Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.8

I'm not too crazy about this installment.  I do like some of the thoughts Sienne has, but the infodump from Dr. Andrews is a) too much dialogue, b) odd sounding, and c) boring.  Still, it is what it is for now.  Editing may come later.  And if you've missed any, click here to catch up.  Thanks for reading!
---
Sienne
February 29, 2020

All things considered, it worked. Sienne was cured. The disease that had ravaged her body for nearly two years was now gone, erased with a process called Reformation. She no longer desired the things she once had. The simple thought of raw meat turned her stomach. Apathetic, she did not want to live, not after what she had done.

Her heart pumped blood through veins regrown. Her lungs breathed in and out, oxygen to carbon dioxide. But she felt more dead now than she had when she was a zeta. As a monster, she lacked true emotion, or human emotion. Animals express fear. Panic. But do they know what it is to regret? Does guilt rock their souls? Is a bear sad after it kills and eats an elk? Was what she did even comparable? Now that the disease was gone, the true horror of her actions hit hard.

After that morning in the lab she’d been inconsolable. She was given a sedative and had been kept under lock and key since. When they realized the serum removed the sickness, Drs. Couric and Andrews set out immediately for more trials. Sienne was kept a secret, alone in her room for much of the time.

She thought she knew pain before when she was dead, but that was nothing. Physical pain was a joke. Another bolt through the inner tissues of her stomach likely wouldn’t even cause a reaction. Needle sticks and fiery electricity. It was all nothing compared to the weight of her deeds. How they cut heavily into her psyche, carving and digging deeper with each passing second. How could she live with that?

The transformation from zeta to beta, as she was now being called, was like waking up from a terrible nightmare only to discover that it was true. Every foul and horrible piece of it. Her body looked part zeta, part human. Pale, translucent flesh clung to her bones, covered in scrapes and scars. A patch of peachy skin filled in the hole the harpoon bolt had put in her stomach, its color out of place on her body. Many of her veins were visible, blue and black just beneath the surface, pressing out like bulging wires in a too-tight sleeve. And the hollowness in her gut now demanded filling, albeit from a different source.

She sat at her bedside table and sipped at the broth she’d been given, staring blankly down at the strewn about sketches. They were all angry scribbles, thick black lines of chaos and madness, but Sienne thought she could see patterns in the charcoal. When she was finished, not even half of the broth diminished, she returned to her bed and lay staring out the window.

She was aware of a soft knocking on the door, but she didn’t bother to move. What was the point?

“Sienne?” asked Dr. Andrews soft voice. She made no reply. She heard the woman move about the room. A rustle of papers. A clank of a spoon. Dr. Andrews appeared at the foot of the bed. “Sienne, you need to talk to me. This attitude is not healthy.” She stalled, opening up the silence for Sienne to take the opportunity. It passed without a second thought.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now,” she said, her voice soft and distant. “My daughter, Kallie, when she died I didn’t think I could press on, right after the bombs fell. I didn’t see the point in going on, but Kent, my husband, made me. He pushed me, through the smoke and fog of everything, and we eventually ended up here in the Hub. It’s been almost two years. I still feel her absence, but life goes on. It has to.

“You would think after the zetas killed my daughter that I would be the last person to want to help them, but that’s not in my nature. I’m a doctor. I care about people, and despite what others say, the zetas are still people. They can’t help what’s happened to them no more than a person plagued with cancer or someone with a mental handicap. I felt it was my duty to find a cure for them. Turned out I wasn’t the only one, and it wasn’t long before I met Grant.”

Sienne listened, but Dr. Andrews’ words did not hold her captive. What was one woman’s opinion worth? And why was she telling her this?

“We’ve both worked long and hard for this, Sienne, and we’re finally finished with our research. We’ve changed others now. It’s working. Soon we’ll be able to go public and change even more. Together, we’ll put the world back to how it was, but we need you, Sienne. I need you. I just want to help you, if you’ll let me.”

Dr. Andrews had no idea what Sienne had done, and she didn’t feel like opening up. But others? If there were more like her, new betas, then maybe she could talk with them. See how they’re coping. See what they’re like. She sat up; Dr. Andrews jumped.

“I want to meet them,” Sienne said. “The others.”

“Of course, darling. And when you’re done, maybe you and I can sit and have a nice, long talk. I am a psychiatrist, after all, and I really do care about you. Can we do that?”

Sienne didn’t want to talk, not to Dr. Andrews. The woman was nice, but she had no idea what it was like. Still, if it could help her... Did she even want help? “Sure,” she said. “Why not?” But she knew she would keep some secrets until the day she died. Again.

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.7

Part eight of "The Reformed."  Click here if you've missed any.  Thanks for reading.
----

