The Eve Genome

by Joanne Brothwell

  I turned onto the freeway that led straight to the slums of Denver. We were going into one of the most dangerous areas of the city. I shook off the jitters that crawled all over my skin. I had to find my mother.

  “I feel terrible for dragging you there. It’s not safe for you, or anyone else.” My voice was thick and strained.

  “We’ll be fine. We have locks on the doors,” Adriana said, her jaw set.

  I entered the darkened back alley where Adriana claimed the picture was taken. My courage waned as I looked at this terrible place, where human misery and suffering was at its most wretched.

  I slowed down in the narrow alleyway to avoid running over people who lay scattered about, sleeping on bare concrete, litter strewn everywhere, their possessions in shopping carts or plastic bags beside them. Some individuals had tarps for protection, for shade from the sun and rain, while others hid under trees and makeshift shanty-houses fashioned with wood and scraps of material.

  The alley itself was part asphalt, part gravel, dumpsters and garbage cans staggered amongst the people. The crumbling brick walls of the back of the buildings were spoiled further with graffiti, and spindly trees were so overgrown they hung down into the roadway and scraped against the windshield and roof of my car. So much for the paint job.

  As we drove along, slow but steady, the eyes of these alley-dwellers tracked our every move. Some with red-rimmed eyes, others with the wild, glassy-eyed look of people out of touch with reality. My palms grew moist.

  It was difficult, looking at these people at their most vulnerable, not wanting to stare and yet needing to look for her. For Genevieve. With each passing moment of witnessing the horror of this shocking existence, my attempt at calm grew more difficult to maintain.

  I rode the brakes as people stood and encroached onto the road. Finally, I was forced to stop altogether when a thin, gangly man in ripped sweatpants and a food-stained sweater that read Christian Soldier stood directly in front of the car, eyes the colour of burnt toast.

  We stared at one other.

  “Oh, shit,” Adriana muttered.

  I took a deep breath. “Let me handle this. Stay in the car, okay?”

  There must have been something about the look on my face that told her I was serious, because she nodded, her skin pasty, all the blood having left her face.

  I got out of the car and shut the door behind me, tapping the window and pointing at the locks. Adriana nodded and locked the doors. Now I was alone, deep in the slums of Denver, facing a man who didn’t look to be in his right mind at all.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man growled, as he made his way around to the side of the car. I didn’t want to move any closer because of his stench. He smelled as if he lived inside a dumpster. Show no fear. I straightened my back and stepped toward him.

  “I’m looking for my mother. She was last seen here,” I said. We squared off, facing one another. He was a good six inches shorter than me, but looked crazy enough to still cause some damage.

  “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Genevieve.”

  The man’s dirty face didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed. “No one here by the name of Gen-of-eve.”

  “She may be known by a different name.” I shifted my weight when he took another step closer. Now we were a mere foot or two apart, and the man’s particular malodorous fragrance enough to trigger my gag reflex. I swallowed it back. “I’ll show you a picture.”

  He stood there without comment, waiting for me, his hostile expression firmly planted on his face. I dug the photo out of my back pocket and held it out to him.

  Recognition flickered in the man’s eyes. “This here ain’t no Gen-of-eve. This here is Jennie.”

  “So you know her?”

  “Jennie don’t live around here no more. Not after those G-men came and—” The man stopped, mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly widening, as if he were seeing me in a new light. “You ain’t a G-man, are you?”

  I shook his head. “No. I’m trying to find her, that’s all.”

  The man backed up, and I noticed his hands were shaking. What was he afraid of?

  Then he yelled at the top of his lungs, “This man’s here for Jennie! He wants to get our Jennie, just like the G-men!”

  Like a slow-motion parody of a horror film the homeless descended on me like a pack of mangy, rabid coyotes. They pressed up against me and pushed me back and forth, as if I was in a game of Red Rover with the most heinous smelling humans on earth.

  “Kalan!”Adriana called out the window.

  My head bobbed back and forth as I tried to maintain my cool. “Adriana, stay in the car!” I called out, but the car door slammed shut. Too late.

  “Stop it!” Adriana yelled from the other side of the car. “He’s looking for his mother! Stop it!”

  The shoving ceased at once, but there were still a myriad of grubby hands grasping me with varying degrees of tightness. One person held me by the shoulder, fingers digging into my clavicle.

  Adriana pushed her way closer, forcing the people aside. She was so brave.

  “Your mama is Jennie?” asked one filthy, dirt-smeared woman.

  “Yes, his mother is Jennie!” Adriana blurted out. “Now get your fucking hands off him!”

  The group of ten or so of them stared back and forth between Adriana and me before turning to Burnt-Toast Eyes for direction.

  His face curled up into a snarl. “Bullshit! They’re G-men!”

  The group instantly turned into a frenzy of screaming, fists flying and feet kicking. Pain blasted through my body from the various points of contact: knees, jaw and stomach. Adriana screamed amidst the sounds of angry voices.

  I had to do something.

  I dug deep, into that dark part of me I kept locked up, the piece that only Marcus had been witness to before this moment.

