Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Antigeneration
Antigeneration
Antigeneration
Ebook453 pages6 hours

Antigeneration

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

It is the very near future. When men of the B-positive blood type begin to turn into reptilian creatures with the ability to fly, the world's population panics. Suddenly, all males born of the tainted blood type are feared. They are given an island, one where they are sent at the age of 30, one year before the change. Meanwhile, nobody knows why this is happening and why only males are affected.

When Vic and Peter Casey decide to keep their child, 95% of the world free of the B-poisitive antigen, or the Percentile, are dismayed by their "selfish" decision. Milo is born unwelcome by the Percentile. When he learns of the reasons, he sets out to understand why he will change at age 31 and, if possible, find a way to stop it from happening at all. The iron fist of the Percentile must contend with a large and growing underground force dead-set on the elimination of damning B-positive doctrines, leading Milo through a series of trials he truly never invited and the world through a gauntlet it is not prepared to embrace.

Strange footprints are marked and landscapes are unevenly shaped in this, the first of three parts.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 19, 2011
ISBN9781466174481
Antigeneration
Author

Aaron M. Patterson

Aaron M. Patterson writes fiction--some general and others science fiction--but always entertaining. He has a wide array of strongpoints in his writing. His poignant tales are dialogue-driven, character-developed, and plot-rounded. Patterson creates novels in the spirit of writers like Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, and Robert Charles Wilson. While Patterson is as of yet unpublished, he revels in the plethora of self-publishing options recently opening to new authors. He plans on self-publishing many of his full works of fiction on Smashwords, Lulu, Kindle, and other forms of publishing in the very near future. Patterson lives in South Charleston, WV, originally from Ravenswood in the same state, and holds both a BA and MS in Geography from Marshall University.

Read more from Aaron M. Patterson

Related to Antigeneration

Related ebooks

Science Fiction For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for Antigeneration

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Antigeneration - Aaron M. Patterson

    Chapter 1

    The doctor heaved, She’s crowning! Get the kit ready! The kit! It’s now or never, nurse! Get the kit!

    It’s ready, Dr. Hainy, Nurse Appleton relayed, embracing the syringe and its attached glass container.

    After nine minutes of labor, there was finally enough flesh available to get an accurate shot in. Dr. Hainy knew his brief window upon him. Now, nurse. Now!

    Nurse Appleton plunged the inch-long needle into the ear cartilage of the soon-to-be newborn. She pulled back on the plunger and out came blood, as expected. She filled the attached container with an abnormally large specimen, enough to receive immediate results, and removed it from the unborn child’s ear.

    Hurry it up, Kris, the doctor told the nurse. You’ve practiced for this for too many years. We need to know before the placenta emerges. He remained at the laboring woman’s feet, continuing to get the baby out. He would often look up at the woman, Victoria, with a face not kind or gentle, but more of disdain. The father, Peter, also found himself the victim of such glares.

    Meanwhile, Nurse Appleton dumped the contents of the glass container onto a square pewter tray with four flashing LED lights on all sides of its lips. The lights began to flash, upon which time the nurse looked over at the monitor, the letters A, B, AB, and O going through seemingly senseless cycles.

    The doctor, who should have been watching forward at the birth, couldn’t help but look backwards at the monitor. In fact, the parents found it of great interest as well, with Victoria temporarily forgetting about the pain. The room was saturated in anticipation over the outcome of the computer’s results.

    Vic, Peter softly said to his wife, his gruff voice tender even at moments of high stress. He’ll be our son, regardless. Okay?

    I know, Peter. She cried, naturally. I never thought anything else.

    The monitor’s race through the limited letters slowed down significantly, a change in letters occurring every two or three seconds. The letters were red, indicating there was nothing conclusive yet. Green would be absolute, the incontestable truth of the situation. Months of worry, doubt, harassment, and depression would be either realized or repealed once the letters turned green. And then it happened. The room went quiet, motionless. The five in the delivery room, including a secondary nurse, saw the green message on the monitor, telling in brilliant color of the baby’s fate. B+.

