A Tale More Complicated Than One Person Can Tell

Talon

ENTRY I

Jean Taylor is a boy around my age, who hates life even more than me. His rich parents from deep within the quarantined area in 49th decided to send their last remaining heir to the Training System in the metal cage we call school. With gates surrounding us like we were meant to be kept in, rather than monsters meant to be kept out, Jean and lots of other kids are not here voluntarily. We're here to learn to protect the next generation of people from zombies. We're here to wield a katana, to shoot a machine gun (or a pistol, if you're slinky Evelyn Fry), to inspect our fellow humans to ensure they aren't the very beast we're trying to kill. The lucky ones, brats like the le Rey twins and Criss Crow, got into the actually educational part of this damn world—the science wing. Us schoolkids nicknamed the research department "the Gray" because of the lack of color in the interior and exterior buildings, and the lame uniforms provided to the students attending. For my department, the soldier-training area, we called it "the Red" for the blood we spill, even at such a young age. (Also, we're not very subtle in our supposedly camouflaged outfits: ruby bulletproof vests and the loudest, stompiest boots in the history of fashion.) In the Red, the soldiers selected are usually the guinea pigs for the Gray's experiments in finding the Cure—the panacea, the messiah in a world of apocalyptic stature. (We're only here to make sure the injection isn't lethal, because only an infected could prove the Cure to truly work.) We've gotten closer than ever—or so the Gray claims—so the General assures us that we might not even need to use the skills we're being taught. "Just in case," she'd tell us solemnly. She knows more than she wants to tell us, and I can't really blame her. I'm the best she's got, and even then, I can only shoot the target twenty percent of the time.

Back to Jean. He's impertinent, and refuses to listen to our battle instructor, Geneva, whatsoever. He acts like he owns the place, like this Administration had a privilege in having him around at all, rather than gratitude for not dying to a sickness that literally eats you alive. He's been put in the corner—the punishment that never works—more times than anyone I've ever known, and he's been trying to get more allies with the other kids in the Red. He wants a revolution against an organization that is teaching us how to survive. He thinks we're being held in a birdcage and brainwashed into believing whatever crap the government chooses to feed us. He thinks we're being turned against our fellow humans, despite how bloodthirsty or flesh-eating the zombies the veterans have killed. He thinks we should have the decision to fight, but I think he's just afraid. Rather than straightening his back and using the fire in his eyes for something more than pettiness, like the leading male soldier (as the leading female is me) called Primus, he sits around and pouts until he'll get what he wants.

I pity him. The General decided used him as an example, in the cruel and immortal way that's becoming a sad social normality. Calling one of our smaller classes—Geneva was teaching us basic First Aid; after we finished our work, we'd get to play in the yard outside—the General summoned us to the entry gates. Military tanks and well-guarded warriors shielded the entrance, escorting the General as she strolled out, with her hand tightly holding onto Jean. Jean's small, stubborn face was terrified, and rightly so. We watched, horrified and slightly more afraid of the General's wrath, as she let go of his hand and bolted back into the gates, ordering the legionnaires to shut them completely. He followed, running as fast as his little legs could take him, tears streaming down his face, begging the General to let him back inside, promising to never act in defiance ever again. She, coolly and nastily, told him that, from his insolence, he could take care of himself, and he didn't need the help of the Administration's birdcage after all. Traumatized, Jean's knees buckled, dry heaving and beginning the symptoms of a panic attack. Calmly, the General dismissed all of us and shepherded Jean to the nurse. Geneva told us, later, wincing, this was the General's way of "teaching us a lesson," and simultaneously using the opportunity to discipline Jean for all his shenanigans.