Kent

June 11, 2021

    The kid tried to keep his cool, but Kent could tell he was still shaken up.  His head was leaning against the window, eyes staring off into nothing.  Traces of vomit from where he got sick were speckled around his shirt collar.
    The attack had gone relatively smooth.  They let the SUV idle as the zeta moved on down the sidewalk, dragging one leg behind it.  It stopped less than a mile from them, its head cocked sideways and looking at the front doors of a First National Bank.  “What’s it looking at?” asked Mercury.
    “Beats me.  C’mon.”  He applied the liquid deoderizer on his skin, rubbing in the lotion everywhere.  When he was finished he passed the bottle to Mercury.  “We’re going to sneak up on it and kill it.  Just like a lion that stalks its prey, we’ll be swift, quiet, and deadly.  Don’t say anything once we’re outta the truck.  Got it?”
    Mercury nodded.  “What about weapons?”
    “We’re good on those.  Take your pick.”  He opened a crate and revealed a personal cache.  Assault rifles.  Shotguns.  An axe with a pike on its end.  Even some grenades.  Varden Clark had supplied the expedition very well.  Mercury looked the weapons over and pulled out a pistol, a .50 caliber desert eagle.
    “You know how to use it?” Kent asked.
    “What’s to know?  Point and pull the trigger.”  
    “Uh-”
    “Remember who my father is, Kent?  Varden Clark.  Of course I know how to use a gun.”
    Sarcasm.  Kent just couldn’t get enough of it.  Mercury handed the deodorizer back to him.  They quietly exited the SUV, leaving the doors open.  They kept to the sidewalk, sticking close to facades and running between building faces.  All the while, the zeta stood staring off at the abandoned bank.
    They were close to the zeta now.  Kent could smell its decayed flesh.  He put a finger up in front of his lips and nodded to Mercury.  He gripped the handle of his axe, feeling the familiar grooves beneath his fingers.  Sure, it was a cliche to use one, but the thrill it gave him lopping off a head was worth it.  His mouth was overrun with saliva, eager to be back in the kill.
    The world around him faded.  He sprang from the wall like a caged animal being set free.  Dimly aware of Mercury behind him, he fought the urge to roar a battle cry.  The boy was not his concern.  Only the monstrosity in front of him mattered.  
    Murderer!  He thought as he closed the distance.  Demon!  The zeta was starting to move, but it was as if it was drenched in syrup.  Kent was faster.  The axe was up, gripped in death-locked fists.  Awareness was still blooming on its face when Kent swung the heavy blade, separating the head from the body in an easy swoop.  
    Before the corpse hit the ground he was swinging again.  It didn’t matter what he hit.  He felt bone and flesh breaking beneath him.  He straddled the body and continued chopping, like a man splitting logs.  Like Lizzie Borden having fun on a Thursday morning.  
    The thing that lay below him was barely recognizable when he finally stopped.  
    Mercury had a look of absolute terror.  The gun was dangling loosely from his right hand, unused.  
    “You okay?” Kent asked, wiping the sweat from his face.
    Mercury stared at him, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.  And then he was retching.  Pink and orange all over the manicured green lawn of the First National.  Kent watched for a moment and then started cleaning his axe on the grass.  When the kid was finished, they headed back to the SUV without a word.
    Now, not even fifteen minutes after the attack, Kent’s actions were replaying in his mind.  He’d completely lost himself back there.  No wonder Mercury didn’t have anything to say to him.  He didn’t have anything to say to himself.  After seeing the zeta, it was like his mind was taken over by malice, bent on destruction and abandoning all reason.
    Part of him was appalled at his anger.  The rational part wanted to say that he’d been stupid.  What if another had appeared?  He’d been completely blinded by his anger towards the zeta.  Yet, like all the times before, this reasonable voice was a whisper compared to the other part of him.
    The part that longed to do it again.

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.6

Part Seven of "The Reformed."  If you missed any, click here.  And thanks for reading!
----

Sienne
February 24, 2020

If all went to plan, today would mark the first day of Sienne’s rebirth.  After all the tests--the painful experimentation, the confusing sessions with Dr. Andrews, the blackouts, the invading electric currents--the end was near.  Today she would be freed.

They would take her black and ruined soul away and replace it with a new one.  The bottomless pit in her stomach would be sealed, ending her unholy appetites, and she would be allowed access to the city.  She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d last been outdoors.

A knock at the door turned her attention from the barred window.  She had a memory of guards rushing through the door to her cell, blaring their sonic guns and chaining her to the ground.  So much had changed.

Two armored soldiers walked in, followed by Dr. Couric.  The flesh scent filled the room, but the urge to feast was gone.  Deep down she suspected she’d like to, but she was no longer slave to base instincts.

“Good morning Dr. Couric,” Sienne said, turning her back to the guards.  The men moved in unison, strapping the shackles to her arms and legs.

“Good morning to you, Sienne.  Did you sleep well?”

Flashes of chaos, bodies pressing together.  Screams of pain and terror.  Teeth gnashing, ripping through meat and bone.  A garden of utter delights.  And then the darkness moved in without warning.  She was suddenly sickened by what she was doing.  Crying, bleeding bodies around her, all in different stages of death.  She had feasted on each one.  She vomited and the darkness intensified, smothering her.  Two small children, one male, one female, and an older human male talking and laughing in a beautiful house.  She was with them, laughing and beautiful.  Before she could stop herself she...  She could not remember.  More blood.  More darkness.

Sienne shook her head.  “No.  More dreams, like the ones I’ve told Dr. Andrews about.”

“I’m sorry.  Maybe the procedure will fix those too.  Who knows?”

“Yeah.”  She hoped so.

They took the stairs down to the sub-levels, one guard in front, followed by Sienne, then the other guard.  Dr. Couric brought up the rear.  As they descended, the pungent smell of the deceased grew stronger.  They were near the holding cells of the others.  The zetas.  She thought she could hear them moaning below, loudly monotonous in their confinement.  They stopped outside S-2 and waited for Dr. Couric to scan his identification badge.

Once they were through the door all traces of the monsters outside faded.  The floor was cluttered with machines.  Plastic casings all about.  Glossy monitor screens broken and dented.  Sienne was wary of the shattered glassware scattered everywhere.  There appeared to be a winding trail through the mess, leading off across the room to an unmarked door.

“Sienne,” began Dr. Couric, “once we get inside I’m going to need you to sit on the bed and relax.  Dr. Andrews will be waiting for us.  The procedure should be relatively short and simple.  Just a shot and that should do it.”

Why are we doing it down here then?  I could’ve got a shot in my room.  Dr. Couric scanned his badge again, a light flashed green, and they walked in.

Dr. Andrews was scribbling on a clipboard.  She looked exhausted.  Her eyes had deep shadows and her hair was messy, but the woman smiled when she saw them.  “Hello Sienne.  Are you excited?”

