The XY Read online

  I nod. I have to get away from it. I have to think. I have to stay calm—and keep it calm, that’s what I decide—because something in its ranting, in its questions asked with no wait for an answer, reminds me of my own granmumma, whose temper can feed like a fire on any sort of disagreement.

  “An actual horse… I thought they’d be smaller…” it says, almost to itself, contemplating in amazement. “How’d you even steal that?!”

  I just smile politely. The smile feels wonky on my face.

  “God’s sake…” It grins at me. “How are you alive, li’l thief? Hah. How’d you manage it? You’re a walkin’ freakin’ miracle, ain’t you? You got anything to eat and drink in that bag, have you? You got water?” It holds out its filthy paw, its hand making gimme! baby grabs in the air. “Come on now, little brother. Don’t hold out on me.”

  Little brother. Brother… I slide the backpack from my shoulders and it snatches it.

  “Siddown, bro,” it tells me.

  Bro? I crumple to the ground where I stand. It plonks itself down too—close. Grabbing-distance close.

  “See now, we gotta share and share alike, ain’t we?” it says, ripping open the backpack. “Us ’scaped ones, that’s what we gotta do. We’re brothers in the face of death now, brothers in the face of death… Oh, do NOT tell me you’ve been eating this stuff,” it says, holding up a bunch of freshly dug carrots. “KID! This is goddamn filthy jungle poison, that’s what. You eat this stuff, you’re dead in two seconds, not ten. Get me?!”

  It shakes the carrots in my face, then flings them aside. Soil still on them, but Milpy doesn’t care, comes plodding up to munch, cart trundling behind, and the creature jumps back to its hoof feet. It looks around, then staggers to grab a branch—a poor choice, so rotten looking it’ll probably crumble immediately, but still…Milpy, munching. No one hits her, not even Lenny. She just gets shouted at. She doesn’t often listen. I have no idea what Milpy would do if someone struck her—only that she would NOT like it.

  “No!” I can’t help myself. “She won’t hurt you!”

  The creature eyes the huge power of Milpy, chomping.

  “She’s just hungry!”

  “That so?” it says, watching Milpy crunch.

  Painful seconds tick.

  “That’s a she horse?” it asks.

  I nod and watch the creature watch Milpy—Milpy watching it right back, her nostrils flared, scenting, her ears unable to decide between laying back in irritation (because—really!—what is this nonsense on the way home?!) and pricked, twitching, listening (strange it, strange smell, general strangeness). Still: fresh carrots?! Too good!

  “What’s that you got in that wagon anyway?” it asks, pointing at the cart.

  “Apples?”

  It picks up an apple. It examines the apple. It bites it. It spits it out.

  “Brother, these ain’t apples!” it says, shaking its head at me, wiping its mouth. A convincingly human look of disgust and pity on its face.

  With watchful eyes on Milpy, it sits back down. Places that branch down on the road, and I can see, for sure, that it is rotten—orange-and-white fungus all over it, wood lice tumbling out, escaping from its broken ends. I’ve been hit by kisses harder than that.

  It rummages again, trying the next compartment in the backpack. Pulls out a cloth-wrapped package, unwraps it.

  “And what is this?” it asks.

  How could anyone not know these things?! It’s sniffing the loaf of bread. My cousins’ gorgeous sourdough. Fresh baked.

  “Bread.”

  “Don’t look like bread.”

  It sniffs some more, bites down slowly, tears away a mouthful. It chews, eyes on me.

  “’S disgustin’,” it mumbles, but it keeps on chewing, biting off more, like it’s ravenous, while the other greedy hand searches, finds my water bottle, and…suddenly it tosses the loaf at me, and I catch it.

  Regret that immediately: shows so clearly I am watching, alert.

  It eyes me.

  “Why doncha take a little bite of that yourself?”

  Terror alone would stop me. I have also been stuffed full of cake at my cousins’ house, but I have got to get out of here, so I pull a chunk of bread off—away from the creature’s bread-mauling area—and take a bite.

  It, Milpy, and I chew.

