Sons of Sludge (Postmortem Anomalies Book 1)

by Josiah Upton

  “Yeah, I was.” A smirk rolls across her fair-skinned face. “See you tonight.”

  Chapter 16

  “What were you thinking?”

  A wheelchair-bound Gibbs is shrouded in darkness, sitting in a windowless alcove in the school hallway. He always manages to stay in the shadows. We've just left the principal's office. Before Gibbs arrived I endured a lecture from Vicky Womack, which I had a hard time paying attention to on account of her inappropriately tight and revealing outfit. That's all that seems to be in her wardrobe. The lecture ended with more confidential sympathy for my fictional Negative Hybrid Reanimate status, and the touching of my shoulder to console me.

  Sometimes, it seems like the female humans around me are acting or dressing a certain way to elicit a response, as if they're purposefully trying to provoke my Lust. But, it's probably just my Prisoner misinterpreting things. He thinks all adult females are subconsciously sending me signals of sexual availability. Just another thing I've learned to ignore. But what I couldn't ignore was Gibbs's silent yet intense displeasure once he rolled into the office. It still burns as we face each other in the empty school hall. “Well? What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn't thinking,” I explain, bringing my altercation with Dalton back to mind. The smell of his flesh and the sugary purple beverage. The Rage that grew exponentially. “It was too much for me to handle. I lost control.”

  “You lost control? That's not something you can just lose, or that someone can take away from you. No, you gave up control. You stopped trying. And just because some overgrown caveman pushed you?”

  “Yes,” I say, gritting my teeth, knowing that's not the entire truth. My eyes scan ahead, where a few feet away is the locker Dalton threw Genny to. My whole second life I've worried about going out into the world, worried that I might kill someone or that they might kill me. I never thought I would react so strongly to one human harming another. He hurt my only friend, if indeed that is what Genny is.

  But a friend is forbidden to me, because this deformed man in the shadows doesn't think I'm ready. That I do not deserve one. He's just bitter because he doesn't have any of his own. He knows less about human relationships than he thinks. He does not understand. I won't let him take that away from me. “You don't know what it's like.”

  “I don't know what what is like?”

  I shouldn't have said that. I pretend like I was talking about something else. “How strong the Rage can become. What it does. Attacking something like me is a death sentence.”

  “And what exactly are you?”

  I know the question he's asking, but I don't want to answer it. I've done that enough already. It drove me to search the basement this morning for some article of personal identity, an insignificant necklace, and that necklace led me to cross paths with Dalton. “I don't want to do this right now.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am no one!” I bark, the words echoing down the hall. I take a few steps closer so that I'm in the dark alcove with him, lowering my voice. “I'm nobody. I don't belong anywhere. Half of me wants to be like everybody else, the other half wants to eat everybody else. And that's something that you will never understand.”

  “Oh. Oh,” Gibbs laughs, his throat emitting a sickening mixture of rasp and wheezing. “I think I know what this is about. This isn't your Prisoner talking, it's your everyday teenage angst.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The necklace, the fighting. Me not 'understanding' your feelings. You think it's all just another part of the Hybrid condition? This behavior is typical of teenagers everywhere. You're searching for your identity, just like all the other students in this building. I've got news for you Zaul, you might be more human than you think.”

  He continues to laugh, and I hate the sound of it. He thinks he knows everything, has everything inside of me figured out. I won't let it end at this. I pull down my shirt collar, pointing at my gray skin. “How many of the students in the building look like this? Or feel compelled to eat other students?”

  “Look, you can act the martyr all you want. You're only proving my point. Yes, you desire flesh, just like the very first Reanimates did. But do you think those brainless creatures argued with authority figures, like you're doing right now? Do you think they wore jewelry, other than what happened to be on them when they died?” He's right. I don't want him to be right. My fist jerks, and smashes into a wall tile, cracking it. “You see? You got frustrated, so you lashed out. You're not the first one to do that. It's human emotion. Just so happens you have the strength to break things easily.”

  “Like I broke Dalton's face...”

  “Yes, you hurt someone. But he's not dead, or horribly disfigured.” Gibbs pauses for a moment, looking down at the stub where his leg is missing. “You can actually use this to your advantage. I don't think this Dalton, or anyone else, is going to mess with you again. You've proved that you're not someone to cross. You have a reputation now.”

  A reputation. Such a thing doesn't exist without other people to discuss and establish it. Having a reputation means people know you and your deeds. It could give me a little bit of that identity I was looking for. Zaul Jarreux: The guy that smashed Dalton's face. I like that. Maybe Genny likes it too.

  “So, if I can use it to my advantage, then it's a good thing, right? And I'm not in trouble anymore?”

  “Ha!” Gibbs snorts. “You think wiggling out of the consequences is that easy? You still need to learn how to maintain control, not just give up so quickly. And, the way to a Reanimate's head is through his stomach.” I groan, resisting the urge to destroy another wall tile. I know what punishment is coming. “I'm withholding your next delivery of pork for a few days. You'd better make what you have last longer, or learn to eat other things. And don't let something like this happen again, Zaul. Get to class.”

