Sons of Sludge (Postmortem Anomalies Book 1)

by Josiah Upton

  I've read about alarm clocks. I've seen them in magazine pictures, sitting on a bedside table as a human male or female lies soundly in their sheets – advertisements for minor ailment remedies, claiming to offer a good night's sleep. Well, I don't look like the people in those pictures, a simple over-the-counter product won't cure what ails me, and I don't have an alarm clock. The thing that wakes me is Gibbs's voice. Time to get ready for school.

  It has been a month since my first day at Pueblo High, since my risky trip to Cañon City and the savage breakdown that followed in the basement. I decided to get back on course and resume my disguised life under Gibbs's care. I have taken my meds, eaten controlled portions, gone to class – been a good little Hybrid. I've done this in hopes of finding that light and warmth missing from my existence, hoping to find it in Genny Grest. To make a friend, and prove Gibbs wrong in the process.

  But nothing has happened. Genny hasn't spoken a word since I left her father's Jeep. She won't even look at me in class. All fifty-five words of the note she left with my backpack, the ones that I've read over and over again – they don't seem to make sense. I can only assume that they were another form of lying. There seems to be so many ways for humans to be dishonest with each other. Or in my case, dishonesty between humans and the undead.

  But at least my lies, the makeup and the wig and the medication, have a purpose. What would the purpose be of her note? Why would she hope I return to school, and then ignore me? Why would she even mention a strangeness that we share, but not share a conversation?

  Maybe Gibbs was right, that human social interaction is a complicated thing. The thought of another day waiting for Genny to say something, to be my friend, gives me an uneasy feeling. I'd rather not leave the basement today. But Gibbs keeps calling down to me, telling me to get up. I obey.

  Most students are still in bed at this time, but most students don't need a couple hours of preparation to make themselves appear human, either. After devouring my breakfast – the highlight of my day – the next step is to wash up.

  In a dark corner is a sort of bathroom, with a toilet and small shower. There's no need for privacy when you're all alone, so it's open to the basement. It all looks rather new, like Gibbs installed it just before I arrived here four years ago. At first I didn't really give any attention to it, much like the bed or the books and magazines. I was a filthy beast with no concern for cleanliness, just the unquenchable need to feed, wondering when the mysterious human upstairs would throw some meat through the steel bars again. But since then I've become much more civilized, domesticated.

  I shamble across the hard concrete floor towards the shower, and crank the hot water all the way, the scalding heat waking up my dead skin. I scrub off any remaining makeup from the previous day, the beige hue circling the drain beneath my feet, making my arms and face a fresh canvas to repaint the lies for today.

  Next to the shower is a full length mirror, the one I smashed my fist with in a fit of Rage several weeks ago. It wasn't the first time that's happened. The process of looking like a human requires many delicate steps, and during my early days of training I would get so frustrated that I would break things, usually whatever was right in front of me. Gibbs will have to buy yet another mirror.

  I wipe the condensation off the cracked surface and see the broken reflection of a naked monster. He is hairless, his slick gray skin covered with a network of dark blue veins. The general size and shape of this being is similar to any normal man, as if his silhouette could be seen without a second thought given to its identity. The form is usable, but the surface is abhorrent. The creature's eyes – dead and milky white, blank and unreadable – move to the note taped on the mirror's frame. “I am Zaul Jarreux, a normal human.”

  I get to work, making the image match the statement. The first step is my brown contact lenses. I can't remember what color my eyes were before my transformation, but Gibbs suggested brown, because that would be the most average. I once thought that the fine motor skills required for putting them in were impossibly unattainable. I destroyed many practice lenses as I struggled for years to master this maneuver. But now, just a deep breath, and they're in.

  I move on to step two: makeup. This requires bright lights, a steady hand, and professional cosmetics from a company in New York. I've seen pictures of this New York, read about it in my ancient magazines. A city with gigantic buildings and millions of people – well, at least that's what it was before The End. For all I know it could be a deserted wasteland, similar to Cañon City but on a much larger scale. At least someone there is still producing makeup, though.