  Me and Milpy are watching it.

  It is watching us.

  It unscrews my water bottle, sniffs…

  “Water,” I whisper.

  It glugs—and glugs.

  “Don’t taste right neither,” it mutters—and my heart skips a beat as it pulls my knife out of the backpack. My good knife, my favorite supersharp blade that was given to me by Kate. Belonged to my great granpappa.

  It releases the blade—seems to know just how—and holds it up. The blade of the knife shines true in the late, dying sun.

  I feel my whole body tense up so hard any fearful shaking stops.

  “Was you thinking to stab someone, little brother? That what you was thinkin’ of?”

  That’s a thing men did, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve heard. Kate says women did too, but Mumma says there are statistics. Men stabbed people, shot people, killed anyone. Prisons rammed full of them and still they did not stop.

  “’Spect you’d like to stab me right now, eh?”

  It makes a tutting sound and waggles the knife at me.

  “It ain’t the way, li’l brother. It ain’t the way. I mean…I guess sometimes it maybe has to be the way, right? We’ve all seen that. But—”

  Something in the backpack catches its eye. It pulls it out, the jar of honey, holds it up with a puzzled look.

  “Honey.”

  “Think so?! I’ve heard of that!”

  It drops the knife—blade open—on the other side of its body and manages to get the jar open. Scoops out a fingerful and sniffs it. Looks suspiciously at me.

  “You first,” it says, offering the fingerful.

  Its hands… They are so filthy.

  It grunts. “Brother, we are both gonna die anyways,” it says, honey running down its finger. “Welcome to the jungle.”

  With my mouth, I take the honey from its finger.

  The touching of it, the creature, makes me shudder.

  “That good, huh?” it says and delves another filthy finger into the jar, shoves it into its mouth, and sucks it.

  Its eyeballs roll back. “Sweet!” it says. “That is good, ain’t it? So, kid, you gonna talk to me?”

  I can see huge beads of sweat popping out on its forehead. I am sweating too. My sweat is fear; its sweat is sickness—pouring out of it. It keeps eating though, grabbing the bread back, dipping chunks into the honey jar, swigging at the water—and all the while mumbling talk and questions at me. I don’t answer. I see streaks of blood in the bready mix of chewed-up food in its mouth, and it winces when it swallows, rubbing at its throat. And its stomach? I hear loud gurgling and churning, smell the stink of vile farts.

  “So how come you ain’t sick? I been loose FIVE WHOLE DAYS—got sick DAY ONE. Had to drink goddamn filthy water got green stuff growing in it. Green stuff! Veg-et-able material growing in the freaking water! Brother, come on, might as well name your unit—and don’t go telling me you’re Alpha material, because I know a Beta boy when I see one…but how come you ain’t on the T-jabs? You oughtta be by now! Kid, you got X-S body fat. X-S! Round the ass—and your pecs! Serious!” it says, jabbing my left breast.

  I flinch and shrink and twitch to run.

  “Whoa! Don’t get all like that! Them flabby pecs is probably what’s keepin’ you alive! You’re probably digestin’ yourself!” it laughs, ripping off bread and dunking it into the honey.

  It raises its eyes from the jar, studying me as it chews.

  “Hey, it doesn’t matter a
t all now, does it?”

  I study it right back. I…say nothing. My mind has landed in a bad place. My mind has landed in a place where the thought that cannot be is.

  “D’you even know where you are, Beta boy? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t! Hellhole, brother! In-fin-it-y of it! Know what that means? Endless, my brother. This goddamn jungle goes on forever.”

  It doesn’t. It goes to the village. I’m no great runner, but I think, if I can remain calm, I can outrun this sick thing.

  “Yup, we is lost…lost and damned and done for. So this is just great, ain’t it? This is juuuuuuuust ber-illiant. Two runnin’ dead men sharing a last supper and only one of us got anything to say.”

  “I just want to go home,” I whisper. I am telling it to myself. I am willing it to happen.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Ah, HELL—it ain’t me you’re scared of at all, is it? It’s the wimmin, ain’t it? Oh God! You seen them? Have you seen wimmin?!”