    Doctor Hainy, normally adept and keen to handle tough situations, forgot about the birth happening before him. Nurse Kris Appleton placed her hands over her mouth, unable to turn away from the monitor. Peter Casey instantly refocused on his wife and, in particular, his son being born. Victoria Casey, however, sunk into a daze free of much knowledge of her surroundings. She saw her son’s life before her eyes, from beginning to end, and all the horrors it would entail, keeping her from truly grasping the immediacy of the moment.

    Dr. Hainy! Peter angrily barked. The baby! Forget the goddamn monitor! Please do your job!

    The doctor hesitated, looking up at Peter as though he were asking him to build a nuclear device. But the man was right—this was his job. He tried his best not to shine his menaced eyes up at the parents. Alright, the head is out. He tugged harder before sticking his hands inside the birth canal and grabbing the appendages of the child. After another minute of pulling, the little boy was finally born and in the doctor’s hands, causing a sudden panicked rush to follow. Kris, the bucket please. He casually gave the newborn to the other nurse while Nurse Appleton came to him with a glass bucket half-full of sterile ice. After cutting the umbilical chord with scissors, Dr. Hainy allowed the flow of placenta to fully land in the bucket. And just like that, the event was over.

    Peter watched as the doctor carried the bucket out of the delivery room, wasting no time. Then Peter saw the nurses examining the baby, who had yet to cry a single whimper. They feverishly turned him over, on his sides, and then upside down.

    Right there, Nurse DeLong said.

    Nurse Appleton felt her hand around in that location. She then looked back at the parents, her hateful stare saying everything. She then walked over to them, putting on a friendlier face. Your child is numbered, Mr. and Mrs. Casey. Her matter-of-fact attitude and tone were of absolutely no comfort to the distraught couple. The hematological affirmation program on the computer confirmed it, but we also found the hidden spur undetected by ultrasound. We need to take your son to the laboratory for tests before we can release him to you. I’m sorry.

    How long will it be? Peter asked the nurse.

    One, two days if all goes well. In the meantime, I would suggest thinking of a name and, well, reading this.

    She handed Peter a large manual entitled ‘The Pros and Cons of Raising a Numbered Child’, with the word ‘Cons’ in boldly red letters. It sickened the twenty-five year old man. He knew this would happen. His lips grew tight, a sign of frustration and gritty hatred toward the nurse, who had since walked away with the baby.

    Peter realized his wife needed him now. But she looked on blankly at the door through which her son had gone. Dear? Are you in pain?

    She remained still. The chances were on our side, Peter. A 72% chance. They said that’s all we needed.

    But that still left a chance for this to happen. It doesn’t matter, dear. He’s our son. What will his name be?

    72% percent is usually a good thing, Peter.

    Vic, we should name the boy.

    He shouldn’t have been B-positive.

    Vic!

    It grabbed her attention.

    Listen to me, Victoria. I don’t care if the boy had been born with claws or wings already. He’s still our boy. He’ll grow, learn, and live just as any child would. What will be his name, Victoria?

    She peered up from the bed to her husband. My father, God rest his soul, had said that if I were to have a bonny son, I would need to take care of him until age thirty-one. I think he knew. So...

    Say no more, Victoria, Peter said. His name is Milo.

    ****

    Chapter 2

    It was Milo’s age of six, the prime year for learning in any child’s life. Breesum Elementary had long been known in the area as the school of excellence above all others. The Casey’s knew it would suit their boy best. And furthermore, it would show their twin daughters, two years Milo’s junior, of how learning goes. Milo, after all, knew how to speak fluently at two and read at three, a prodigy by any means.

    All greatness in him aside, neither Peter nor Victoria ever forgot the giant elephant standing intrepidly beside Milo all these years. A school Breesum may have been, but it would certainly contain much of the same prejudice that had haunted the family since the smart boy’s birth. He would need to face it, overcome it somehow, and continue forward into adulthood.

    Victoria, unashamed in her business attire before her client’s hearing later, knelt down beside Milo. You will only be able to shock them with your intelligence, Milo. Not your blood.

    Although his family had told him bits and pieces of who he was, he never truly grasped it. All Milo understood was that he was different. He was a child with childish desires and fortitude, too young to become some sort of flag-brandishing bringer of a message. I know, Mommy. I’m just like them.

    Remember, little man, what to say when someone calls you a ‘bonny’?

    I do. I tell them that I’m better than them.

    "Better than that, Milo, not them."

