Already Dead

  —What?

  —You shouldn't have tapped that woman last night. That was rape, Joe, and I don't deal with rapists.

  She walks away from the door.

  —I'm going upstairs, Hurley. If this asshole starts trying to soften you up with some shit about a little girl, don't listen to him.

  —Shite, Lydia, Joe knows better den ta try an soff-soap me.

  He's right, I do. And that leaves me alone in the closet with no one to talk to except you know who.

  It's not a very rich or enlightening conversation. Mostly it's just the Vyrus chanting: feed, feed, feed over and over again, and me replying with: make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. Pretty boring stuff. I also do my fair share of groaning and sweating as I clutch at my cramping stomach and occasionally bang the back of my head against the floor. Imagine the worst case of food poisoning you've ever had. It's like that except it hurts more and you don't have the relief of shitting or vomiting. But it comes in waves. So from time to time I get a little break where I can lie there and think about the next series of cramps and remember that this is just the start and that it will get much worse. And that has me worried, because it shouldn't even be this bad yet. I should have had at least another day before this kind of pain started. All I can figure is that the dose Horde gave me put more of a whammy on my system than I knew. Throw in the cuts I got from Vale, my sunburn, and the beating Hurley gave me, and I guess I've been overdoing it a bit. The Vyrus is tired and grouchy, like a small child kept up too late. For now it's just whining, soon it will start to cry. And then the shrieking and the tantrums will begin.

  Pause while a mongoose crawls through my lower intestine.

  I've been here before. I know I can take it. I know the cramps will get worse and then subside into a constant pain that I'll be able to cope with pretty well. After that things will start to get interesting. After that I'll be approaching the frontier of my personal experience. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Jorge comes to mind. I need to distract myself.

  —Hurley. Hey, Hurl!

  —Yeah?

  —What's, what's the longest you ever went?

  —Me?

  —I don't mean the other guy named Hurley that's out there with you.

  —Ya gotta mouth, Joe.

  —Yeah, forgive me, I'm a little tense.

  —Yeah, s'tuff, ain't it?

  —Uh-huh. So what's the longest?

  —Almost two weeks once.

  —No shit.

  —Yep.

  —What happened?

  —Shouldn't oughta be talkin' wit' ya, Joe.

  —Jesus, Hurl, what the fuck can it hurt? Oh, God!

  Return of the mongoose.

  —Ya OK, Joe?

  —No.

  —OK.

  —So two weeks, huh?

  —Yeah.

  —What happened?

  He doesn't say anything. I press my face close to one of the cracks at the edge of the door.

  —C'mon, man, I'm just trying to take my mind off the cramps.

  His chair scrapes as he shifts.

  —OK. Dis wuz way back. Sure ya wanta hear dis?

  —Yeah, yeah.

  —OK. Way back. I wuz workin' fer some bootleggers. Way back. Stuff would come in onna water, onta Long Island. I did da muscle, rode shotgun like.

  —Some things don't change.

  —Well ya gotta talent ya gotta stick wid it.

  —Sure.

  —Anyhows, no big ting, da boats is runnin' up onna shore an da guys is takin' da booze off an' we get hit.

  —Another outfit?

  —Naw. Law.

  —Same thing.

  —No lie. Specially dese coppers. Dese wuz da ones we had paid off so's we could work da beach. Decided dey'd sooner handle

  distribution demselves like. Did'nae even give a warnin', jus opened up. Tommy guns. Ya been shot much, Joe?

  —Once or twice.

  —Hurts, doan it? Kee-rist! Got me good. Riddled up me legs and me belly. Fellas got me inna car an blasted us out. Foockin' cops had a roadblock a mile up. Got us good. Blew da rig right off da

  road. I went out da winshield, so I missed it when dey trew a grenade inna winda. Blew dose guys ta hell. Too bad, good guys.

  —What about you?

  —Me? Flew twenny yards when da car crashed. Landed inna culvert next ta one a dem steel drainpipes. Used me arms ta drag meself inta it. Den, just passed out like. Time I came to, cops wuz all gone.

  —Then what?

