CHAPTER EIGHT
Chaz:
I was eleven years old the first time I saw a Newbie, the first time I saw life and death trade places. I guess my life had been pretty sheltered up to that point.
A state-appointed teacher came to our cell, wearing one of those government suits with the high collar, his breath a mixture of coffee and mint. My brother Russell and I, we sat in the back and pretended to pay attention while the guy peddled the Ideal Plan, we even made faces at each other behind his back. We only had seven kids in our cell, but we could tell that we made him nervous. Seven kids in one room was enough to unnerve almost anyone. Ia€?d heard of cells with as many as sixteen kids, but personally, I dona€?t know if I really believe it.
We each had two bodyguards inside the room, armed and able to kill with their bare hands in less than three seconds if necessary. And outside the room there were at least fifteen more. A crackle of handset communications buzzed continuously between the teachera€?s sentences, a hoarse whisper of monotone voices.
a€?a€”Sadie took her medicine, yes, I will get her there in timea€”a€?
a€?a€”piano lessons at three. Of coursea€”a€?
a€?a€”Jeffrey is listening to the teacher, Mrs. Damottaa€”a€?
The Ideal Plan had been enforced for the past fifteen years, so I had to study it just like everybody else, whether I wanted to or not. The teacher did his best to explain everything, all the way from Life Number One to Life Number Nine, covering everything from sterilization to college to the legal procedures involved in fighting a death cert case; then he gave us each a contract. My best friend, Pete Laskin, signed his that same day. I heard that his mother cried for a week when she found out, but it didna€?t matter. They kept us separated from our parents for a full month, so we could think about it without their influence. Sadie Thompson, a twelve-year-old dream come true who barely knew my name, laughed and signed hers almost immediately, dotting the a€?ia€? in her name with a heart. Russell, who was thirteen and of an age to make his own decision, immediately folded his contract into quarters and handed it back. Unsigned. No thank you, Mr. Government Man. Can I go home now, please?
At eleven years old, I was the youngest in our cell. Everyone else had to make up his mind within our month of isolation. But I had a full year to make my decision.
So that was when Dad started taking me to work, on the pretext that it was time for me to learn about the family business. Ia€?ll never forget that first day. Mid-October. Dry leaves whisked across the streets, crackled beneath my feet and turned to dust. The sky burned blue and bright overhead. A cool breeze poured between the buildings like fresh water, a welcome respite after the unending summer. People had been dying all over New Orleans from an abnormally long heat spell. Mostly old people, but a few babies had passed too.
Fresh Start had been busy, everyone working double shifts. Two extra crews had been flown in from Los Angeles. Ia€?m sure thata€?s why it happened. Somebody was too tired and the out-of-state crews didna€?t know our procedures.
I have to believe it was a mistake. The other possibility, that my father let it happen on purpose to teach me a lessona€”well, I just cana€?t go for that. Russell, in one of his dark moments, said that Dad did it to show us that life is, and should be, unpredictable, that we never should have pretended to be God.
Mom refuses to talk about it. I have to admit I admire her for not taking sides. I know she had an opinion about all of it, she always did. But for whatever reason, she let Russell and me make our own decisions, about Fresh Start, about the Ideal Plan, about what happened to the Newbie on that October day.
The inside of the plant was everything Ia€?d hoped it would be. All stainless steel and molded plastic in the industrial sections; all luxurious leather and ceramic tile in the public areas. Not that anyone would want to, but you could eat your lunch on the floor anywhere in that 200,000-square-foot facility back then. It was that clean. And the smell was a bizarre mixture of dentist-office-scary and new-car-exciting.
For years, whenever anyone found out that I was Chaz Domingue, of the Fresh Start Domingues, a hush would sweep through the room almost as if something just sucked out all the oxygen. A long quiet would follow. And then when people started to talk again they would be ever so polite, opening doors for me, asking me if I would like some candy, asking my opinion about the weather. I liked the attention at first, but by the time I was a teenager I realized it was based on a combination of fear and envy. So I quit telling people my last name. Sometimes I pretended to be someone else entirely. When I got older I even pretended to be a Stringer, just because I wanted to fit in.
But on that October afternoon, when the sunlight was slicing through the warehouse at a steep angle, when the sounds of the city seemed muted because so many people had died, on that day I decided that I never wanted to jump. No matter how much I wanted to be like other people. No matter how much I wanted to live.
That day, one of the Newbies got stuck in between lives. In some nether world, where dark, swirling creatures spin traps like spiders. She got caught. Her old body, withered and white with decay, lay discarded on the other side of the frost-etched glass. Her new-cloned body, as beautiful as Eve herself, lay expectant on a metal gurney, modestly covered in white linen. Neither body breathed, neither had life. All the equipment was suspiciously silent, no beeps to register heartbeat or brainwave patterns. Too much time had passed. The technicians began to get nervous, but Dad just raised one hand to quiet them.
a€?Give her a minute,a€? he said, a tone of assurance in his voice.
But several more minutes passed and the clone continued to stare, sightless, at the ceiling.
And then, like it was straight out of a nightmare, she started to talk. The machines refused to admit there was life in either body, yet some alien consciousness caused the clonea€?s mouth to move and a hollow voice to speak.
The things she said have haunted my dreams, might just follow me all the way past Judgment Day into the great beyond. Might bring torment with me, like shackles, into Goda€?s kingdom, whether he likes it or not.
a€?I cana€?ta€|I cana€?t break free,a€? she said, still staring up at the concourse of pipes and ducts that traversed the warehouse ceiling. a€?Ia€?m tangled in something. It feels like a web.a€? Tears streaked her face. Slow, glycerin-like streams. a€?Theya€?ve been chasing me and Ia€?m so tired of running, of trying to hide. Oh, please get me out of here! I dona€?t know where I am. Therea€?s no light, just a dark glowing horizon, like fire in the distance. And these creaturesa€”a€? She moaned, a heartbreaking cry, long and low and inhuman. I found myself wondering if we were really listening to a woman or if some spirit from beyond had commanded an audience. a€?Theya€?re like spiders, but much bigger. I saw one of them eat a man. It ripped his head right off.a€? Her eyes closed.
Meanwhile, my father ran around the room, fiddling with dials, gesturing to the other workers to try and save her.
a€?Ita€?s so dark. So cold,a€? she whispered, her voice hoarse. a€?And Ia€?m so alone.a€?
Most of them stood frozen, like me. Listening.
Then she turned toward one of them, looked right at him. Allen was his name. She reached one arm out, then shrieked. And she was gone.
To this day I still imagine her trapped in a twilight world, waiting for someone to rescue her. But I know now that no one ever will. God wouldna€?t have left her there if she were one of His. Even if we had messed with His plan, with His order laid down from the beginning, He still wouldna€?t have abandoned one of His chosen.
Thata€?s the only way I can rationalize all of it.