"That checks it?" He asked.
"A little direct, but whose to say I'm complaining."
Daniel was all things unsettling. His black hair fell like straw over his ears, his bones protruded sharply from his body, and his eyes sank with the weight of dark bags under them. Back resting against the chair, one leg dangled over the other, and a skeleton hand was found wrapped around the cup between his thighs.
"I like you, Janey." A predator's gaze penetrated the confines of his eyes. "Looks like you and me are gonna get along just fine."
Then, there was that smile that Janet decided to ignore.
"So, how did this all began?" She clasped her hands over the table.
"Well, a little backstory seems necessary. You see, I was just trying to get a job:
.....
The Pentonville Agency was the best in the country. You know as well as everyone else. What set them apart were the various sectors dividing their mission. The Walkers; who did the main job. The Burners; who burned the bodies afterwards. The students; learning the medicinal arts. And, the teachers who taught them.
Fresh out of academia, I was sick with ambition: I was meant to be a Walker.
Many people say that, but few actually stick to it. Finding the body, carving the chest, and yanking that dead, rotting heart out, was what I was made to do. I wanted the job not because of the fame of it-not because I wanted to be some soldier or hero who was brave enough to enter a plagued home-but because it was the one thing I was good at.
Now, imagine my surprise having passed every foolish exam possible, and possessing one too many credentials to my name, only to listen to that moron say I wasn't eligible.
"Well, you certainly seemed qualified," I still remember his overly zealous voice.
"Dare I say too qualified." The dean flipped through my file. "But, I'm afraid you can't get the part."
I was a little shocked.
He kept going. "Unfortunately, we have strings attached when it comes to jobs like these. But, hey! You're a smart young lad. I'm sure you'll get to great places one day. And besides, someone like you would be perfect as a tutor, here."
I wondered how many before me heard the exact same words, only in different phrasing. This man just called me poor, and insulted me to my face by reducing my far superior skill to a teacher. But, that wasn't even what pushed me. It was the brute that walked past when I released from my humiliation. Out in the hallway, he patted me in the back like I was some child who soiled his sheets, telling me 'there's always next time.'
I knew he was the one. So, of course I followed him home. The idiot stopped by some cafe, spending four hours with his mistress. Who spends four hours in a cafe? Nonetheless, I waited for him outside. He riled me up so good, I didn't even miss my appetite. When he left, I got on his tracks again. And, then he did something else stupid. You won't believe the kind of gift he bought for her. He—
Actually, nevermind. So, I followed him back to his apartment and, when the night went cold, I sneaked in.
I thought it over many times, don't go assuming I didn't. Trust me. It was the right decision. What did I do, you ask me? Well, let's just say, I made sure I left him in a river of his own blood.
I won't say how that felt, the murder. Just that I covered myself well. Because, the next day, guess who called me for a position at Penton just opening. Fresh as steak on a silver platter!
I really hate the food here, mind my manners. But, I got what I wanted. And, you know what? To this day, no one knows that I was the one who killed that fella.
Now, I know that's not why you're here, Janey. So, I'll keep going.
First day on the job is when it all went wrong, or so I initially thought. I remember my assignment; a ten-year-old boy in the western side. Pitiful, really. We don't see much of the Plague these days but, just a year ago, it was taking lives left and right without prejudice. His grandmother phoned the agency. Apparently, the boy had been sick for a while and finally succumbed the night prior. They never noticed the symptoms and so the place needed a full sweep, and the family a proper funeral. That was where I came in.
I was the surgeon with the courage to enter a place where even the deceased's loved ones didn't trek.
I had on my mask and gloves, but the place was reeking of foul death. I don't know if you've ever smelled death before, but it is horrid. I went into his room where his colourless body lay erect on the bed. Then, I did my job. I reckon you wouldn't want to hear about it. Basically, we take out the heart because it is the only thing unaffected by the Plague, and we purge everything else.
For some strange reason, that illness is only contagious once the soul is gone. But, that is common knowledge.
When I exited the room with raised hands (I wasn't allowed to touch anything else after the procedure), I saw a framed photograph plastered on the wall. An old woman stood over a row of, I don't quite remember, but it was at least five children. Odd, I thought it was. Where had the rest gone, you know? Damned woman told me about the boy but didn't tell me about the sea of corpses piling one after the other.
I should have known something was wrong. Because, as I greeted her farewell, having thoroughly disinfected myself already, the old hag had the gall to collapse there in front of me. Naturally, I crouched to check on her. But when I searched for a pulse, I was aghast to find none at all. In fact, the skin beneath her cardigan had gone black, and I had just touched her.
Infected. I was infected.
I knew by the tremble in my hand. Only someone who has been infected can tell you that, but when the reaper chooses your demise, he makes sure to brand that prophecy on your skin.
I backed into the front door, forgetting how to breathe. My feet stumbled outside to a violent downpour, droplets falling like bullets on flesh. Limping, I staggered back to my apartment with water dripping from my forehead.
I spent the next six weeks in bed, awaiting a cruel, heartless death. It takes three to kill a man. And, I spent another four wondering why I was still alive.
Then, it struck me. There must be something in myself. My genes. My chemistry. My bones. I studied stuff like this back at college. Some hearts are not the like others. Whatever it was, it made me live. What happened after that was a landslide.
Say, Janey, aren't you writing any of that down?