Already Dead

  She has some great veins in her arm and I don't have time to get creative. I unzip my kit, roll on the gloves and put the works together. I remove the needle from the blood cup, screw it into the receiving tube and attach the hose and bag. Then I tie the tourniquet above her elbow and swab her skin with alcohol. I hold the needle in my right hand and her arm in my left, bracing the vein with my thumb, and slide the needle in. It's a good strong vein. Blood fills the tube. I release the valve and pressure from her young, healthy heart pumps blood through the hose and starts to fill the bag. I watch the rich, almost purple blood and my dick starts to get hard.

  It's over in less than five minutes. I break down my works, carefully slide the IV bag inside my jacket and it's over. I'm gonna drink this straightaway when I get home so I don't even have to worry about adding anti-clotting agents. She's got a tiny mark on her arm, but her skin is dark and I don't think she'll be bruising. Little luck and she'll think it's a bug bite. Before I leave I open her handbag and shake the contents onto the ground. I take the five bucks she's got and her cell phone. I'll just dump the phone later, but it'll make it look a little more like a mugging this way. I stand up and get ready to move the plywood out of the way. I stop.

  I take another look at her, limp and helpless on the ground. I should take another pint. Just to be safe I should take one more. Hell, I should just drain her. I can. I can carry her to the avenue like she's my drunk girlfriend. Get her in a cab, take her home and have all the time in the world to get it all. Fucking chick like that, walking around loaded, shit-faced out of her mind, chick like that is asking for trouble. Shit, chick like that probably has a death wish. Be doing her a fucking favor. I bend over to pick her up.

  I stop.

  It's the Vyrus. It's just the fucking Vyrus talking. It's not me. I know better. That's not the way to do things. It's stupid and it's weak. It's not who I am. I may not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but I'm smarter than that. And I'm not that weak. Not yet.

  So I shove the plywood out of the way, step onto the sidewalk, shove it back and head for home. I get about two steps before Hurley clobbers me again.

  —I fucking knew it.

  Oh, hell.

  —Fucking knew it. Consorting. Consorting and poaching.

  I keep my eyes closed. I know who I'm gonna see when I open them and I'd just as soon put it off for another minute.

  —Mr. Clean. Mr. Shit Don't Stick on Me, and there he is, consorting with the Coalition and poaching that chick.

  —Don't say chick.

  —Yeah, yeah. Poaching that woman. I told Terry, told him and told him, but he coddles this guy. Knows he spooks for the Coalition and he lets him stay down here anyway. Well not anymore. Wanted evidence?

  I open my eyes. Closet. Dark. Dank. Dim cracks of light sneak in around the edges of an ill-fitting door.

  —I got evidence.

  I'm lying on my side. I go to push myself up and realize that my hands are cuffed and my ankles are shackled. I squirm into a sitting position. The brick wall behind my back sweats moisture.

  —What kind of evidence?

  —Well I saw him, didn't I? Me and Hurley both saw him.

  —But doing what, Tom?

  —We saw him take that Coalition chick . . . woman into his place, and we saw him poach that other ch . . . woman.

  —How do you know she was Coalition? Are they wearing uniforms now?

  —Trust me, you saw this one, you'd know she was Coalition.

  —How?

  —How? The way you always know. Had that attitude, that the world belongs to me attitude. Talk about a bitch who thinks her shit doesn't stink. This one—

  —Don't call women bitches.

  —Yeah, right.

  I scoot closer to the door and put my eye against one of the cracks. I'm back at Society headquarters. Squares of carpet sample are spread around on the floor and handmade anarchist protest posters that look like oversized ransom notes cover the walls. I can see Tom Nolan's back. He's standing at a hot plate, stirring a big pot of something steaming and smelly.

  —So you saw him with a woman who might be Coalition. And what else?

  —She was Coalition. But even if she wasn't? He poached. Right on the street, just whacked that girl.

  —Was she a child?

  —What?

  —Was she a child?

  —In her twenties or something.

  —So she's not a girl, right?

