leave the Jeep, my backpack in it, not caring whether or not Gordon discovers its contents. In a way I hope he does. He could tell the Collars about it, they could come knocking on my basement door. By that time, with the Mortetine completely out of my system, the Prisoner will have taken full control. An agent's face might get chewed off before a bullet ends my abominable existence. I don't care any more. I walk to the back of the house, towards my hole in the ground that I don't ever plan on leaving again. Or at least, not until I'm dead once again.

  Chapter 11

  “LET ME IN!” My growl echoes off the nearby houses and back to me, standing at a door that I am once again locked out of. I see the silhouette of a man in a wheelchair sitting motionless in the kitchen. Like this morning, he can't fully grasp the urgency in my voice. If there weren't bars on his windows, I'd smash my way inside and scream right into his mutilated ear hole. He would understand the urgency then.