  I need to use foundation with a high pigment content, to mask the dark blue veins and gray skin on my face, ears and neck. It takes a very long time to cover the entire surface, making it blend to produce an even skin tone. I have a few cut out pictures on the wall of normal human males for comparison. Sometimes I catch myself eyeing their flesh for too long, my Prisoner insisting that it's time to eat again. I feel like a wolf putting on sheep's clothing, pretending to look like what my nature craves to devour.

  After makeup comes the false eyebrows. Gibbs says that these are the hardest to find, especially since they are mostly used by women, and thus many look rather feminine. I can't afford to ruin them, so I take extra care in applying them. Once on, the coloring around my eyes doesn't look right. I do some touch-up, and for a moment I think of Genny, gently painting blue eyeshadow on her pale skin, getting ready for school in her room. I shake the thought from my head. I affix my brown wig, one long and shaggy enough to cover my imaginary hairlines. I stand back and take a look – from the neck up, I almost look normal.

  Last are my hands and clothing. I require expensive cosmetics for my hands that won't smear or smudge, and can only be removed with an astringent solution. This way I can use them all day without the color fading. Once that dries I pull a clean outfit off a rolling clothing rack, the usual long sleeve button-up and jeans. Most teenagers are wearing t-shirts and shorts this time of year, and Gibbs even suggested that I do the same, to not appear unusual or out of place. But I calculated about an extra hour of makeup application to pull that off, and promptly said No. And besides, Genny often wears pants and long sleeves...

  I can't stop thinking about this human girl. Just when I look passable, she comes to mind, and I bring myself back to the mirror. I try to do something else with myself, something that doesn't really make any sense, and that I can't identify. As if there is a way to change my appearance that will influence her behavior. It's illogical, but I keep staring at my reflection. Like something is missing.

  My eyes go back to the note again: Who are you? Having a name and being a “normal human” doesn't seem to be enough anymore. It's so shallow. All those students are humans, and they have names, but does it stop there? No. They do things, enjoy things, speak a certain way and react a certain way. They are not just copies of a single model. They each hold something that makes them different, separate from each other: their identity.

  For years I've learned the art of camouflage, desperately needing to appear as normal and average as possible, in order to survive once I finally stepped out into the world. But in the process I've neglected the development of a very human trait, which is identity. How could Gibbs have overlooked this? Why was this not in my training? I would ask, but such a question might raise suspicion, and he probably wouldn't answer anyway. This will need to fall under self-education.

  I rearrange my wig hair, first to the left, and then to the right. What was that supposed to do? My clothes, what can be done with my clothing... I flip my shirt collar up. No, I don't like it. I unfasten the top two buttons, but this reveals the true skin color on my upper chest. I look down at my shoes, and bend over to untie them. Not only does this not accomplish anything, but it's also hazardous.

  I've run out of ideas. Could I add something to my outfit? There's nothing on my rack except shirts and jeans, ones almost identical to what I'm wearing now. The
only remaining possibilities lie outside my few personal possessions, and within the heap of lost and forgotten artifacts stacked in the darkest corner of the basement.

  Years ago, after I'd grown tired of endlessly moaning and howling, I started rustling through the previous owner's pristine cache of junk. It was all organized neatly in categories, and sealed away in protective packing. It was as if they knew The End was coming, and were storing these items for use by some stranger later on. Was I the stranger they had anticipated? I doubt it – most things were unidentifiable to my newly Hybrid Reanimate mind, and therefore useless to me.

  I did like the magazines, though. Colorful pictures, many containing images of healthy humans for my Prisoner's greedy eyes to feast upon. Later, when I relearned how to view and interpret text, I perused through the large collection of picture-less books, reading nearly every one of them, even if I didn't understand much of it.