  He wheels his chair out from the alcove and down the hall, and I'm left alone in the shadows. Was that it? Even though he's holding back my pork supply, I feel like that went fairly painlessly. And, not one thing was said about my friend, Genny. But then, as if he can read my mind, the mechanical whirring of his chair suddenly stops. He slowly rotates and returns just outside the alcove, coming so close that his front wheel almost touches my foot.

  “People know who you are now. Or, at least, who they think you are. This could attribute a certain amount of popularity to your name. Some might start talking to you, trying to be your friend. Don't let them. Don't interact with humans any more than is necessary. You're still not ready for social relationships. You got that?”

  I should listen to him. He's been right about so many others things. But he must be wrong about this. He can't possibly understand how much I need that light and warmth. The thought of Genny actually wanting to see me, to be around me – I cannot let that go. The fluorescent light above him penetrates his sunglasses, revealing his one remaining eye. So rarely do I see it. It stares at me fiercely, waiting for my compliance. More lies are in order. “Yes, of course.” He nods slowly, then turns and wheels down the hall.

  The bell rings, and first period is over. Students pile into the hallway, many stopping cold when they see Gibbs as he passes them. How strange, that an actual man looks more like a monster than I do. That I am more capable of blending in with humanity than he is. It doesn't seem right. But I stay hidden under the alcove until he is completely out of sight.

  Chapter 17

  “Good morning, young learners!”

  My third period English class is already off to an incredibly aggravating start. All my other teachers are either too strict or too uncaring to smile, but not Mr. Jensen. His goofy grin seems almost permanent. I don't think I've ever met someone as mindlessly happy as him.

  I'm the last one to sit down as I was also the last to enter the room. I prefer to wait until everyone is inside before joining them. Filing in with a crowded herd, inches away from the flesh in front of me and behind, is still something I'd rather avoid. I like
my distance.

  “Now that everyone is here, I have a super exciting announcement to make!” Mr. Jensen's face, while cheesy, is also absolutely beaming. The faces of the students sitting before him do not reflect this. Everyone is either on the brink of sleep or preoccupied with what's on their desk. Two young males near the front continue a private conversation, occasionally stealing a glance my direction between whispered exchanges. I must be witnessing the formation of my reputation. I haven't decided how I feel about the extra attention yet.

  Mr. Jensen goes on, oblivious to how little the class cares about his announcement. “Today we will start reading one of my favorite books, The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson.” Though I enjoy books, simply reading one doesn't warrant a “super exciting” status for me. And judging by the apathy of the students around me, their sentiments are the same.

  “But this is not just any book. You have probably not heard of it, because it hasn't been printed since before The End, which means the copies I am about to pass out are over one hundred years old.” He has everyone's attention now as he walks around the desks with a large box. “Please, please be very careful with these. They are extremely rare and valuable. It's taken me quite some time to find this many readable copies and they're very fragile. Also, I don't have enough for everybody, so you'll have to partner up and share.”

  Share, partner up? I expend much focus and energy by simply not looking at all the humans around me, and now I have to partner up with one and share an object in close quarters? As I said, I like my distance. This is going to be terrible. Mr. Jensen arrives at the back row and places one of the books on my desk. “Here you go, Zaul. I think you're going to love this story.” The smile on his face has somehow stretched wider than before. It sickens me. “You can share with Victor.”

  Though he has sat in the desk next to mine for the past four weeks, I don't know what Victor looks like. I've ignored him, just like everybody else around me. But I can't ignore his scent. I'm so familiar with it by now that I could pick it out and track it down in a crowd. I wonder if in time I could disregard it, like I do Gibbs's scent. But for right now, my Prisoner expects a large meal as I turn to face the student. What I see is a lanky kid, not much muscle or fat on his bones. This makes things slightly easier. He doesn't meet my gaze. I suppose I should introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Zaul Jarreux.”

  His eyes flit over to me briefly, then straight ahead again. “I know who you are. You're that new kid that pummeled Dalton Harris.”

  I'm so unaccustomed to people knowing who I am. “Oh. You were there?”

  “No, but I heard.”

  “Really? That only happened a few hours ago.”

  “Word spreads fast around here.” He eyes me quickly again. “People say he punched you and you didn't even flinch. That you picked him up by the hair with one hand, then slammed him into a locker. I don't know how that's possible, you look smaller than him.”

  Was my feat really that unbelievable? It seemed like nothing at the time. It can only be explained by my condition, and that's something I don't want people hearing about. Maybe all this attention is a bad thing.

  Victor finally turns to face me. “Is that really what happened?”

  Moment of truth: Do I deny it, or lay claim to my deeds and further my reputation? Since the damage has already been done, and the rumors spread, the choice seems clear. I will have my identity. “Yes. That's how it went.”

  Victor's eyes widen with amazement. “Cool...”

  “Everybody open your books to page one, and make sure you and your partner can both read.” Mr. Jensen is back at the front of the class with a copy in hand. I pull back the book cover and a musty odor rises from the first page, reminding me of the hours I've spent in quiet solitude reading words from forgotten paper. It is a comforting smell.