  I pulled on it, and like an explosion, the fury ripped through my body and out, engorging my muscles and filling me with a burst of energy. One-by-one, I threw the people off of me as if they were tiny children. It wasn’t until every last one of them was on the ground that I finally saw the shock in Adriana’s expression as she looked at me, her mouth open.

  My eyes were undoubtedly blood-red, haemorrhaged from the internal cranial pressure, like the last time this happened down at the bridge when I was mugged. I looked away until the strange sensation inside me waned.

  I surveyed those getting back up to their feet. Would they come back for another round? Their leader stayed on the ground, flat on his back while the others scattered to return to their various locations along the alleyway. I crouched down on my haunches by the man and grabbed him by the collar, lifting his head an inch off the ground.

  “Where is Jennie? Tell me now.”

  He stared, his eyes watery, his gaze faraway. It was as if he wasn’t even seeing me. I shook him a little, enough to jostle him out of his dissociative state.

  “Tell me willingly or I’ll make you to tell me. It’s your choice. Do you understand? Now. Where is she?” The scent of rot emanated from every pore of the man’s being.

  He cringed. “She ain’t been around here for at least six months.”

  I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. I shook him again, knowing Adriana watched every threatening, violent move I made. “Then where is she?”

  “She’s at the King George Hotel.”

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  The man began to laugh, his entire body vibrating beneath my grip. I tightened my hold on his shirt collar. The fabric was stiff in my hand.

  He opened his eyes and peered up at me, the hostility rolling off of him in waves. “The warehouse district.”

  The abandoned warehouse district was one of the most dangerous parts of Denver. My chest tightened at the thought of my mother living in such squalor.

  I let go of his collar slowly and lowered him back to the ground. Then he made a sudden violent mo
ve upward, head-butting me in the forehead. Pain ricocheted around in my head, my skull throbbing. My knees buckled.

  Adriana’s scream rang out. “No!”

  She kicked him square in the jaw, so hard he hit the ground beside me.

  Despite the ringing in my ears and the throbbing in my head, I stood up. Adriana had a feral look on her face, all fierceness and anger in her curled lips and narrowed eyes. The man lay on his back, holding his jaw. On further inspection, the grimace on his face and neck was a testament to the level of force Adriana put behind that kick. Badass.

  I glanced around at all of the faces, staring at us. Watching.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, grabbing Adriana’s hand

  She nodded and we returned to the car and got in.

  We drove off, not a single person standing in our way.

  Did you know our genes represent only 2 per cent of the DNA in our chromosomes? The other 98 per cent is non-coded DNA. Scientists still don’t know the purpose of this non-coding DNA.

  -Your World, Biotechnology & You

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ADRIANA SINCLAIR

  We were almost at the edge of the slum. I drove this time so he could get in and out of the car with ease, in the event of another incident like the one in the back ally. It was my last chance to ask before we went in.

  “Why did your eyes turn red back there?” I asked.

  He looked down. “Internal cranial pressure. It happens only when I do something out of the ordinary. You know. Use my super powers.”

  I laughed at his attempt at a joke, even though he looked grim. “Does this happen often?”

  “No. But remember, I’ve only started to accept and use these abilities. Maybe it’ll go away, or maybe it’ll get worse. I don’t know.”

  “What about Marcus? Do his eyes do it?”

  He contemplated for a moment. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen it happen. But maybe that’s because I have to try so hard. It comes easy to him.”

  Finally, an off-ramp led to the worst part of Denver. I pulled onto it.

  “This is a bad idea,” Kalan said. “I don’t think we should go in there.”

  I scrutinized the deteriorating brick walls of the King George hotel, the one the hobo attacker directed us to. It was a six-story structure, each floor with smashed windows and graffiti-riddled brick.

  I parked Kalan’s car on the side of the deserted road.

  “We’ve come all this way, and if we leave now, we’ll have no more answers than we did yesterday,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, yesterday I didn’t know my mother lived on skid row.”

  I set my hand on his arm. Sunlight caught his silvery eyes and exaggerated the high contrast of his pitch-black pupil. “She doesn’t live on skid row. She lives in an abandoned hotel. That’s the lap of luxury for a squatter.”

  Kalan chuckled. “Good one.”

  His smile made me feel better. He might have strange, scary powers reminiscent of some kind of mutant superhero, but at his core I was certain Kalan was a good, decent man. “I know it’s dangerous, but we made it through last time, didn’t we? With my killer roundhouse and your freaky strength, I’m sure we can get through it.”

  Kalan nodded. “We may not be so lucky this time.”

  “I need to know the truth. I need to understand the truth about me and my blood and why you and Marcus are the way you are. You heard the homeless guy. If we don’t find out, we’re probably going to have G-Men on our tails for the rest of our lives.”

  “If I believed they really were G-men, I’d feel relieved.”

  “Who do you think they are?” I asked. “Scientists, like my grandmother and great-aunt believe?”

  “I don’t know.” Kalan’s expression was odd and unreadable as he cleared his throat. “Probably. Scientists with a very specific agenda.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out in a long puff. “We aren’t going to figure this out without going in there. It’s time.”

  Kalan took in a long, deep breath. “Okay.”