    Sorry, Mommy. I’ll get it right.

    The nice lady, scared in her own mind, noticed and understood her son’s nervousness. But Victoria and Peter had made a promise to Milo on the day of his birth—he would live as though his blood were the same as all other boys’, no matter the trials.

    Say goodbye to your sisters, Milo.

    Milo looked down on the small creatures by his feet, their bodies rarely leaving his side in all his apparent grandeur. Big brother was cool. Dana, Candace, I’m going to school now.

    But why, Milo? little Dana queried. You already can read.

    Because I need to know more. Take care of Mommy for me, the both of you.

    I will, Dana answered.

    I will, Candace followed.

    With that, Milo took his father’s hand and walked outside of the two-story house to the car in the driveway. His mother was right. He did have a commanding ache in his stomach caused by stress of the coming day. For six years old, Milo had a fine sense of the instability lying ahead of him. Television, though, had a role to play in its daily exposition of the treatment of those like him. Nevertheless, he had to attend school. If not for himself, then for his parents.

    His dad, a more passive personality than his mother, would rather tell Milo a joke than preach on the grounds of honesty. Not that he tried to avoid it, for his goal was simply to raise his son’s spirits. So, Peter said, driving, the marble says to the bagpipe...

    What’s a bonny, Dad? Milo interrupted.

    Son?

    It’s on the TV and Mom keeps saying it. I want to know what a bonny is.

    Why’s that, Milo?

    Because I know I am one. They’re going to call me that today.

    Well, Milo, I’m sure they won’t say that today.

    It’s no secret, Dad. Some of the kids at the park have called me bonny before. I never understood. Would somebody please tell me?

    And by somebody, you mean me.

    Yes, Dad. Please.

    Peter could dance around the subject no more. He saw Milo leering at him suspiciously from the passenger seat. He sighed. Everybody has a particular blood type. There’s A, B, AB, and O. Been that way throughout human history.

    Which do you have, Dad?

    I have AB-positive. Your mother has O-positive blood.

    And I have B-positive, I think.

    That’s right. Now around fifteen years ago, something strange was brewing inside of the B-positive blood types, such as yourself. Peter caught himself divulging what he and Victoria had sworn they wouldn’t divulge until Milo had turned ten years old.

    Dad? Can’t you go on?

    I...of course I can, Milo. He caught his breath and slowed the car in the city street to a near crawl. He had to compromise between informing his son and keeping his promise to Victoria. Males with the positive version of B blood type, those who were past a certain age that is, well, they began to change. Back then, however, it was assumed to be random.

    Change into what? the young boy, somewhat afraid, asked his father.

    Um, their bodies began to, um, become different from everybody else. He paused again.

    Is this hard, Dad?

    No, no, Peter lied. It’s fine, Milo. Alright, you know how people see you and find you adorable?

    Yes. Unless they know about my blood.

    "That aside, the normal, good people find you quite alluring and fun, just like any little boy. That’s because you are a normal little boy. However, once you hit a certain age you’ll be known as something else entirely. Don’t be scared when I tell you this, Milo."

    I won’t be, Dad.

    Very well. People will fear you, but not because of who you are in real life. They’ll fear your appearance.

    What will I look like?

    The miniphone in Peter’s ear suddenly began to ring. His contact lens display read ‘Megan’ in green digital letters. Answer, he said.

    Hello, Peter, his younger sister said.

    Well, hi there, Megan. What’s happening?

    Just wanted to know if you and the troop will be coming to the family picnic at Rollins Lake this weekend.

    Perhaps. Depends on whether or not Vic’s client accepts the plea. Sorry I can’t give you a more forward answer.

    No problem. Just tell us before Friday. The whole family’ll be there.

    Alright then. Bye bye, Megan.

    Have a fine day, Pete.

    And just like that, the father and son were before the school that bustled with small kids and yellow school buses. The call interrupted Peter’s speech, leaving a gaping loose end at Milo’s expense. I can finish if you want me to, son.

    But the moment had passed. Milo had already begun unfastening his seatbelt as he saw his friend Martin racing toward the car. Peter put the car in park and rushed around to Milo’s side. Hey, look who’s here.

    I’m glad Martin’s starting school with me, Dad.

    I am too, son. Good to have someone you know with you.

