Seeing Death

Annie Cormac shook her head. “In the thirty years I’ve been running group homes, I’ve not had a single kid turn into a monster. A couple of werewolves and one vamp. That’s it. All three of them have gone on to successful careers and happy lives. They are not monsters. No one affected by the gene mutation is, and I won’t have you using that word in this house.”

“Sorry, Annie.”

“I should think so. I know the virus killing your parents has been hard but remember, they were part of the team that found the cure.”

“I don’t remember them, you know that. I was a baby when they died, and no different from thousands of other kids whose parents were taken. I’m not complaining.”

“Fifty years to find a cure. So many deaths.”

“And so many people with traits we all thought were the stuff of movies and books. What if I…”

“None of that now. Even if you do turn out to be lupine or sanguine, it’ll make little difference. You’ll have to take an additional minor at college is all, so that you learn to cope with the changes to your body. A good portion of men in the military, police force and fire service are wolves now. Vamps make great doctors and scientists.”

“But what if I’m…different?”

“Oh, honey, other changes are so rare that’s very unlikely. You’ll wake up tomorrow and be your usual grumpy self.”

“I can’t imagine how much of a crap fest it would be to discover you can suddenly read minds or predict the future like some kind of oracle.”

“Which is why people like that have to be protected by the authorities. How many seers or augurs have you heard of in your lifetime? I can only recall one, so stop worrying. You’ve got more chance of winning the lottery.”

“I guess. How does the gene even know when a person reaches eighteen? Is it in there putting crosses on a calendar or something—like its counting down to Christmas?”

“That’s one of several mysteries yet to be solved. Same as why the virus was only fatal to certain age groups while others didn’t even know they had it, and why the virus only activates the gene in males.”

“There’ll be lots of kids like me at college, won’t there?”

“Sure will. Fifty percent of kids in your generation grew up in group homes just like this one.”

Bryn drained his mug. “I want tomorrow to be over so I can get back to worrying about my college roommate turning out to be a trombone player. Normal stuff.” He shoved his chair back. “Thanks for the chocolate, Annie. I’ll be in my room embracing my Goth tendencies.”

“Keep the volume down.” Annie pulled him into a hug. “What will be, will be, Bryn. Try to get some sleep.”

Bryn left the familiar warmth of the kitchen and climbed the three flights of stairs to his attic room. As the current oldest ward of the group home, he had a room to himself. Everyone else had to share, which he’d also had to do until the previous eldest had moved out two years before. In a house full of noisy kids ranging in age from four to seventeen, his room was his sanctuary. It was a quiet place to study and to dream. He couldn’t wait to leave for college and the government funded full-ride scholarship that would allow him to study biochemistry. One day he wanted to join the team researching the effects of the virus that had taken his parents. The cure was a recent discovery and, though future generations might be protected by infant vaccination, it didn’t work on those who had already turned.

It was getting late and he should sleep. Tomorrow there would be a cake and gifts, even though for him the celebration would be tinged with sadness. Reaching eighteen meant that his time at the group home was coming to an end. It was all he’d ever known, but he had his college place and in two weeks would be moving on. He had to pack up his life into a few boxes and leave Annie and the other kids behind. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time.

His room was a reflection of his personality. The walls were covered with posters of indie rock bands begged from the downtown record store. His shelves were stacked with an eclectic mix of books on topics as diverse as archeology to zoology and fiction covering everything from horror and thrillers to the classics. Reading had always been an escape and Bryn’s part-time job bagging groceries at the neighborhood store had funded his addiction.

He picked up a framed photo of his parents. The smiling people staring back at him were strangers, but he had inherited his mother’s black hair and his father’s green eyes and pale skin. The mixture of Irish and Hispanic heritage from generations back had come through strong in him. He’d been a late child, a welcome surprise after years of trying, and because of that his grandparents had all passed on. Neither of his parents had any siblings, which meant that when the virus took them, he was left alone. If he had any relatives anywhere, he didn’t know about them and presumably they had no idea he existed. No one had ever tried to claim him.

After kicking off his battered boots, Bryn stretched out on his bed. He didn’t undress because he had yet to make a pre-sleep trip to the bathroom, which was on the floor below. He had on black jeans and a black T-shirt—there were no other colors in his wardrobe. He spotted a hole in one sock and wiggled a pale toe. Maybe vamping out wouldn’t be too bad. He tongued an incisor. It’s not like sanguines turn into bats or anything, just need more red meat than most and high factor sunscreen. Don’t think I’d make a great wolf though, they’re way too energetic. Those with the wolf gene were stronger, faster and usually hairier than an average human. They did not howl at the moon, silver didn’t kill them and they didn’t turn into slavering beasts. No painful bone cracking or shredding of clothes. All the myths and legends are a crock of shit but they have to mean that the genes have been active in the past. They must have been dormant and the virus reactivated them somehow. That was the working theory anyhow. Meanwhile, boys reaching maturity continued to approach their birthdays with trepidation.

“Annie’s right, of course. Fuck all I can do about it,” Bryn grumbled. He cracked a yawn and took that as a signal to head for the bathroom. Morning would come soon enough and he wanted to face it with a clear head.