  I nod the tiniest of nods. I feel physically sick—but not as sick as the creature. It’s rubbing its belly, sweat popping, hairy face grimmer than grim.

  “You seen wimmin…around here?”

  I nod an even tinier nod.

  “Je-sus.” It wipes a shaking hand across its filthy hair, eyes darting. “They’ll kill you quicker than the jungle, if they don’t—Kid! Oh God, oh brother mine…did they…mess with you? No shame here, brother. If them wimmin touched you, it ain’t your fault. We all know that. We all been told what wimmin’ll do to any ’scaped male they find—and if they done it to you, IT AIN’T YOUR FAULT. No shame on you, no blame on you. IT AIN’T YOUR FAULT. You listen to Mason now.”

  I shut my eyes, just to make it STOP for one moment, but the sound of the thing retching makes me open them again—it’s doubled over, gripping its belly, head sweat falling like raindrops.

  “Get out of here,” it says, voice twisted with pain.

  I edge myself up, onto my knees, then one foot to the ground, knuckles to the concrete, willing power into my legs. It looks up at me, fighting whatever agonies I can hear battling in its guts.

  “D’you hear me? Don’t let the wimmin get you!”

  It doubles up again with a horrific groan. My legs tense with sprint intention.

  It vomits—bread and honey and water and…blood? I should run. I should run—but, even in a nightmare, who leaves a sick person?

  “Go,” it says, wiping its mouth. “Brother: die free.”

  Chapter 2

  Man

  I glance back, midsprint, see it hauling down its shiny, red leggings. See a penis, dangling. Scrotum. Strange, floppy things, all of them.

  I have never seen an XY in my life. No one has seen an XY in sixty years.

  I realize, running, that I have hardly even believed they existed.

  I mean, sperm has to come from somewhere, so obviously they do exist…but not in my world. Not in anyone’s world. It didn’t matter who a person was or how they lived or who they loved; the virus—“the sickness”—targeted anyone with a Y chromosome. Those who survived, they were put into the Sanctuaries to keep them safe—and they can never leave. The virus is still here. The virus would kill them.

  It cannot be an XY.

  A person might choose to change their body, to make their body male…but no one in my world would randomly attack and hurt another person or call someone “brother” or “man.” The genitals, they’re just the final confirmation.

  This thing that cannot be is.

  MAN! MAN! MAN! MAN!

  The thump of my boots pounds the word into the road as I run and run—and it is only when the road is about to bend, to curve up and around the hill, that I shoot one last fast look back.

  And see.

  It is lying in the road—not moving.

  I stop.

  In the UK, it has been Agreed: if any creature—a human or any other animal—suffers and cannot be helped, it should be freed—quickly, kindly, and as painlessly as possible—from its misery.

  There are no Agreements I know of that apply, specifically, to XYs. Why would there be?

  But what I do know is that they can’t live outside the Sanctuaries.

  It is going to die. It knows it is going to die.

  I have wrung birds’ necks. I have bashed countless fishes’ heads. I’ve taken my turn to slit the throat of a prestunned lamb. I chose to. It was hard, and it was very upsetting—but in our village, anyone older than a littler one who wants to eat meat needs to understand what “meat” is before their teen years are over.

  I wish my sharp, sharp knife weren’t lying on that road.

  It still isn’t moving.

  Milpy, who has poked her nose into the backpack, investigating, pulls her nose out of it. Stands there, crunching, watching me… My Little Conscience.

  It might already be dead… That’s the thought I hold on to, clutch on to for my own dear life—as I walk—jog—walk—jog—hesitate—walk back down the hill.

  It isn’t dead.

  It’s lying on its back. Its breathing is shallow and fast. The text of the UK version of the Agreement about helping death in humans is very specific, and all of us who are trained and of an age to act upon it know what we must do: no matter how hopeless the situation, no matter how great the suffering, no matter even if death was anticipated and clear instructions left…if at all possible, it should be the decision of the person who suffers as to whether they should be assisted.