    To the assembly hall of Breesum Elementary the crowd went, Peter holding his son’s hand and Milo exchanging quick youthful quips with Martin about cartoons. Roughly ninety kids were starting school that day as far as Peter could see. To this point, all had gone relatively well considering the circumstance.

    A man, very wide, heavily bearded, and overly dressed, took his stance before the podium in the assembly hall. Peter had met Principal Ortiz one month earlier. He thought of him as honest and forthright, one of the factors in deciding to send Milo to Breesum.

    Ladies and gentlemen, the principal said over the microphone, let us start the assembly.

    The crowd promptly hushed.

    One hundred and thirteen children are lucky enough to begin their education with us today. One hundred and thirteen children will receive the benefit of one of the best places of learning in the entire state of Ohio. We not only owe it to these children for their astounding intellect at such a young age, but also to the parents who spot such excellence and push to develop it into world-changing splendor. Boys and girls, please clap your hands for your wonderful parents. Principal Ortiz produced a blinding smile as he clapped loudly into the microphone along with the children.

    Peter, meanwhile, repeatedly noticed the many gawks coming his way from the people, mostly mothers, in the assembly hall. He expected as much—most places where the knowledge of Milo was present bred such gawks. But seven years into the game had made him a pro at ignoring. The principal had been going on the entire time.

    And, of course, your children will always receive emotional guidance when it is deemed necessary. After three years at Breesum, your children will graduate and be promoted to our sister school, Perry Schuyler Academy, where the curriculum is more advanced and the possibilities are higher.

    The crowd applauded.

    Now, I would like to open the floor up to questions before your children embark upon their selected classes.

    A middle-aged woman with short red hair stood from near the front row. Hello, Mr. Ortiz.

    Ma’am.

    I would like to know when my Gianni will be able to sign up for the school’s baseball team.

    Principal Ortiz enjoyed the easy question. Well, ma’am, baseball season starts in February. Gianni can sign up then.

    A bald, older gentleman stood up just three rows from Peter and Milo. Good morning, Principal Ortiz.

    Very fine morning to you, Dr. Birch. What question do you have for the class?

    Could you please inform this audience, kind sir, of precisely how many numbered children there are joining Breesum today?

    The question, somewhat shocking but not really surprising, created a mild gasp throughout the audience.

    I can answer that question, the principal unclearly said.

    Both Peter and Milo were very aware of the quick flood of glances in their direction. Dr. Birch, heavily respected in the city, turned around briefly to heave a victorious smirk in the faces of the father and son.

    Dr. Birch, ladies and gentleman, this fall Breesum Elementary is enrolling three boys of the numbered nature. Everything has been considered in this situation and you have nothing to worry about. These three bonnies will grow with the rest of your children, normal and unthreatening.

    Peter instantly felt the slap in his face from the principal’s icy words. He stood up very fast, along with John Peyton’s mother, Olive. Principal Ortiz, Peter confidently said, how could you?

    I’m sorry? the principal said.

    They’re boys, no different from the others here. You’re talking about them like they’re infected.

    I agree! Olive Peyton erupted, nearly in tears. Forget about their blood, Mr. Ortiz. Let them learn.

    "And don’t you ever, ever, call them bonnies again. Do you understand? They’re numbered."

    Mr. Casey and Mrs. Peyton, I assure you I meant nothing derogatory by my statement. However, since I can see that it does upset you, I will refrain from using the term and instruct the school’s administration that it will be disallowed to be muttered in Breesum upon penalty. He would not follow through with this promise.

    The argument would become heated, then cool down, then rise again for another ten minutes. Most of the people in the audience had their opinions ready at the helm before walking in that morning. The nation in 2028 found the topic of bonny boys of great interest, far above anything else. Breesum Elementary School, the city of Derrytown, and the state of Ohio all needed to express their opinions about them.

    But not Milo. His was a mind of power, enough to shrug off the obvious dirt flung at him. At six, he knew not all people were like this lot of scum in the assembly hall. Still, he deeply wondered what it was he would be in the future, what would make people so afraid of him. And for that, Milo resolutely fit himself into a tight coffer of fear, one that would keep him and his mind quiet for many years to come.