  —Right, yeah. He whacked this woman right on the street and dragged her into a construction site. Tapped her right there for anyone to see. A total fucking abuse of Society policies. On our turf. A slap in the face to our beliefs and methods. That can't be disputed, period. And besides, you're the one who's always going on about how more women are tapped than men.

  Lydia comes into view and stands next to Tom.

  —I'm not going on about anything. There is a huge imbalance in the number of women victimized by Vyrus-incited violence.

  —That's what I'm saying.

  —So you just had Hurley knock him out and carry him down the street to here?

  —Hey, I had to take action. There's no telling what he's plotting with his bosses up there, what kind of trouble they have him stirring up. It was time to deal with it. He's a Coalition stooge and the time has come.

  —Uh-huh.

  She turns from Tom and faces someone I can't see.

  —Hurley, did you see the woman he took into his apartment?

  —Yeah.

  —Was she Coalition?

  —Don't know. Coulda bin.

  —You think she was?

  —Don't know. Tom said she wuz. Coulda bin. Nice lookin' lady.

  —Uh-huh.

  Tom turns from the hot plate.

  —Hey, don't say lady.

  —Why?

  —Because it's demeaning.

  Lydia looks at Tom.

  —Get off him, Tom.

  —What the hell, you just gave me shit for—

  —Because you know better. Hurley's an old dog. Let him talk how he wants.

  —Jesus! Fucking double standards. That's, you know what that is? That's counterrevolutionary. We're all equals. We're all equals

  or we're not. I don't like rules, but if we're gonna have them they have to apply across the board. —Get off it, Tom.

  She turns back to Hurley.

  —What about the woman he tapped?

  —S'a pretty good tap, all tings considered like.

  —But was it by the book?

  There's silence and I can hear Hurley's brain grinding away on that one. Probably trying to remember what a book is.

  —Not da way Terry likes it done. Dat's why I sapped 'im.

  —OK.

  She turns back to Tom.

  —So now what?

  —Now what? Now we question the cocksucker.

  —Tom!

  —Sorry, sorry. You know me and my anarchists are sympathetic to the gay and lesbian community. It just slipped out.

  —Slip it back in.

  She walks out of view. Tom starts stirring his stinky pot again.

  —Anyway, when he wakes up we put a rubber hose on him and see what starts to pour out.

  —I'm awake, Tom.

  He spins around.

  —How long, asshole, how long you been spying?

  —You mean, how long have I been awake and trying to get back to sleep so I don't have to listen to your crap?

  He comes over to the closet, close enough so that all I can see through the crack is the leg of his crusty jeans.

  —That's right, smart-ass, keep fucking jerking my chain. See what it gets you.

  —Hey, Tom, I'd never jerk your chain. That's Terry's job.

  —OK, that's it. You fucking asked and now you're going to fucking receive.

  He starts unlocking the door. -Please, man, have Hurley knock me out again so I can get some fucking rest.

  The lock snaps open and I hear a chain rattling. I roll ont
o my back, knees tucked up against my chest.

  —Hurley's not gonna do a goddamn thing, smart guy, I'm gonna take care of business myself this time.

  —You planning on taking off my cuffs?

  —Whatever way you want it.

  The door swings open. I jackrabbit him, kicking out with both feet, and catch him in the gut. He woofs and stumbles back into the room. A spindly chair catches him across the back of the knees and splinters under his weight as he crashes on top of it. I shove myself back up on my ass and lean out the door of the closet and hold my cuffed hands out.

  —Hey, Tom, I'd help you up if I didn't have these things on.

  —That's it, cocksucker.

  He comes at me fast. The only thing I have time for is to regret that I have such a big fucking mouth.

  I try kicking him again, hoping to knock his legs out and get him down on the floor where I can wrap the cuff chain around his neck and maybe crush his windpipe. It doesn't work. He dodges the kick easily, grabs the front of my jacket, lifts me off the floor, and starts pummeling my face. Lydia grabs him and pulls him off of me almost immediately, but he's already jackhammered me ten or eleven times. I fall in a heap. Blood I can't afford to lose runs from my nose and mouth. Tom lunges at me again and Lydia easily shoves him back.