  Which, in this case, would require checking for consciousness. Again.

  I do not want to do it. I’m telling myself that I’m not even sure whether the Agreement applies to an XY…but if it doesn’t, wouldn’t I have to treat it like any other kind of creature? It is going to die: the kindest, quickest thing I could do would be to slit its throat. Or smother it? Would that be easier? Would that be more bearable than jets of blood? It is doomed…and I feel doomed too. I do not want to risk it waking again…but I do not want to kill it. I do not want this. I do not want any of this.

  But this is what I have.

  I look down at my knife, lying on the road, blade still out.

  I pick up my knife. Angle it, whizzing brain considering as the blade picks up the soft gold of sunlight fading through woods. I take good care of my knife. Granmumma Kate won’t tolerate dull edges on any kind of blade, so I was raised to keep tools sharp and clean and ready to do their job. Kate says it’s a disservice—to the maker most especially—to do otherwise.

  I look at my knife. I look at its throat. Muscles, bones, veins, arteries.

  Its eyes barely flicker as I shout, “WAKE UP! WAKE UP!”

  But maybe it’s a softer shout than before.

  And I clap my hands, I do.

  But maybe it’s a softer clap than before.

  I do not want to reach down and shake it. I do not want to touch it.

  I clap and shout loudly. I make myself!

  It does not stir.

  All I can hear is breath: its and my own and Milpy’s—she has run out of items to eat and has come up to me to nudge me because she is wanting to get on.

  Breath…and a crowd of rooks settling in for the night with a Hey, hello, how are you, we all here? rowdy chorus.

  Caw, caw, caw.

  The warmth of this October day is dying. The chill of night is minutes away.

  I have the panting, strained throat of a dying creature bared before me.

  I wipe the blade on my shorts.

  There is no way I can do it. I just can’t.

  I fold the knife closed.

  I feel that I have failed.

  I will have to accept my failure and the consequences of it.

  Someone else will have to release the creature from its misery.

  I haul it up onto the cart, twist it over—pulling its ar
ms, my feet slipping on apples—so it is tummy down and won’t choke on its own vomit. Then I take a run and try to leap up onto Milpy—and find I haven’t got the strength. Not good. But easily fixed. I’ll lead her on and find a place where there’s a roadside bank high enough to scramble onto her back with less effort.

  The creature turns, groaning—and I vault over the edge of the cart, clambering over apples, to grab it and shove it back onto its stomach even as it vomits.

  Milpy has stopped, ears pricking back—to the side—in front—every which way. She is spooked.

  I see how this is and what I’m going to have to do: I’m going to have to walk all the way home, because I cannot leave the dying creature, but I cannot leave Milpy either. There is a thing right behind her. A thing that doesn’t smell right. A thing that doesn’t sound right. A thing that is not right. And with darkness coming on, an ancient horse fear is already taking hold.

  There is no point trying to tell a horse she lives in a land without wolves.

  I am going to have to walk by Milpy’s side—so she knows I’m there—but also keep an eye on the creature…although I could let it choke on its own vomit. Grim job done.

  I…can’t.

  I go up to Milpy’s head, expecting to have to jump up and grab the bridle to force her to pay attention to me she’s so spooked—but she lowers her head, and I take hold of her muzzle and breathe words of encouragement into her soft, hairy nostrils. She is skeptical; I can tell that. Her ears are panicking even as I speak—and when an owl hoots, her head shoots up so fast she could have knocked me out. No pep talk is going to work here. With a click-click of encouragement, I urge her on. Drop back to her side, one reassuring hand on her as she Agrees the deal and hits a pace that’s on the brisk side of steady for her and on the exhausting side of a jog for me. I drop back a little farther, so I can see and hear the creature.

  It vomits again.

  Spooked horse, vomiting creature. Vomiting creature, spooked horse. Vomiting creature. Vomit and diarrhea and delirium. Ranting, muttered and shouted insanity. And, when a plane flies over, it yells at the sky: “Go to hell!”