    ****

    Chapter 3

    The only agenda was to get home, to ask his parents what this thing was. Milo, squeaky-voiced at age twelve, never forgot that he was somehow different, choosing however to let time tell him in its own little way. But this, a small, bloody, painful extrusion exiting the skin at his heels, seemed to push the issue to the forefront.

    Slamming open came the wooden front door, the hobbling Milo Casey following shortly thereafter. It gained the attention of Peter and Victoria, both arguing about something on the phone with somebody. They immediately ran downstairs to uncover the plot.

    Milo? Victoria said. What’s your problem, honey?

    Milo simply stood like a mannequin in the doorway, eyeballing his noticeably shaken parents.

    Do you have a question for us, Milo? his father asked.

    The couch in the living room beside the entry seemed oh so comfortable. It was Milo’s only destination at the moment. He fell on the cushions, seemingly forgetting the troubled look he’d planted on his parents. But when they walked in front of the couch, he once again burned holes into their eyes.

    Peter sat on the wicker rocking chair by the window. I suppose you want us to explain some things to you, son.

    Milo kept his lips snarled, thinking before saying the wrong thing. It’s my feet. My feet, Mom, Dad.

    Victoria already knew the problem. She went to the kitchen to gather some bandages and alcohol.

    Peter leaned toward his son, biting his nails without putting his fingers near his mouth. What does it feel like?

    Feel? Milo replied, sarcasm plentiful. How can I explain it, Dad? I’m in algebra class today, nothing out of the ordinary. Suddenly, this stinging sensation comes to my feet. It hurt. It hurt real bad. I could hardly even walk to the toilets.

    Son...

    You’ll have time for excuses after I’m finished. I get on a toilet and take off my shoes to find both feet soaked in blood. I couldn’t see any scars, but I could still feel the pain. After feeling around, I noticed these little tooth-like things sticking out of my heels. What the hell is that, Dad? Huh?

    Milo, his mother said, sitting beside him on the couch with a large rag, gauze, and rubbing alcohol. Please don’t be upset. This is normal.

    Milo wanted to hit his mother, and his father. They were holding something back. Alright. Fine. Dad, you wanted to explain, so be my guest. What is it?

    Amidst his son’s panicked rant, Peter was astonished at Milo’s sudden maturity. He’d always been a child, thinking, talking, and walking like a child to this point. That on the back of your feet, Milo, is what they refer to as your markers, the first sign of your coming self.

    It made Milo even more confused. But he caught his breath. "Okay. Okay, Mom and Dad. I remember those speeches you tried to tell me when I was a kid. I remember neither of you being able to finish them. Why? I don’t know. But this is the time. Before you tell me exactly what this marker is, tell me why I’m called a bonny, why most of the people in the world are scared of bonnies, and why I am always teased and hated at school and everywhere else I go."

    Peter? Victoria said, implying something.

    Go ahead, dear.

    The caring mother took the shoes and socks off of her son’s feet. Sure enough, blood ran a river on them. The word ‘bonny’ is a skewed and shortened version of the term ‘B-positive’.

    My blood, Milo added.

    That’s right. It became popular around 2014, a short time after the first males began changing, but very shortly after it was all traced to the type-B blood antigen.

    She thought Milo would say something then. He did not.

    When all men at or above age thirty-one transformed into creatures with almost mythical proportions, the rest of the world’s population, 95%, used ‘bonny’ as an easier way to classify their fears. The correct term for your case, however, is numbered, for the number you had permanently marked on the small of your back.

    You’re 19-033-02, Peter said. It’s nearly impossible to see by your naked eye, but any number verifier can automatically scan it from three hundred yards away.

    Milo remained quiet.

    Everybody became scared, afraid of what they didn’t know, Victoria continued. And to this day, we still don’t know why B-positive and why only males and why in 2012. There’s been little progress in the field. That’s why you are constantly ridiculed, Milo. That’s why our family gets harassed and that’s why you are feared as well as taunted. Fear is a very powerful motivator for hate, honey. When we knew in 2020 that there was a chance, albeit a small one, of having a numbered child, everybody did everything in their power to talk us out of having you. But we wouldn’t hear of it. You’re our son, numbered or not.

    Can you answer me this? Milo asked both of his parents.

    Of course we can, son, his father said.