  —Fuck do you think you're doing, cunt?

  Her bodybuilder shoulders bunch, but her voice is calm.

  —Watch the language.

  —Stop telling me how to fucking talk, dyke!

  —Tom, if you say girl, chick, lady, bitch, cocksucker, fag, lesbo, dyke, queer or cunt one more time, not only am I going to beat the sperm out of you, I'm going to have a couple shemale Vamps I know find you in an alley some night and open your back door. Wide.

  He makes his move, and bounces off Hurley who is suddenly between them.

  —Terry would'nae want yous two fightin'.

  I'm on my side, spitting and snorting blood.

  —Yeah, guys, dad's gonna be mad when he gets home and sees you can't get along.

  Tom just about jumps out of his shoes trying to get at me, but Hurley puts a hand on his shoulder and he freezes. Hurley turns his head and looks at me.

  —Maybe you best oughta shut yer trap, Joe.

  I'm looking at the little puddle of blood on the floor in front of my face and thinking about sucking it up.

  —Yeah, yeah, maybe you're right, Hurl. Hell, even you can have a good idea sometimes.

  He grunts.

  —'Member dat last time ya smarted off, Joe?

  —Yeah.

  —I wuz gentle on ya dat time.

  I shut up. He looks from Lydia to Tom.

  —Yous two oughta shake hands, show dere ain't no hard feelin's.

  Tom groans.

  —Fucking come on.

  Lydia sticks her hand out.

  —He's right, Tom. We're all on the same side here. We can't let our tempers get the better of us.

  She's smiling at him. He takes her hand. She squeezes. It's not obvious, Hurley misses it. Tom yanks his hand back and takes a swipe at her.

  —Fuckin' bitch!

  Hurley blocks the punch and gives Tom a gentle push that sends him reeling to the far wall.

  —OK, Tom, take a walk.

  —The fuck?

  —Terry would'nae like dis. So take a walk, get some air.

  —It's light out.

  —So go upstairs.

  —But that fucking—

  Hurley raises a finger.

  —OK, that's cool, that's cool, I'm cool. I'll go up. But I want that fucking spy back in his cell.

  Hurley shrugs.

  —Sure.

  He takes two steps, scoops me up and dumps me back in the closet. The door closes and the chain is drawn back into place. I hear Tom start up the basement steps and then stop.

  —Lydia, you're right, we're on the same side. I'll remember that, baby.

  A door opens and closes and he's gone. A chair creeks heavily as Hurley sits down.

  —See, dat's better. Everybody gettin' along.

  —He says he's an anarchist, but really he's a fascist. You know he wanted uniforms? He actually wanted to get T-shirts or armbands or something for all the members of the Society. Not only that, but he wanted affiliations to be indicated on the uniforms, different symbols depending on whether you're one of his Anarchists or in the Lesbian, Gay and Other-Gendered Alliance or the Communist Manifesto or whatever your Society Affiliate might be. He said it would make for unity, so we could identify one another on the street. What he's really after is a system of classification. He wants to know where his enemies are so he can take care of them when he's ready. And he says he backs the goals of the LGOGA, but I can tell we freak him out. I mean, before I got infected, the infected queers weren't even organized, let alone represented on the council. Now he has us in his face at every meeting. Little fascist prick. And he's making a bid for Security Chief? He's already half a Stalin. Give him a badge and he'll go full-blown Hitler.

  She's sitting at the table out there, eating a bowl of whatever veggie stew Tom had been mixing up.

  —If he ever does take charge of security he's not gonna be too happy about having you around, Hurley. He likes using your muscle now, but if he gets the chance, he'll have his Anarchists in jackboots and carrying truncheons and he won't need your help knocking people out. That's why we need to keep an eye on each other's backs.

  —I keep a eye on everybody's back, Lydia. Jus' like Terry tells me to.