“Yes,” she said, sitting on the bed.  The guards took their places near the door.  “Though I am a little nervous.  Will it hurt?”

Dr. Andrew shrugged.  “We’re not sure.  I wouldn’t think it would hurt any more than any other shot.”

Sienne watched Dr. Couric open the fridge.  He pulled out a small box and moved beside Dr. Andrews.

“We believe this is the one, Sienne,” said Dr. Andrews looking at the box.  “Dr. Couric and I have been working with several samples from the zetas, trying to unravel the cause for the disease and then stopping it.  We thought the mixture that gave you feeling again would eradicate the infection, but it only made you vulnerable.  These past few months, everything you’ve gone through gave us insight to your biology.  We now think that the changing is not a simple antidote, but a process of reformation.  Without the process, and all the tests, I don’t think we would’ve been able to create this.  Sienne, without you, there would be no hope for the zetas, and I just want to say thank you for working with us.”

Dr. Couric had withdrawn a syringe from the box and was now standing beside her.  She could smell the sweet taste of flesh on him.  Her heart was beating quickly and she did not know why.  The prey was trying to help her, what did she have to be nervous about?

“Let’s hope this works,” Dr. Andrews said, moving near Sienne.  She felt a tiny prick in her neck.  She felt the same.  No different than she had seconds ago.

The doctors were looking with raised eyebrows.  “I don’t think it--”  The rest was lost in her screaming.

Sienne remembered everything.  She remembered her life before changing into the zeta.  She was relatively young.  Married.  A mother.  She worked from home, selling insurance.  She belonged to a Baptist church.  She had a dog named Beano.  She lived in a modest two-story house in a suburb outside St. Louis.  She drove a silver Toyota.  

She remembered watching the news, scared for her family.  For her country.  Something was going on in East Asia.  Then reports of bombings across the States and people changing into ravenous monsters.  The nation was in turmoil.

She remembered transforming.  Turning into something hideous and hungry.  She remembered...  Oh God.  Nick.  She’d killed him first, tearing out his entrails with her teeth.  Gorging herself on him, unable to stop, despite his pleas.  Lapping up his spilled blood like a dog.  And then the children...

She became aware of the gyroscope’s song, singing its soothing tune above the horrors of her mind.  She focused on the melody, letting it pull her up and away from the darkness of her mind.  Soon the humming of the gyroscope was all that mattered.  Images of gore threatened to break the reverie, but the song’s spell kept them out.

Her eyes flew open.  Dr. Andrews was leaning in front of her, hands resting on her shoulder.  Concern filled her eyes.  

“Sienne!  Are you okay?  What happened?”  Her voice was shaky.

“Did it work?” asked Dr. Couric.

“Grant!  Not now.  Something’s wrong.  Sienne, honey, what happened?”

“I killed them,” she said, tears falling.  “I killed them all.”

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.5

Sorry for the delay between posts for the story.  The previous five parts are available here.  In quick summary, Sienne, a zeta, has been captured and experimented on.  Meanwhile (though not literally on the same time scale), Kent Andrews has different views on Reformation than his wife, Dr. Chloe Andrews.  Thanks for reading.

Kent
June 10, 2021

Kallie’d be proud.  Or something like that.  Those were the last words he’d spoken to Chloe.  Almost two months ago, right after she found out about his afternoon excursions.  He’d been pushing his time later and later, knowing one day he’d be discovered.  Deep down, he wanted her to know what he was doing.
    “I can’t believe you would do that, Kenneth.  Those things are people for Christ’s sakes, not some game sport.  Have you not listened to any of the confessions from the betas?”
    “Yeah, I’ve listened, and that convinces me even more.  They’re not people,” he’d said.  “They’re monsters and they deserve to die.  Look around.  Look at the mess they’ve caused.  Don’t you remember the world before they came?”
    “Of course I remember, but that’s not the point.  Despite what you think they’re still humans.  The things my patients tell me.  They don’t comprehend what they’re doing.  They’re just sick, but the beta-ion solution reverses the disease.  It changes them back to what they were.  It’s not their fault they got infected.”
    “It’s their fault that she’s dead.”  Chloe’s mouth hung open in hurt.  “And here you are trying to help the very things that killed our daughter.  Well congratulations Dr. Andrews.  You’ve helped change the world.  Kallie’d be proud.”
    She slammed the door in his face.  He packed a few essentials and left and hadn’t seen her since.  But here he was, standing in the deep shadows of dusk in front of his apartment door.  Some part of him wanted to go in and let her know that he was leaving town, that he probably wouldn’t make it back alive.  He wanted to apologize one last time for losing Kallie to the horde.  But he wanted her apology, too.  He wanted her to be sorry for helping the monsters, for changing them.  He knew it would never happen, just like he would never change his opinion on the matter.
    He pulled out the letter he’d written, kissed the paper, and slid it under the door.
    “Good luck, Chloe,” he said, barely a whisper.  And then he was gone.