    What will become of me at thirty-one that makes people so afraid?

    Peter realized that with the internet and moving books around for him to see at any time, no longer could he keep it from Milo. Other than the very small things, such as your markers today and a tiny protrusion along your back, roughly four months before your thirty-first birthday you’ll experience an incredible increase in bone mass. Your limbs will lengthen greatly. Your skin will become gray and scaly. The hair on your head, if you still have any, will fall out, as will the hair throughout your body. Your skin will gradually become scaly and turn gray, like a reptile’s flesh. Your mouth will jut out, making room for the deadly incisors to come. A very thick tail will begin to grow from your rear end. The tail will eventually reach four to six feet in length.

    Honey? Victoria said, worried over her son’s mental welfare. Do you want us to continue?

    He gave his mother a look of sheer disgust. There’s more?

    There is, Peter said. Your feet will form claws at the toes. The same with your hands. And with your feet, they’ll lengthen to the size of your femurs, or thigh bones. This is for leaping great heights and enduring much safer landings. You’ll lose some muscle mass to compensate for your immense bone expansion.

    Wait, Milo said, shaking his head with his eyes closed. You’re making it sound like I’m going to be an animal. An animal?

    Not so much, Victoria said. But your father hasn’t reached the final part, the one that scares everybody the most.

    Well then, you’d best get to it, Dad.

    Son, this is hard, I know. I’ve agonized over this day your entire life. But it’s here.

    I know, Dad. Go on.

    Remember, Milo, that this all happens in a two to three month time span. At that point, the most significance event occurs.

    Victoria, horrified over the actuality of the moment, ran to the adjoining dining room and turned her head, trying to hold in the vomit.

    Son...you’ll form two prominent arches in your back a year or so before the final conversion. They’ll be vertical, side-by-side. Bones, if you will. In the last moments, the bones will erupt from your flesh and muscles, reaching back far and wide. Attached to these bones are a membrane, veiny and thin but very strong.

    What? Dad, what’s the membrane for?

    For flight, Milo. Wings.

    The boy, twelve and very different than he was only ten minutes prior, would have been able to hear his mother’s pitied sobbing if not for the sudden swath of quiet he subconsciously placed in his brain. The universe was drowned, his own device. But then, like a train hitting him, he needed to know more. These markers on my feet. Are they for balance or something?

    That’s what the experts assume, Milo, Peter answered.

    And who are these experts?

    Well, as a matter of fact, we were just on the phone with one before you rushed in that door. Dr. Hainy, the man who delivered you, has since become one of America’s leaders in research of the numbered.

    Victoria managed to pull herself away from her self-induced weep of despair long enough to help explain. When he delivered you, Milo, Dr. Hainy was quite hateful of us. He pleaded with your father and I to terminate the pregnancy, somehow knowing you would be B-positive. He’s different now, checking up on us, you, from time to time.

    The twin girls, both with red backpacks strapped to them and smiles purely blazing, walked inside the house. They noticed the staleness in the air.

    What’s happening? Candace asked, her head cocked to the side.

    ****

    Chapter 4

    National newspapers splashed similar headlines in bold letters: ‘Societal Reasoning Addendum a Responsible Habit for the Numbered’; ‘The House’s Vote on the SRA - a Winner for Most’; ‘The Percentile Wins – Societal Reasoning Addendum Passes’; ‘The Numbered Now Numbered with SRA’. Big news, and on the worst possible day for Milo.

    Peter Casey had died two days after Milo’s twenty-second birthday. A severe stroke, the doctors said, and the autopsy proved it. April in Ohio would normally mean spring, rebirth, and a wave of freshness. It was all there this afternoon, but it had to be endured at the cemetery where the Casey family, now a foursome, buried the man in charge. Most of what was left of the extended family on Peter’s side—the sister, the brother, the supportive aunt, and the insulting step-mother—were in attendance.

    Milo had to leave Northwestern in the height of finals season to attend. He’d rather not attend at all. In the years following the enlightenment of his condition by their admission, Milo had grown extremely close to his parents. No two moms and dads could ever be as good as Peter and Vic, according to the young man. So, naturally, Milo would rather be somewhere else at this moment than at his father’s funeral.