  Reading the books and magazines was enough for me, but the thought of rummaging through the remaining items of mystery again seemed wrong. Not as wrong as consuming human flesh, but still wrong. Like I was intruding into someone's personal life, even if they were long dead. I once found a journal amongst the books, handwritten, most likely belonging to the distant owner. I read the first few pages, but couldn't go on. It just felt... I don't know. Wrong.

  But I'm not needing the personal chronicles of a human living one hundred years ago. What I need is something to distinguish myself, an article of identity. The first of many things that will transcend Zaul Jarreux beyond a mere “normal human”.

  I approach the stockpile cautiously, thinking maybe its owner is watching me from beyond the grave. The notion sounds silly, but I remind myself that stranger things can happen after death. I start with the large items, picking them up carefully, assessing their value to me, and setting them down in a separate area. I go through a few bicycles, some metal chairs, an assortment of long poles with rusty metal cranks attached to them.

  I come across a large plastic molding of a bearded man in red clothing, whom I suspect might be the human known as “Merry Christmas”. His body is rather plump – if he were real, he would make a good meal. But his plastic frame, along with the other things, provide no use to me. What am I even looking for?

  “Zaul, what are you doing down there?” asks the disembodied voice of Gibbs. “You're going to be late for school.”

  I won't go, I think to myself. Not if I can't find something to call my own. “I'm just... rearranging a few things. I'll leave in a minute.”

  I'm running out of time. I start opening stacks of hard plastic containers, tossing out bags of items sealed in clear plastic. Toys, documents, women's clothing... all worthless. Inside one bag is a collection of photographs. I look at a few of them before I stop. That wrong feeling comes back, so I throw it back in its box. In another container is a variety of hats. I briefly consider trying them on, but all I can picture is Gibbs and the hats that he wears. “Zaul?” he calls down to me.

  “I know!” I scream. At the bottom of this container is a another smaller one, made of carved wood. This is my last chance. I pick it up, surprised by a tiny melody that plays as I open it, and the strange feminine smell that escapes. In it are little circles of shiny metal, glinting in the light cast by a single bulb over head. I find other tiny metal objects, ones with hooks and clasps, things dangling from them. This must be jewelry. I unravel a clump of linked chains, small enough to be fastened around ones wrist. It reminds me of Genny's many bracelets. I like them.

  At the very bottom is a longer chain, with a silver pendant hanging from it. The pendant is simple, with a short bar intersecting a longer bar. My thumb rubs over its smooth surface. It feels right. I'll take it.

  “Zaul!”

  “Coming!” My fingers fumble as I try to clasp the chain around the back of my neck, dropping it several times on the floor. The Rage rises. My clumsy digits won't cooperate. After a few more failed attempts I growl angrily and throw the necklace across the basement. I expect to hear it clink on the concrete, but it doesn't. Where did it go? The glinting of silver catches my eye, reflecting the bright light I used to put on my makeup. I walk over to the mirror, and can't believe what I see: The tip of the necklace's pendant wedged itself in between two pieces of cracked glass, right about where my reflection's throat is.

  I get an eerie feeling, like I'm being watched, by the invisible person or thing that caused this highly unlikely event to take place. Does this mean I need to wear the necklace? In the mirror's reflection, it looks like I already am. I remove it from between the glass shards, take a deep breath, and calmly clasp it around my neck successfully, tucking it under my shirt collar. “I am Zaul Jarreux, a normal human.”

  I trot up the stairs to the steel gate, where Gibbs is waiting. He's not looking at me, but reading the newspaper as he drinks his coffee. “Lunch?” he asks dryly. I lift the brown paper sack up to him. “Backpack?” I turn to show the bag hanging off my shoulders. “Meds?”

  The Mortetine pills jostle in their amber container as my hand jiggles it, then I retrieve two and hold them out for him to see. He finally looks up as I toss them down my throat. He insists on witnessing my first dose of the day, even if he isn't there to see the rest. The ritual is pointless, but maintained. I expect him to press the button on his chair that unlocks my door to the outside, but he doesn't. His one eye stares out from his sunglasses at my throat-level. “What's that?”