    “So.  Where we headed first?”  
    Kent stared at the boy like he’d lost his mind.  They hadn’t been on the road half an hour and already he was getting annoyed.  What did he expect, travelling with a boy just out of his teen years?  “You know where we’re going, Michael.”
    “I told you it’s Mercury now.  Michael was pre-zetas.”
    Kent rolled his eyes.  “Whatever.”
    They were moving down the highway, south on rural roads that lacked the mounds of abandoned vehicles major roads were littered with.  He knew that some CRC jobs involved cleaning up the highways, creating routes for trade between other known city-states, but he didn’t know how much clean up had been done.  The closest known refuge, the Omaha Reserve, took less than a day of travel, north until I-80, then it was a straight shot.  Farther away was the haven in Louisville, right on the Ohio River.  Neo Louisville, some called it.
    Kent hadn’t been to Louisville in a long time.  A junior in college at the time, he and some friends decided to drive to Churchill Downs and watch the Derby.  What was the horses name that won?  Big Brown?  The Downs was packed with its usual celebrities and race enthusiasts.  A festive air buzzed all throughout the track and grounds, charging everyone with wild energy.  Or maybe it was the mint juleps.  Kent stood down in the infield and watched the races with half-a-care.  He was more interested in the redheaded sophomore that had been flirting with him on the drive down.  Chloe.
    “Look man.  I know this ain’t no picnic for you.  My dad’s a pretty tough guy to work for, so I understand your reluctance.  But I’m not my dad.  I’m Mercury Clark, and I’m just trying to make this trip as painless as possible.”
    Kent weighed the words.  Maybe he had been too hard on the boy.  It wasn’t his fault that he got the sharp end of Kent’s jaded attitude.  “Alright, Mercury.  Fine.  But you’ve got to listen to everything I say.  You got that?”
    The kid’s eyes widened.  “Yeah, no problem.”
    “I mean it.  Out here, it’s not like it was back in the Hub.  We’re never safe.  There’s no fortifications or military to take care of the zetas.  It’s just you and me and whatever we have at our disposal.  Have you ever even seen one of them up close?”
    “Not really.  Just through the fences when they wander too close.  I’ve seen plenty betas, though.”
    Kent snorted.  “Betas are nothing like the wild ones.  Betas may still look like ‘em, but they don’t lunge for your throat and the taste of warm blood.  They don’t catch a whiff of flesh and follow you until one of you is dead.  Zetas are dangerous, kid.  They’ll kill you before you even know what’s happening, if you’re lucky.”
    He was talking like he had experience.  Like he spent more time outside the walls than within.  True, he had logged plenty of time hunting, hours up in trees or building snares or laying traps.  But distance-wise, he’d never been more than a few miles away from the walls at any time.  This was as new to him as it was for Michael.  No.  Mercury.
    The spare tank of gas sitting in the back floorboard was giving him a headache.  The windows were all down, but the odor still clung to the interior.  In the early summer humidity, the fumes were thick and heavy, clinging to the seat covers like dew on morning grass. 

     He scanned the sides of the road.  If not for the discarded vehicles, the wide-open doors, the broken windows, the lack of movement, everything would look almost normal.  But it wasn’t.  It was as far from normal as Kent could imagine.
     A flicker ahead caught his eyes.  Walking slowly down the sidewalk of whatever podunk town they were in (Grafton?) was a zeta.  Alone and oblivious, the thing moved at a pace slower than a crawl.
     An idea began creeping its way in.  Kent dropped his speed.
     “Look up ahead,” he said, nodding off to the right.  His voice was a whisper.
     Mercury squinted.  Gasped.  “It’s...”
     “Shh!  I know what it is!  But you’ve never seen one, a real one, so I thought we could get you some real life experience.”
     Kent couldn’t tell if the kid’s face was terrified or excited.  He licked his lips.  “Okay.  What do I need to do?”
     “I’ll show you,” he said, his appetite whetted.

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.4

This is Part 5 of my continuing story "The Reformed."  You can catch up by following this link.  Also, yesterday's post on the issue of trilogies verses standalones brought about some interesting discussion in the comments.  If you'd like to share your opinion, click here.  As always, thanks for reading!
----

Sienne 
January 13, 2020 

            “Where are you hurting, Sienne?”  Dr. Andrews asked gently.

“Everywhere.  My arms.  My toes.  My teeth.  My heart.  I hurt everywhere.”  Her voice was impassioned, uncaring.  

“Why are you hurting?”

“Because I am dead.”

“No, you hurt because you aren’t dead.  The dead feel no pain.”  Sienne didn’t want to believe her, but didn’t think she would lie.  Dr. Andrews cared for her.  She had never hurt her like Dr. Couric had.  She was her only friend in the new world.

“I am not dead.  The dead feel no pain.”  She repeated the words.  If she wasn’t dead, then she had no idea what she was.  Certainly not alive, despite the thumping of her heart and the workings of her lungs.  It took more than body mechanics to be alive.

They were sitting in a small study, filled with books and papers.  Sienne barely registered the chain that bound her legs to a rod beneath the sofa.  A gyroscope-like device was spinning on the table behind her, emitting a soft vibrating sound.  Sienne found its rhythm intoxicating.  It seemed to be singing a soft lullaby, one only she could hear, crafted just for her.

“Why are you hurting?” Dr. Andrews asked again.

“I am hurting because I am not dead and because you and Dr. Couric are trying to make me better.”

“Very good.”

“I am hurting because the tests I go through cause me pain on my tender flesh.  I am hurting because needles are sharp and veins are not.  I am hurting because electricity burns when it runs through my body.  I am hurting because I have not eaten in so long that I imagine my gizzard is shriveled to a pebble and has forgotten what it’s like to house food.  I am hurting because I was once shot through the gut with a harpoon, and ever since then feeling has been returning to my body.  That is why I am hurting, Dr. Andrews.”

Dr. Andrews frowned and put her head down.  For a while she said nothing, though Sienne thought she heard her whispering.  The gyroscope continued to buzz, now spinning quickly on its legs.  Sienne watched the metal within metal turn on itself, orbiting and rotating and vibrating seamlessly.  Three spheres all working together, never touching or affecting the other’s spin, but still deeply connected.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Andrews said.  Sienne turned back to the woman.  Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks flushed.  With her red hair, it looked like her entire head was ablaze.  “I think that’s enough for today.”  Sienne was having trouble hearing her.  The vibrating song was faster now, reaching crescendo, demanding her attention.