  —Lied dere, Joe. Legs wuz blown ta bits. Could'nae even crawl anymore. Just lied dere and lied dere. Holes healed up quick, like dey does. But me insides wuz a mess and da bones wuz all

  splinered. Shite takes a little longer.

  —Sure.

  —So's I'm lyin' dere fer some time. A week I'm lyin' dere. Lost all dat blood, bones heelin' slow. Vyrus gettin' bad on me. Prayin like, dat da sun don't get reflected down inta dat pipe.

  —Rough.

  —No lie, Joe, I taught I'd bought it. Kept gettin' worse an worse. Me gut an den me head an den me skin. Fore it wuz over, every-tin' hurt. Friggin' hair hurt.

  So I got that to look forward to.

  —'Bout da middle of da second week, it just stopped.

  —The pain?

  —Everytin'. Could'nae feel nuttin'. Taught, Well,'ere goes. Dis'U be it. Did'nae feel nuttin' fer more'n a day. Strange not feelin' nut-tin'. Den it got real strange.

  —How so?

  —Cuz suddenlike, I wuz feelin' everytin'.

  Mongoose attack.

  —Sorry, missed that last bit.

  —Sure, I heard ya in dere. I wuz sayin' how I tink dat ting happened, how dey talk about dat place when da Vyrus is just about down an out. Cuz all a sudden, I was fine, better'n fine. Boy wuz I hungry, dough. Jus' hopped up an walked over ta da road. First car I flagged stopped fer me. Way I looked, musta tought dered bin a accident. Guess der had been at dat. Anyhows, family in dat car never got ta ask any questions. Whew! Never fed like dat 'fore or since, Joe. It wuz sumpin'.

  —Enclave talk about that place. Daniel says they all live there.

  —Yeah, dat's what Terry said when I got back an told im da story.

  —Terry was around?

  —Sure, we go back.

  —Terry goes that far back? I thought-

  —OK, dat's enough story time. Ya shut up in dere now, Joe. Ya got better tings ta worry 'bout den dat ol' histry.

  And he shuts up. Fine with me, I got something new to think about. Me, I always thought Terry went back to the sixties, right about the time the Society was formed. Far as I know, that's what everyone thinks.

  The mongoose comes back and I stop thinking.

  —Hey, Pitt.

  Time has passed. Unpleasantly.

  I come out of my latest swoon and a bright light hits my face. I squint up into it and something far more substantial than light hits my face.

  —Lydia went to one of her queer meetings.

  I lift my head off the floor and he knocks it back down.

  —And Hurley slipped out to check the message drop, see if the runners have brought any word from Terry.

  I leave my head on the floor, so he kicks it this time.

  —Guess who got left with guard duty?

  He's at it for awhile, kicking and punching. He knows that kind of pain will only go so far with the shape I'm in. But that doesn't seem to keep him from enjoying it.

  —You're looking pretty bad, Pitt. Know what's looking worse? Your future.

  He kicks me again. I groan. He nods appreciatively.

  —That's right, looking pretty fucking bleak. Even bleaker than it was a couple hours ago. Know why?

  One of my molars has been knocked loose and hangs by a flap of skin. I bring my cuffed hands to my face, yank the tooth free and flick it on the floor.

  —Didn't know you were a fortune-teller, Tom.

  He laughs.

  —Man, I c
an't wait, I can't fucking wait for it to all come down on your head. When that tough-guy shit finally cracks I just know you're gonna turn out to be the biggest fucking crybaby I've ever seen.

  —You reading my future or what?

  —We found the kid.

  Oh, fuck.

  —Yeah. Pretty messy, Pitt, pretty fucking messy.

  Fucking hell. The girl.

  —What was that about? You just hoping no one would find him down there?

  Him?

  —'Cause someone did. Couple my boys were looking for a new safe house, checking some basements on B. They smelled something. Found him tied to that pole with his neck snapped. His fucking dog, too. What was with all the cuts, Pitt? Trying to hide the pints you tapped?

  Leprosy.

  —You're getting greedy and sloppy. Must be all the time you're spending uptown. Shit, everyone knows you used that kid to run your errands. And everyone sure as shit knows that little neck snap is your specialty. Terry finds out you did a kid, did him sloppy like that on our turf? He won't care anymore how long you guys known each other.

