Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

It was strangely quiet, even for this time of day. He paused, looking around, and saw no one. Not even the cafeteria staff.

“Huh,” he muttered to himself, moving on through the empty hall, the reason he had come there forgotten.

Distracted from his coffee needs, he exited into another corridor, continuing on to his destination with a heavy heart.

He’d promised Nathan that he would take care of his remains. Neither of them had been sure what would be left after the exercise, but Jon had promised to dispose of them with dignity and respect.

It was when he’d seen Nathan’s body, after Malachi had . . .

Go ahead , he thought. It’s true. How else could it possibly be described?

After Malachi had killed him.

It was as he looked down at his friend’s ruined form that he knew where he would take Nathan’s remains.

His friend wouldn’t be around now to return to the Garden, but he could at least find peace in the beauty of the biodome’s garden. That was where Jon would take him and lay him to rest. It was the least he could do for his friend.

Nathan’s body had been taken to one of the dome’s freezer units, where many of their medical supplies requiring refrigeration were stored. He was certain that Nathan wouldn’t have minded taking a short break there until Jon could get back to him.

The medical wing was empty as well.

“What is going on here today?” Jon said aloud as he entered the empty wing and went to the cold-room door. Taking a few deep breaths, he grabbed the door handle, pulled it open.

The stretcher with Nathan’s body resting atop it was waiting for him. At least that was where it was supposed to be, he thought as he grabbed the chilly ends of the metal stretcher and pulled it from the refrigerated room.

Another wave of sadness spilled over him as he maneuvered the stretcher down the hall and toward the exit. The Sons of Adam lived a very long time, some stretching into the hundreds of years, and it was quite disappointing—no, worse than that, tragic—that his friend wouldn’t be around to share those years with him.

But Nathan was all about the sacrifice, especially since Malachi’s arrival to the order.

Before the angel came, the Sons had just existed, living their dayto-day lives, caring for the father, and waiting for a sign that the sins of the first man and woman would be forgiven.

Many believed that Malachi was that very sign, an agent of Heaven brought to them to help make their reasons for existing a reality. Jon believed that the angel had come to them with a purpose, but wasn’t quite sure if said purpose was to benefit the Sons’ cause, or something more personal. These were his own intimate thoughts, thoughts that hadn’t been uttered to a soul.

Except for Nathan.

Hands on the corner of the cold metal of the stretcher, Jon stopped to gaze down at the sheet-covered form lying there before him. He’d been able to hold himself together, but he felt the grief inside him build to an incalculable level, and there was no amount of strength that could hold it back.

In the currently empty corridor he began to cry. As the tears came, memories washed over him, the two friends throughout the many years their kind were allowed to live. For a brief moment he wished that he were like all the other human beings out there, no longer special—no longer of the special line—for he would likely be close to death now, and wouldn’t have to know this pain much longer.

He was tempted to pull away the sheet, to look upon his friend’s broken remains, but didn’t care to soil his memory of him. He remembered how he had looked in the lab . . . how he had looked before Malachi had . . .

Killed him.

Jon ran the back of his hand over his face, wiping away the tears and snot, wiping away the residuals of his sadness. Steeling himself, he continued to wheel the stretcher down the empty corridor on the way to what would be Nathan’s final place of rest.

Reaching the entrance to the botanical garden, Jon walked around the stretcher to open the door. Always the efficient one, he was already reviewing the supplies that he would need in order to prepare Nathan’s grave. He knew that there were shovels inside, so that would pretty much take care of it: a shovel, and perhaps a nice rock to mark where he lay. Jon reached inside his pocket and removed something that he had brought from his room. It was a leather pouch filled with his collection of marbles that he had accumulated over the years. Nathan had always admired them, and Jon thought that he would bury them with him—a piece of himself to accompany his friend. Jon was about to lose it again, so he sucked it up, preoccupying himself with the thought of where he’d need to dig, and how long it would take him to finish.

The door started to slide open as he walked around the stretcher, but he noticed that the door had opened only three-quarters of the way. Great , he thought, something else for maintenance to look at .

He returned to the door to check whether something was obstructing the track.

The first body was just inside the door, a splayed arm jammed against it preventing the door from sliding completely back.

Jon didn’t know what to think entering the botanical garden, about to ask the man—his name was Rudolf, and Jon had never really liked him all that much—what the matter was as he knelt down beside him, but Jon knew that he was dead before the words could even leave his mouth.

Instantly slipping into emergency mode, Jon stood and headed for a phone just inside the room to the right of the doorway.

This was when he noticed the other bodies all along the path leading into the garden. They appeared broken . . . bloody.

Were those bite marks? he wondered with escalating horror.

He then knew why the other areas of the dome had been so quiet—the residents were all here. Not realizing it, he had begun to walk the path, stepping over the bodies of the people he had known all his life. All dead, all wearing expressions that could best be described as shock . . .

No . . . the look was surprise.

Reaching the clearing, he noticed that the tropical forest was completely quiet; even without his hearing aid, he could hear that the bugs’ and birds’ voices were silenced. Maybe they knew to be silent . . . or maybe they were dead too.

The most bodies were in the clearing, stacked like a huge pile of dirty laundry . . . dirty, bloody laundry. Jon froze, searching the green of the man-made jungle, sensing that he wasn’t alone.

“Show yourself.”

The words left his mouth before he could consider them, and they brought with them a response that he really didn’t care to experience.

There was laughter from the jungle, low and rumbling, more like a growl. He could feel it low in his stomach, as well as hear it. Jon couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from; it seemed to come from all sides . . . from everywhere.

And then there came the fire.

It was like a living thing, leaping out from the concealment of the trees and bushes . . . tongues of flame consuming everything in their path as they made their way toward him.

Jon spun around, running across the body-strewn path on his way to the exit. He imagined the bodies, his friends, reaching up to grab at his legs and feet, not wanting him to get away, not wanting him to survive. He could feel the fire growing in intensity behind him, nipping hungrily at his heels.

He could see the door up ahead, the stretcher holding the body of his friend just outside it. That was his goal, he decided, feeling a tongue of fire lick at the salty wetness of sweat on the back of his neck. He wanted to reach his friend.

If he was to die, he wanted it to be with him.