“Wh-What, Dr. Andrews?  I...”  The pleasing vibrations suddenly hit a sour note, reaching a frequency high and crippling like the sonic guns that were used on her so long ago.  She tried to bring her hands up, but they were too heavy, like something was keeping them down.  The shrill peaked, bringing an explosion of pain and flashes of light.  The last thing Sienne saw was tears flowing from Dr. Andrews’ soft eyes.

When she awoke, she was back in her room in her own bed.  No longer confined to the dark cell she once was, Sienne had been given a spacious private room on an upper-level floor.  In addition to the bed, she had her own stock of books and magazines, though she cared little for reading.  She preferred drawing, losing herself in the energy from creating works of art.  Dr. Andrews encouraged this.

A dull drum was throbbing inside her skull.  Through the shallow skin above the temple she could feel the pulsating.  Everything hurt.

You hurt because you aren’t dead.

Why did she think that?  Of course she was dead.  The mirror in the room made that obvious.  She was a skeleton, lightly covered in flesh, pallid and fragile.  Muscle definition was long forgotten.  So were the curves of her hips and breasts.  Even the splotchy hair that had clung on for so long was now gone, shaved or fallen out she couldn’t remember.  

She’d been beautiful once.  A creature of night.  Stealthy.  Strong.  A hunter.  Never hungry, not like she was now.  No, you were always hungry.  Never filled.  Her head swam in the hazy words.  The voice sounded like her own, but the words were wrong.  Out of context.  Forced, even.

She arose from the bed and paced around the room.  Through the barred windows she watched the snow fall.  Already everything was coated in the white powder.  Rooftops of lower buildings.  The makeshift tent shelters down the street.  Even the road had an icy sheen to it.  Far below, hundreds of tiny figures swarmed through the streets, moving this way and that.  She watched a dark van lose control and spin completely around.  People scattered and jumped out of the way.  She couldn’t tell whether or not anybody was hurt, but a crowd began to gather around the now smoking vehicle.  She looked away, out into the distance at the large cloud-making facility away from the city walls.  It was this that gave power to the Hub.

She sighed, partially from the throbbing in her head, but mostly out of boredom.  There was nothing to do.  Even charcoal and paper did not entice her.  Most of her animal instincts had waned.  No longer was she complacent to sit idly, content in simplicity.  Of course, she no longer lunged for the nearest throat either.  They assured her that everything was going great.  She was progressing faster than they had expected.  Perhaps in a month or two she’d be changed back.

This confused her more than anything else.  “Changed back to what?” she had asked.  

“Why, changed back to human, of course.”  Dr. Couric laughed and she wanted to tear out his throat and suck down the blood for it.

There was no way that she had once been human.  Sure, they both walked on two feet and had a similar body build, but the comparisons ended there.  The prey was weak-fleshed.  Bags of blood.  They breathed life.  She breathed death.  Destruction.  She was nothing like them.  She was...

What?  They called her a zeta, but the label meant nothing.  Zetas were people like her, they said, people transformed.  And they were sick.  Without treatment they would die.  The doctors were trying to help her.  She had to cooperate to save herself and her people.  They needed her to help save the world.  Something did not feel right about it.

She left the window and returned to the bed.  The revived heartbeat brought another change.  Constant lethargy.  She was almost always tired, never far from sleep.  She stared out the window and watched the snow fall, wishing to be past the walls and floating down with the cold wind.

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.3

This is the fourth part of this story.  Previous installments can be found here or by following the label below the post.  Thanks for reading!
----- 