  —Yes, but are Terry's interests yours? Are you going to spend your whole life letting him make decisions for you?

  —It's worked OK so far.

  —Yes, I see that, but—

  I can't listen to this with the cramps hitting me. One or the other, but please not both. I decide to do something about it.

  —Hey, Lydia.

  Silence.

  —Lydia.

  —What?

  —There's nothing I'd like more than to listen to you trying to make Hurley understand the politics of personal empowerment, but I'm hurting a little in here.

  —Yeah, you looked a little rough around the edges.

  —Maybe I could get that blood I tapped.

  —Sorry, Joe, that's Exhibit A in Tom's case against you. As much as I hate the little prick I can't mess with evidence.

  —Got any you could spare?

  —No.

  —Uh-huh. Well seeing as I'm all cuffed up maybe you could let me out of here.

  —No. I think you're going to have to stay in there until Terry gets back from the Hood.

  —Any idea when that's gonna be?

  —Could be tonight, could be a couple nights. Depends on when they can get him safe passage.

  Couple nights.

  —So maybe you can call him?

  —He doesn't want us calling him up there. He thinks the Coalition may have some people inside a couple of the service providers. They could tap landlines and cell signals. He's worried they might find out when and how he's coming back down. Sounds a little paranoid to me, like maybe he's been listening to Tom, but why take the chance.

  —Yeah, that's great, Lydia, but see, there's this girl out there that I need to find.

  —Woman.

  —No, girl. The kind young enough to get raped by her daddy.

  She comes a little closer to the door.

  I don't know much about Lydia, but I know enough. I know that just a couple years back she was at NYU, finishing her thesis on Radical Gender Roles. I know she was a big player in campus politics. I know she used to teach women's self-defense classes. I also know a desperate Rogue tried to jump her one night and got eye-gouged and groin-punched for his trouble. But not before he bit a hole in her cheek. What I hear, it turned out she knew some people that she didn't even know she knew. They noticed when she started getting sick. Guess these friends got her through and hooked her up with Terry. I think the biggest shock for her was discovering that Vyrus-infected lesb
ians and gays were completely unorganized. She took care of that.

  She's a tough enough nut, but she's young. Literally young, under twenty-five. She's still soft on the inside, still holding the values and feelings she had before she was infected. Hell, most everybody does. Then they grow up, or they die.

  -So why do you care, Joe?

  -Truth is, I don't. Just a job to me. But I figure you probably care

  —You're a piece of work, Joe.

  —Little girl out there, no one to help her.

  —A real motherfucker.

  —All alone.

  —So tell me where she is, I'll help her.

  —Don't know where she is. That's why I need out of here. So I can find out.

  —How you planning to do that?

  —Gonna beat on a guy.

  —So tell me the guy's name, I'll beat on him.

  —Yeah, I know you'd be into that. Thing is, the guy lives above

  Fourteenth. And he's connected. You go up there, hand a beating to this guy, could be political repercussions.

  —I see that. But there's another thing.

  —Yeah?

  —I got no reason to believe you. How about that, Joe? Any reason I should be listening to this? —I got a reason to lie? Say it's crap and you let me out. Where am I gonna go? I leave the neighborhood and I'm dust. I stay in the neighborhood and you guys can pick me up whenever you want. Where do I run?

  —Uptown.

  —Any deals I have with those guys only work 'cause I'm down here. I try to live above Fourteenth and suddenly I'm not so useful. You hear what Dexter Predo does when someone stops being useful?

  -Yeah.

  -Well it ain't no lie.

  She's quiet again. -She's fourteen, Lydia. And her name's Amanda.

  I work my fingers into my jacket pocket. They took my gun, my knife, my works and the blood I tapped, but the picture's there. I take it out and slip it under the door.

  —That's what she looks like.

  The trailing corner of the picture disappears as Lydia picks it up. There's nothing but the sound of her breathing and Hurley turning the page of a newspaper, and the Vyrus whispering pain and hunger in my veins. The picture slides back under the door.

  —You know what you shouldn't have done, Joe?