    But the funeral itself wasn’t putting the foul stench into the nose of Milo. Instead, it was the horde of protesters and press beasts outside the cemetery gates causing a nice fuss over the death of this man. He wasn’t lauded and he wasn’t missed. Not by them. His seed, with the help of the mourning widow, had consciously created the bonny life standing there, also in mourning. Signs of ‘GOOD RIDDANCE SPAWNER’ and ‘DEMON PARENT NO MORE’ and the like poured a sour odor over the already miserable air.

    In recent years, numerous deaths around the globe had been attributed to those few B-positive men left unaccounted whose conversions were never monitored, most of which happened in third world countries. Reports shouted, and horrifically accurately, of murder and cannibalism on the part of bonnies, although cannibalism was technically false due to bonnies being a completely different species. Some, like livid religious groups, found the recent growth in bonny-related deaths a sign of an evil hand at play, and so lobbied through disgusting acts to have all B-positive men eliminated and parents with the potential of having such a child sterilized permanently. Others simply joined the crowd, knowing something was up, hence the display by the cemetery.

    Why do they have to do this? Dana asked her brother and sister, tears melting her eyes.

    They’re afraid, Milo said. His dry eyes confounded his mother and sisters.

    No! Candace masterfully rebutted. Those pieces of shit are celebrating the SRA. They’re happy. How?

    Victoria knew she had to pick up the slack where Peter left off. It’s human nature, kids. They’d rather attack what they don’t understand than let it go. She rested her head on Milo’s very broad shoulder, his height trumping hers significantly. How are you fairing, Milo?

    As good as I can, Mom. Thanks.

    Victoria easily heard the chant of, Put the bonnies down! from her position. It made her ponder the events that led her to this point. She finished her little daydream by looking down at the two steel bars perpendicular to the ground running from the heels of the boots to the ankles on both of Milo’s feet. He’d worn those things since specialists found a way to keep the marker pain at a minimum in 2035. It was a blessing for Victoria, a curse for Milo.

    Elementary school, grade school, junior high, and high school, although challenging in his state, were all conquered by Milo with triumph. His salutatorian status helped him land a spot in the newly-formed morphological neurobiology class at the university. The boy was determined to find the cause of numberism, a relatively new term. However, college came with a host of problems, namely with those damn braces on his feet. He walked like any other would walk, ran that way too. But the mere sight of the braces told everybody who saw them that the wearer would one day become an animalistic being of flight, one which may or may not have a bloodlust built in, according to reports. The published articles he had studied, on the other hand, strongly suggested against such a trait.

    The small yet loud funeral ended. Megan, Peter’s sister, had requested a police escort for the family in and out of the cemetery, perfectly anticipating the angered lot outside. With everybody in their vehicles, the lead patrol car obeyed the instructions to leave the cemetery at the north end, away from the crowd. They were escorted away from the sad place to Victoria’s house, the house where Milo and his sisters were raised, for the wake.

    Alcohol was never a strong part of Milo’s life. It always tasted bland, if not puke-like. Nonetheless, he found it quite easy to take down three bottles of stout beer in the course of thirty minutes. He deserved as much, if only to calm his nerves. He sat alone at the table in the den. Dana walked in, a beer in her hand as well.

    So, Northwestern man. What’s been happening in your life lately?

    Milo didn’t really know what to say. At the cemetery, Dana was terribly upset. She appeared to be over it now, although he was certain it was an act. It’s tough, Dana. Real tough. Not like you at Kent.

    Nah, Milo, Candace is at Kent State. I’m at Louisville. And what makes you think it’s not tough on us?

    Is it honestly necessary for me to explain?

    It is, Dana fervently said. Like it or not, me and Candace are known as the sisters of a bonny. Do you realize how hard it is for me to get a date with that kind of pressure? She giggled.

    Milo returned no such giggle. A date? That’s nothing. Not only do I have to keep a perfect GPA, but I also have to lead numbered support groups, write a weekly report of my blood levels to the campus numbered liaison, give the Chicago B-positive Accountability Branch a sperm sample twice a month, and perform experiments at the lab. I’ve not gotten in much time to workout or anything lately.

    Wait, Dana chuckled, much to Milo’s chagrin. Since when did you have to give the B-PAB a sperm sample?

    "I thought you knew already, Dana. Shit. Do you want

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1