Kent
June 6, 2021
 

   Kent remembered television.  Flashing screens.  Annoyingly loud commercials.  Late night humor.  Even the occasional reality show or, Lord help, a soap opera.  But he’d give his right hand if he could watch some football again.  See some cheerleaders dancing, smiling at the camera.  Bright lights and loud fans.  Even a half would be okay.  Even a Titans game.
    Graham kept a flatscreen above the bar for old times’ sake.  “How can a sports bar be a sports bar without a tv?” he’d say whenever somebody would ask, which was nobody anymore.  The joke was as tired as every patron of the bar was.
    Kent drained the last of his beer and slammed the mug down on the bar.  Alcohol wasn’t cheap, not after the CRC stopped the barman from practically giving it away.  Graham figured everyone needed cheap booze to drown out the past, and for a while the man only charged whatever could be afforded.
    Graham’s eyes went up at the noise.  “Mind the glass there, Kent,” he said smiling.  But Kent wasn’t in a smiling mood.  His head buzzed, the world was spinning faster than normal, and he had business to attend.
    “Mind yerself, Graham,” he said with a growl.
    The smile vanished.  “Glass is getting harder to come by, so I reckon I am minding myself.  And if you want to keep your welcome here, you best learn to mind my word.”
    “Bah!  I’ve ‘ad enough today anyway.”  Kent stumbled to his feet, grabbing his backpack.  The bar was uncommonly full and several heads looked at him.  Usually around lunch time people were out working, finding ways to sustain themselves.  Everybody that was able had a part to play in the Hub’s survival.  Those that knew how worked the fertile lands outside the city, growing all varieties of crops.  This was the most important profession in the Hub.  Without food, they didn’t eat.  Others took jobs with the scavengers or the CRC, picking through the ruins outside the walls.  Some even traveled the long roads, trading with other cities.  There were many legitimate jobs to be had in and out of the Hub, and Kent shunned every one of them.
    “What’re you loogin’ at?”  Kent snarled at a wide-eyed fat man.
    He stepped out into the warm noonday sun.  The light hurt his eyes, jabbing his already throbbing head with a sharp stick.  The streets were busier than normal.  Before, roads were dangerous things, reserved for cars and trucks moving at incredible speeds.  Everybody had their own vehicle, doing their own thing.  Private lives.  Private property.  Private everything.
    Privacy burned to the ground with the rest of the world.  Just looking at the throng of people shuffling together down the street proved that.  Survivors all have something in common, but Kent found it hard to adjust to the new society.  For the millionth time, he wanted his old life back.  He didn’t like communal housing or rationed food.  He was a loner, absorbed in his own misery.
    As much as he didn’t want to, he joined in with the crowd, mindlessly moving in their tide.  He didn’t recognize anyone.  Just faces.  Hard, grim faces.  Where are they going?  Again he wondered why so many people were out today.  Was he missing something?  He thought for a moment that zetas might have been spotted inside the walls, but quickly abandoned that idea.  If that were the case, the crowd would be in chaos, like it was back when he lost Kallie.
    Buzzed and not caring, he spoke his thoughts out loud.  “Where’s everybody goin’?”  But no one answered.  To them he looked like all the other drugged-out lowlifes, ragged and hollow eyed.  They were right.
    He pressed his way through the crowd, cutting across and to the other side of the road.  In the distance he could make out what looked like a stage sitting in the town square.  Is there another announcement being made today?  He couldn’t remember.  Didn’t really care.  There were other things to do today.
    Frans was waiting for him just outside the door to the Old McDonald’s, a one-time convenient store.  His small, flashing eyes always made Kent think the man was paranoid, waiting for something to jump from the shadows and grab him.  Kent couldn’t blame him; he didn’t understand why there weren’t more people like him.
    Frans nodded.  “Hey, man.  What a crowd, huh?”  Eyes left.  Eyes right.
    “Yeah.  Big crowd.  There an, uhm, announcement today or somethin’?”
    Frans laughed.  “Yeah, there’s an announcement.  Something about equality or something for the betas.  More daylight time or something, I dunno.  You know, people always--”
    The world span.  Reforms getting equal rights?  Kent didn’t think so.  He had half a mind to march down to the podium and tell Governor Wallace what he thought about equality.  First they wanted to change the zetas to betas, and now they’re wanting to make betas equal to the so-called alphas?  The scum didn’t deserve equal rights with a tree, let along real human beings.
    “What a load a’ crap.  Those monsters...”  He spat.
    “Who, the betas or the politicians?”  Frans let a wicked smile cross his face.  Tiny teeth.  Beady eyes.  For a moment he looked like a large rat.
    “Funny.  You gonna take me in or what?”  The sun was killing his head, not to mention his filled bladder and smelly backpack.  Briefly Frans’ eyes fell upon his, and Kent thought he might’ve hurt the boy’s feelings.  A second later they were back dancing around.
    “Sure.  Sure.  C’mon.”  Frans led him down an alley.  It smelled like something rotten.  The beer threatened to come up, but soon they were through the stench and standing outside a sub-level door.  Frans tapped a few times and then produced a key.
    Inside, two thugs lowered their guns when they saw who it was.  Kent looked around.  Bodies everywhere, passed out or sleeping.  Some clothed, many not.  Used syringes and empty pill-tins lay cast about.  A cesspool of oblivion.
    They went down a small ramp and through a kitchen to an old office room.  Strung out junkies covered the place.  One woman was talking to herself about her babies, telling them they would be okay.  Several were sitting quietly, mind’s gone in private drug-fueled dreamlands.  Here, at least, one could find privacy.
    Frans knocked on the door and stepped inside.  A man about Kent’s age was sitting in a chair reading a book.  Varden Clark.  The most powerful man in the Hub.  “Ah, Frans.  I was wondering when you’d arrive.  Please, come in.”  They shut the door behind them.  “What can I do for you?”
    Flashing eyes again.  “Th-this is Kent Andrews, s-sir.  He’s got some business f-for you.”
    Varden put the book down and leaned forward.  “Business, eh?  What kind of business?”  His voice was smooth, like honey bourbon and iced Coke.
    Kent withdrew a dark stained sack from his backpack and tossed it on the table.  The bag came open and a head rolled out, falling to the ground.  Frans gasped.  The head smelled like it had been basking in a backpack for a few days.  It didn’t look any better.  A slight smile appeared on Varden’s face.
    “You said the reward was good dead or alive.  Well.  He’s dead.”
    “Yes, Mr. Andrews, he most certainly is.”

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.2

 This is the third post in this story.  You can follow the labels at the bottom (or here) to read back posts.  Thanks for reading!