  “A necklace,” I say casually. I hope it ends at this.

  “I know what it is, Zaul. Why are you wearing it?”

  “Humans wear necklaces, and I am a normal human.”

  “But I didn't say you could wear it...”

  “Humans also make their own decisions,” I interrupt, “and I've made this one. People might think I'm weird if I do, say and wear the exact same things everyday. Don't you agree?”

  Gibbs silently stares at the necklace for a moment, before the lines around his scarred mouth contort, and a high-pitched wheezing sound escapes him. I think he's laughing. His wheelchair rolls out of sight as he presses the button to let me out. That was odd. I hurry down the stairs to the basement floor, then up the other set, opening the large steel door. Sunlight touches my face, signaling the start of a new day out in the world, and the beginning of a new Zaul.

  Chapter 14

  I find that walking calmly down the halls, not snapping at students or jumping on females, is still an amazing feat for me. Every new day I think it will get easier, but it doesn't. The sheer volume of human flesh packed around me, it's crushing. My Prisoner takes hostage my eyes and keen sense of smell, and I sometimes notice myself gravitating towards certain individuals – burly athletes, voluptuous young ladies. He thinks that if my nose draws me close enough, I just might give in to what he craves. And his hopes are my constant fears.

  But I never lose control. Though his cries are unrelenting and ever-present, I am able to ignore him. I've found that I can focus my thoughts and actions, even when he is screaming in my ear. And I do that now, searching not for human prey, but for one human in particular. I haven't seen Genny inside or out of school yet today, and I fear that even if I do she'll continue to not notice me.

  As I travel to History class I rub the smooth metal of the pendant between my thumb and forefinger, passing many other students wearing necklaces of their own. All their faces mesh into an uncharacteristic blur, and I realize that a simple piece of jewelry doesn't make me care about them anymore than before. How foolish was I to think that wearing my own would make any difference? That it might give me a single shred of identity? It doesn't. I feel the Prisoner let out a sickening cackle, mocking me and my attempts at humanity. This time he is harder to ignore. I just want to shut him up.

  I take a detour to the restroom for an extra dose of Mortetine, and the scene looks all too familiar of my first day here. The Prisoner laughs again, insisting that nothing has changed, and nothing ever will. I clench my teeth and cl
ose my eyes, trying to block him out, but I make the mistake of continuing to walk. I get the strong whiff of a human male, just before I run right into him.

  I open my eyes to see him flying backwards onto the ground, the purple beverage he was holding spilling all over his face and shirt. He takes a second to assess the damage, and then his shocked expression shifts to fury as he meets my gaze. I notice that everyone else is looking at me too, frozen in their paths. I think this is bad.

  “What's your problem, Assface?” he shrieks as he springs to his feet. I don't know what Assface means, or why he calls me that. It's not my name. In fact, he shouldn't know my name at all, so maybe it's how you address a stranger. A teenage slang thing, perhaps.

  “I'm sorry, Assface,” I offer, my hands up in the air. “It was an accident.”

  He marches over to me, his face inches from mine, human flesh and sugary liquid invading my nostrils. I feel queasy. “You think you're funny?” he asks.

  I can't decipher his question. “I – I don't think I am. Should I be?”

  He lays his hands on my chest, and shoves me back hard enough that I trip and fall. Rage builds and builds until a giant flash goes off within me, and my vision turns blindingly white, then red. The Mortetine can't stop me now. I rise to my feet, fists taut with aggression. This human might be considered large and strong, but none of that matters to my Prisoner, my Rage. I stalk forward, with every intention of crushing the hands he used to push me, but something gets in my way. And it has a blonde head of hair.

  “Leave him alone!” Genny yells. “He said it was an accident!”

  “Stay out of this.” The male makes to go around Genny, but she sidesteps to block his path. He moves again, but she stops him by pushing back. Rather audacious of her, but foolish as well. He lays a hand on her shoulder and throws her out of the way, causing her to stumble and land face-first into a locker. “I said move, you weird bitch.”