  We got out, entwined our hands and set off across the road, toward the abandoned hotel. On the front, the door was held on with a jerry-rigged nail and wire. Kalan unlatched it, and squeezed my hand. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  We plunged into the darkness of the former lobby.

  The wooden check-in desk remained intact, but it had holes in the frame and was covered in graffiti. The floor appeared to be pale white marble but was hardly visible through the dirt, dust and grime smeared on top.

  “Where are the people?” I whispered. Surely with this much floor space, there would be a few people squatting down here?

  “I don’t know.” Kalan tugged at my hand. “Let’s go up?”

  I nodded. To the left was a spiral staircase, part wrought iron and part wood that snaked around to the second floor. The marble stairs were so worn from use they were in a permanent u-shape.

  The higher we climbed, the darker it got, with the only light coming through a few tiny windows near the top floor. With each step, more clutter tripped us. A shoe, used needles, charred aluminum foil, and food garbage including tin cans, milk jugs and rotting vegetable matter. The stench was unlike anything I’d smelled before, far worse even than the hoodlums in the back ally. It more closely resembled a combination of feces and vomit—after hours of cooking in a crock-pot. My guts churned.

  I stumbled—a stuffed toy? Kalan grabbed my elbow to keep me from falling directly on top of it, but not before I got a closer look. Bile backed up my throat at the sight of the dead cat.

  “Ugh!” I squeaked. My attempts to stay quiet made my voice crack.

  “Here. Come over on this side near the banister,” Kalan said.

  I stepped to the other side of the staircase, where it appeared to have a more used path with less garbage.

  “God, it stinks,” I said. I trudged up, wary of touching the banister. Finally, we neared the second floor.

  The emptiness of the vacant first floor was at complete odds with the shoulder-to-shoulder people of the second floor. I could barely see in the dim light that shone through the few small windows, but what I did see chilled me to the core. Bone-thin, most of them, in varying states of illness and disease. The smell here only added a new element—the stench of urine and human decay.

  The burgundy carpet that had once covered this floor was now deteriorated to the point where in some places it was a fine brown dust. Wood shone through at various bald patches as well as a blue-coloured foam underlay that was broken off into cotton-ball sized chunks. The fancy velvet brocade wallpaper was mostly peeled off, with only a small jagged strip remaining around the top where hands couldn’t reach.

  Directly in the middle of the room was charred wood and ashes, the remains of a fire. Ringing it were sleeping bags in primary colours, domed tents, dolls and toys and numerous full garbage bags.

  My skin crawled. Every lucid gaze fixed on me and Kalan. The whites of those eyes shone in the dimness, amplifying the filth of their skin and hair.

  Could Kalan’s mother be here?

  A low hum of muttering and various movements began. Kalan must have taken this as a cue, because his voice, strong and sure, rang out.

  “I’m looking for my mother. Her name is Genevieve. Some people may know her as Jennie.”

  Another rustle of movement and whispering, but nobody came forward. Kalan shifted his weight from foot to foot. I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, but I was so damn scared I could hardly move.

  “Have any of you seen my mother, Genevieve?” Kalan remained calm and commanding, his body tall. He took a step further into the room. I glanced back at the staircase, my leg muscles twitching.

  A woman with frizzy red hair, a pronounced hunchback and curved-in shoulders pushed herself to standing and shuffled forward. Kalan immediately walked toward her.


  “Don’t you come any closer,” she said.

  Kalan stopped, his entire body tensing. He put his hands up. “I’m not here to cause problems, ma’am. I’m here to find my mother.”

  The woman’s bowed-forward frame lowered slightly, as if the force of gravity was too much. “That’s not what Genevieve said.”

  Kalan sucked in a noisy breath. “You know her?”

  The woman stooped forward even more. “You are not welcome here. Genevieve doesn’t want to see you.”

  Kalan’s shoulders drooped about two inches, almost as if his helium-filled body had been punctured with a sharp needle.

  “I don’t think I’ve made myself clear. I want to speak to her. That’s all.”

  The woman took a hobbling step backward when a tall man who’d been leaning against the wall raced to her side. He focused on Kalan, his lips pulled back in a snarl to reveal rotten and missing teeth. Kalan stopped and the woman straightened with her protector now at her side. “She said there would be a day when the white one or the dark one might come. She said this day would happen.”

  “We’re her children,” Kalan said. “Of course we would come to find our mother!”

  She shook her head, the frizzy red hair whirling about, dust and dandruff floating up from the action, the particles lit up by the dim stream of light from a window overhead. Her henchman glowered. While the two of them in their various stages of poor health would not normally be cause for concern, the fact that we were surrounded by people made them a formidable force. I clasped my hands behind my back to hide their trembling and attempted to steady my breath.

  “No. She doesn’t want to see you. She never wants to see you. You’re a freak of nature, and she wishes her botched abortion had been successful!”

  Now Kalan’s head tilted back, as if he’d taken a blow to the face.

  The woman pointed a gnarled finger at Kalan. “Get out of here. You aren’t welcome here.”

  “But I just—”

  “Get him!” The woman’s shrill shriek cut straight through me, sheering off every last nerve.