--

Sienne
October 9, 2019

     Sienne’s arm hurt.  She’d been pricked and stuck with so many needles that, if her flesh wasn’t already dead, it would’ve been swollen and purple.  She didn’t know where she was, only that she was trapped and there was no escape.  It had been so long since she’d feasted that the pain in her stomach was now a constant companion, never leaving, always complaining.  Funny how pain never really disappears.
     The room was dark, cold, and void.  She’d grown used to it.  It was almost as if she existed in the deep blackness of space, far from all sources of light.  Or perhaps she was sleeping, mind tumbling through the infinite darkness within, forever.  But she no longer slept.  Not willingly.  A dead body needs no rest, no rejuvenation.  Only blood.  And flesh.
     She had neither.
     A loud bang hit the cell door and she jumped.  As much as she didn’t like the darkness, she hated the outside more.  The bright lights, blinding her sensitive eyes.  The raucous din of life and its ever present smell of human flesh.  The tests.
     She still didn’t understand why she could feel pain again.  She’d gone from a lethal hunter to a weakened animal in seconds, rendered incapacitated by a gut shot.  Since then her body had slowly been changing, almost as if nerves were trying to return to life.  But that was impossible.  Whatever had caused her transformation ruined her body, inside and out.
     The door began unlocking.  She crouched, ready to attack, lightly growling.  When it opened she jumped.  A man yelled.  Light spilled into the room.  The air grew charged and Sienne grabbed her ears.  She fell to her knees as the sonic blast sounded.  Her hands did little to protect her from the noise.
     The next thing she knew she was shackled and being led down the hall.  All around her she could smell them.  Succulent skin.  A hint of flowers and the richness of blood.  Some were heavily armored, like the ones that held her bound.  Others wore simple clothes that would offer no resistance to her teeth.  She only needed a moment of freedom and she’d be satisfied.  Just one taste.
     She tugged and thrashed against the ties, but it was no good.  No one even screamed.  The prey no longer recoiled in fear.  Instead they watched or ignored her, going about their normal business.  Did that even make them prey anymore?  If not, then what was she?
     Sienne was still trying to figure it out when she was led into a holding room.  Gone were the smells of perfumes and exposed bodies, replaced with the sterile odor of nothing.  The cables shackled to her arms were hooked to bolts on the floor and she was abandoned again.  Unable to move, panic poured through her.  She knew what was coming.  Tests.  More senseless babble she couldn’t begin to fathom.  More needle sticks and blade cuts.
     A soft hiss sounded above and the room suddenly smelled of honey.  The panic instantly calmed and the tension in her shoulders lessened.  She felt weary.  Numb.  Even her heightened senses relaxed and she felt her eyes droop.
     “S-33c for batch number 971n.  Doctor Couric and Doctor Andrews reporting.” 
     Sienne opened her eyes to two blurred figures moving about the room.  Everything was hazy, as if a fog had settled. 
     “Subject is responding as expected to gas.  No hostility.  Little movement.”
     Sienne’s vision sharpened.  She saw there were several wires running from her body.  A clear fluid was pumping cold into her left arm, just below the elbow.  Fingers were prodding her, poking and squeezing.  A muzzle was strapped tight around her face.  A metal rod touched her skin and she jerked.  The rod moved away for a second and then pressed hard into her upper leg.  It felt like thousands of squirming maggots were biting her, writhing in a frenzied circle, feasting inside.  She snarled.
     “Do you feel that?” One of the humans.  Male.  Middle-aged.  Hungry eyes.  The man poked again, this time harder, and Sienne whimpered.  The worms spread, gnashing, tickling.  “Subject responding to exploration in the adductor longus, adductor brevis, tensor fasciae latae, and seemingly all other thigh muscles on both legs.  This appears to stop at the knee.”  The human stepped back and eyed her. 
     She wanted to thrash and shake, but her body was heavy.  Lethargic.  She had no control of herself.  The other human stepped into view.  Female.  Similar age.  A smell of sweetened meat.  Fire haired.  The woman looked at her with unflinching weak eyes.
     “Do you hear me?”  The human sounded soft.  Delicate.  “Can you reason?”
     Sienne heard its sounds but she did not understand.  No more than one understands what a dog is saying when it barks.  The tingling in her legs was distracting her.
     “I think she hears me, but she doesn’t comprehend.  See how her eyes try to focus?”  The human stepped closer.  A bright light flashed across her eyes.  “There is some level of cognition, but whatever is causing the infection is inhibiting the human psyche.”
     Sienne faded in and out of consciousness.  Sometimes the room was brightly lit and she was surrounded by humans.  Once she even thought the muzzle was off and something was moving around in her mouth, but she had no energy to bite.  After a while, the lights and sounds and smells faded.  The tests were over.  At least for now.
     She sat up.  She was back in her cell, locked away again in the freezing room.  Her legs felt raw.  New pains blossomed when she moved from the chair, sharp enough that she stumbled and fell.  Spread out on the floor, unable to rise from suffering, she put her head to ground and mewled.  She was pathetic.  She was no hunter.  She was an animal, weak and helpless.  She longed for true death and its cold hands.
     She was still laying there when she heard it.  In the quiet, a soft, slow drumbeat.  Bum.  Bum.  It was familiar.  Bum.  Bum.  Her throat was throbbing.  Bum.  Bum.  Her chest was beating.

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.1

Kent
February 1, 2021

    Kent Andrews cracked his knuckles.  The popping annoyed Chloe and he knew it, but still he continued.  If she was going to keep on working with the Reforms then he was going to keep on protesting.

    She eyed him.  Kent shrugged, snapping his neck left, then right.  She particularly despised neck popping.

    “What?” he asked.  He didn’t hide the frustration from his voice.

    “How many times have I told you that doing that will give you arthritis?  When you can’t use your hands or turn your neck, don’t come crying to me.”

    Kent snorted.  “You still think we’re going to live to be old after everything we’ve been through?”

    The annoyance drained from her face.  For a fleeting second Kent could see the haunted look of the past three years flash across her eyes.  He was almost sorry he asked, but before sorrow could form, hard determination reappeared.  “Of course I do.  You don’t?”

    “No.  I don’t.”  The same images flashed through his mind.  The throng of people closing in.  Not knowing who was who.   Total chaos.  Hands clutching and grabbing, but the one that mattered slipping from his grip.  Screams and gunshots.  Loud wails and gentle moans.  He could still hear her shriek as the things pulled her away.  Daddy!

    Kent drained the dregs of the coffee, the bitter taste of expired beans fitting his mood.  He needed another cup.  Silence hung between them as he refilled the mug, letting the steam rise and warm his face.  Another cold day.

    “I should be back early tonight.  There’s not really much left for us to do.”  Kent didn’t say anything.  Chloe moved from the table and stood next to him.  “Maybe we could get some alone time in?  It’s been a while.”

    Her fingers traced his jaw, but he barely felt their touch.  Where is the woman I married?  He sipped the coffee, turning his face away.  He knew it hurt her, but she deserved it.  How could she want to help the monsters that took Kallie?

Soon she was out the door.  Kent wasted no time.  He threw on his thermals, grabbed his rifle, and headed out.