  But the comfort doesn't last long before Victor scoots his desk so close to mine that our shoulders are almost touching. It makes my fingers twitch, and a tiny tear forms where the page meets the spine. I hope Mr. Jensen didn't hear that.

  “Now, before we read, I'll tell you a little about this classic. Though the copies in your hand range from one hundred to one hundred fifty years old, the story itself was first printed in London, England in 1886. It is a novella, which is shorter than your usual novel, so it won't take more than a week to read through this.”

  “What's it about?” a student near the front asks.

  “It's about the duality of man, good and evil. A doctor makes a potion to hide the inherent evil within, but then the evil manifests itself into an alternate identity of violence and depravity. Soon the evil side grows in strength and takes over completely, eliminating the good side. Interesting, huh?”

  Mr. Jensen's gigantic smile and sappy enthusiasm don't convince me of the story's intrigue. All I heard was the part about an alternate identity, one of violence and depravity. My fingers twitch again, increasing the rip in the page. It seems like this story, though created long before Hybrid Reanimates existed, was written about me and my condition. I don't want to read about that. I don't want the people around me to, either, especially after what I inexplicably did to Dalton. If I could tear all the copies up and burn them, I would. I don't care how rare or valuable they are.

  But then I remember what Mr. Neal talked about on the first day. Normally my mouth is shut in every class, but I can't keep my hand from raising. “Mr. Jensen?”

  “Yes, Zaul?”

  “If this book is no longer printed, then how can it be in the National Curriculum?”

  His smile falters slightly, but remains. “It isn't. But don't worry, we'll have plenty of time for everything in the National Curriculum this year, I promise.”

  “But Zaul's right,” says another student, my name coming out of his mouth a little too easily, as if he's already been talking about me with others. “If something isn't in the National Curriculum, we're not supposed to read it. It isn't approved.”

  Mr. Jensen's face strains extra hard to maintain his grin. If this man is capable of anger, this must be all he has in him. He begins to pace in front of his desk. “This book is one of millions of forgotten literary works from before The End. It's possible that it isn't approved simply because the National Curriculum Committee is unaware that it even exists.”

  “Or maybe,” the student interrupts, “it's because it was first printed in England, and they – like everyone else – abandoned New America during the End War. Quarantined us because they didn't want to risk infection. A lot less people would have died if the world simply cared to help. Why should we read anything from those backstabbing countries?”

  The other students grumble in agreement. What have I started? Mr. Jensen's eye twitches, and he turns his back to us, walking over to the chalkboard. “In case everyone forgot, this is English class, not History. And, our very language – English – originated from England.” He writes the course name on the board and underlines it three times, then turns and stalks back to the student's desk, leaning on it. His permanent smile is still on his mouth, but the features around it don't match up. He looks rather disturbing now – and that's coming from me, an undead freak of nature.

  “Do you suggest we stopping using the English language as well, Mr. Thomas?”

  “N-No sir. I don't,” the student mutters as he recoils in his chair.

  “Good.” Mr. Jensen rises from the student's desk, and his bright and cheesy expression returns. I was hoping that it had disappeared permanently. “We are in school, and we're here to learn. Isn't that right, my young learners?” Everyone mumbles in agreement. “And I'm sure no one in the National Curriculum Committee will lose any sleep if we spend a few days doing just that. Are we all on the same page, both literally and idiomatically?” Everyone mumbles again, though most appear confused. I am one of them. “Right – so, who wants to start reading for us?”

  My attempts at derailing the reading of this story caused more of a reaction
than I was expecting, but it was still in vain. All I achieved was getting students to express their bitterness for other countries, and making Mr. Jensen's candy-coated veneer crack just a little. Why does he care so much about this book, anyway? I suppose that question could be reversed: Why do I feel so apprehensive to reading it? Why should I care? It's not like halfway through Victor is going to spring from his desk, point at me and shout, 'HYBRID! He's an Ugger!'

  No, that's not how this school sees me. I am Zaul Jarreux, the new kid that pummeled Dalton Harris. I am strong and fearless and likable. Or at least that's who I want to be. That's how I want Genny to see me. It will never happen while living in the shadows, hiding in the alcoves of life just because a reclusive Gibbs tells me to lay low, or because characters from an ancient book hold a parallel to my condition. That condition isn't who I am, anyway. Not anymore. I am in control. I am strong and fearless. This is a new Zaul.

  My fingers rub the smooth metal of my necklace pendant, then let go as my hand raises in the air. “Mr. Jensen? I'd like to read first.”

  Chapter 18

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The lid of Caesar Ortega's wild, bloodshot eye blinks rapidly from behind the cracked door. I want to jam my thumb in it. I didn't come all the way out here just to be detained at his door step again. There's a bus going back home in two hours that I need to catch, and every minute wasted by his drug-induced paranoia and confusion is less time spent with my new human friend Genny. “I'm here for my... refill?”

  He doesn't speak, just continues to blink and breathe. Then, he shuts the door on me. My patience is running thin. I feel the urge to claw at the door and rip it off its hinges. But the slamming of it wafts the combined aromas of his house's interior to my nose, and I detect something that wasn't there last month: A woman. He has company.