    Giant snow drifts hid most of the surrounding land.  Even the Mississippi River was concealed, though its churning gave its location away.  Kent sat in a tree on a deer stand, reclining against the pale bark.  His rifle lay loaded and ready at his side.

    He’d been sneaking out hunting for several months now, leaving after Chloe left for work and returning home before she came back.  She knew nothing of his trips into the wild.  The counselor in her would say that they paralleled his inner mind’s descent into darkness.  She’d be right.  Out in the wilds, where things before the Fall were ruins, Kent could find peace.  The budding life within the compound proper was just too much for him.

    Here he could let his mind roam.  He could lose himself in his savagery, like a man going native among scalpers.  The depression of the city did not exist outside its boundaries.  Stepping away was the only time he felt alive any more.

    So why do I keep going back?  He didn’t know.  He guessed he still loved Chloe, but it was no longer the flame it had once been.  After Kallie disappeared, his life went one way and hers went another.  He didn’t understand why she wanted to try and help them, the now-called zetas, as if renaming them would change their identities.  No, they were zombies.  Monsters.  Scum that deserved death, not redemption.  A bullet to the brain was the only mercy he’d show them.

    A few hours passed.  The sun brought a warm glow to the air, but Kent reckoned it was still below freezing.  Occasional gusts would chill him, even through the heavy thermals.  The woods were quiet, but they were not empty.

    Through the binoculars he could make out three shambling figures moving slowly towards the city.  His scent was concealed beneath clothes and a deodorizer, but the rag in his duffel would draw their attention.  They were still far out when he climbed down from the stand and made his way to a low hanging limb a few yards away.  He unlatched the container and slung the bloodied rag over the branch, careful not to touch it.

    Back in the stand he watched the creatures change direction.  Smelling the rag, they no longer shambled but instead ran.  Kent picked up his rifle and leveled his scope on the man on the left.  The thing’s mangy face came into view, skull-like and hollow, and he pulled the trigger.  A second later, the head was gone.  Kent repeated the process with the man on the right.

    The last zombie ran on, slowing only slightly once it realized its companions had fallen.  Kent pulled his scope up and stalled.  He hadn’t noticed before, but this one was young, a girl, probably around ten when she changed.  Wet, tangled hair fell from her head, the same auburn color as Kallie’s.  Kent shivered.

    It would be on the rag in seconds.  It might even be smart enough to see the trap, but he doubted it.  If it made it to the city, the CRC would certainly find it.  It’d be captured and whisked away to one of the RC plants and within a month released out into society, a beta.  A Reformed.

    Kent stared through the scope considering what the do.  Killing them wouldn’t bring back Kallie, but neither would letting one go.  And this wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed a child.  But she looks so much like Kallie...  He lowered the gun and watched the zombie grab the soiled rag.  It groaned as it licked the blood from the cloth, biting and gnawing like a dog chewing gristle from a bone.  There was no denying its hunger, its need for nourishment.  But Kent Andrews felt no sympathy for it.  They were always hungry.

    It stopped and sniffed.  In the quiet woods, Kent could hear its inhale, wheezy and thick.  It did it a few times and then went back to the rag.  Its back was to him now.  And while it took nourishment from the rag, it no longer resembled a small girl but instead the monster that it was.  He took quick aim and ended its existence.

    The rest of the day passed quickly.  Kent moved around to the various stands he’d constructed or found, baiting and killing with ruthless efficiency.  By two o’clock, he’d dropped twelve zombies using only fifteen shots.  The sun was deep in the western sky when he decided to head back home.
    Adrenaline had kept him warm throughout the day, but now that the excitement was over he was starting to cool off.  Long shadows kept his eyes jumping, fully alert for any lingering dead.  But the trip was uneventful, and soon the lights of the compound appeared.

    The place was a large, walled city.  Before the Fall it had been called Middle Port, a small city on the western edge of Illinois.  Now it was known as the Hub by some, Locus by others, and Central Station by most everyone else.  It was the largest of the newly established city-states, current population near two million, not counting betas.  It also was the headquarters for the Capture and Reformation Coalition.
    The west gate was still open as Kent made his way through.  Security wasn’t as tight as it was in the early days, though he still had to walk through the militia lines to enter.  Similar to airport terminals of old, he made his way through his usual line.  As always, Dave manned the station.

    “How’d it go today, Kent?”  
    “Not too bad.  Got fourteen of ‘em.”
    The older man chuckled.  “Good.  Keep it up.”
    “I plan to.  Looks pretty dead around here.”

    “Yeah, cold weather’s keeping most everybody inside I guess.  Or the dark.  Been a few RC crews in and out, but that’s about it.  Couple a transport vans.”  Dave spat.
    The two got along great.  Like everyone, they’d both lost family to the hordes.  Dave was as bitter as Kent when it came to Reformation, though, and because of that the two were fast friends.  If not for the man’s formidable size and prowess, not to mention years of military experience, the Hub’s militia would have decommissioned him after the first betas were released.

    “Well, let’s hope I got more than they brought in, huh?”
    “Definitely.”
    “Gotta head back to the house before Chloe gets home.  Later on.”
    He made his way down Center Street to the large hotel building.  He saw a few stragglers out, moving quickly to get indoors before sunset.  Kent scoffed at the double standards.  In public, people would say they supported the CRC, that they believed betas should be integrated back into society.  The same people hid behind their walls when the betas came out at night, terrified or angry as the next person.

    Before he entered the lobby, a convoy of dark vans drove past him.  They were unmarked, but everyone knew what was inside.  For a wild moment he thought about following them, sneaking behind the betas when they were released.  Maybe even doing a little late-night hunting.  He knew he could do it, but he wouldn’t beat Chloe home, nor would he be able to get away with the murders, either.  The same hiding people would call his actions heinous in the day and execute him without a second glance.
    He watched the last of the taillights disappear.  “Not tonight,” he said.