  I don't bother denying it. Besides, he's right, I did kill Leprosy and I should have cleaned it up. Doesn't matter if he's an idiot about everything else.

  —Problem is, Terry's got that mercy streak. Someone's got to go, he likes to just put a few in the back of the head. Doesn't believe in sending a message. So me, I got to get my licks in now.

  He punches my face a few more times. Stops.

  —Oops. Getting late.

  He rises from his squat.

  —Time to make the coffee for the next shift.

  He starts to close the closet door.

  —Don't worry, I'll be back on in a couple hours. Maybe I'll bring a little blood. Keep your strength up. After all, Terry may not be back for days.

  He closes the door, locks the chain. My face is swollen and broken. I don't have to worry about it for long. Soon enough real pain comes to call.

  And Tom's right about the crying, but the tears have nothing to do with anything he did to me.

  It's hard to say what the Vyrus is doing to me. Because not only do I have no idea what it's doing, but neither does anyone else. Terry spelled it out for me a long time ago. What it boils down to is that investigating and isolating a virus, even a simple one, takes a shitload of resources. Not even the Coalition has the kind of resources necessary. If the Vyrus were ever made public there would be no end of research fellows out there trying to make their name breaking open one of the strangest freaks of nature to come gibbering out of the asylum. Also no doubt that all the infected would be herded into sterile-environment camps so as to protect the general population. I was around when AIDS first dropped. I haven't forgotten how quickly human compassion flies out the window. Not that I'm looking for compassion, just that I know better than to assume it exists.

  In the absence of any real knowledge about what the thing is doing inside of us, we're forced to go by what we see and feel. I know the Vyrus wants blood because I feel its thirst. I know it makes me stronger because I feel it in my muscles. I know it heals me and slows my aging because I can look in a mirror. I know it has fashioned me into a predator because I hunt and I kill. But I don't know what it is doing to me now. Terry thinks the cramps are like a cattle prod, little jabs to get you off your ass and out there feeding. He also thinks they might be the last gasp as the Vyrus scrapes the bottom of the barrel and consumes the last un-infected blood in your body. The long aching pain that follows is maybe the Vyrus beginning to feed on itself. That's what Terry says anyway. Doesn't much matter to me, all I care about is that it won't hurt quite as much as the cramps when it comes. But it hasn't come yet.

  —Joe.

  Light.

  —Joe.

  In my face.

  —Joe.

  I can only tell because it brightens the darkness behind my clenched eyelids.

  —Damn it, Joe.

  I don't steel myself for Tom's next thrashing. The cramps are on me hard, and having my face busted some more is the last thing on my mind. My mind barely exists now except as a place for the signals from the nerves in my gut to land and wreak havoc.

  —Joe, get the fuck up.

  He grabs me under my arms and yanks me to my feet. It makes it hurt worse.

  —Auuuggh!

  —Shut up.

  He shoves me and I land in a chair. I pull my knees up and roll back onto the floor.

  —Stop being such a wimp.

  He grabs my hands and pulls them away from where they are clutching my stomach.

  —Auuugh!

  He grabs the cuff chain and yanks my arms out straight.

  —Such a wimp. You know the pain of childbirth is worse than the cramps?

  I open one eye a tiny bit. Lydia.

  —And that's not just feminist propaganda. I know infected women who gave birth, they told me.

  She sticks a key in one of the cuff locks and it snaps open. She looks at my face.

  —I see Tom came by.

  —Ung-hungh.

  —Give me your ankle.

  I roll on my back and lift my feet off the floor. The cramps lurch.

  —Augh.

  —Shut. Up.

  I close my eyes and nod as she unlocks the shackles then pulls me up and puts me back on the chair.

  —Can you walk?

  —Ungh.

  —Fucking wimp.

  She grabs my shoulders and pulls me to my feet again.

  —Can you walk?

  I don't answer, just put one foot in front of the other. And fall down. She kneels next to me.

  —Joe, this is it. This is the only shot you get. Tom's crashed and Hurley's hunting and the sun will be up soon. Get up.

  She reaches inside my jacket, takes out the picture and sticks it in my face.

  —Get up and go get the girl, Joe.

  She's pulling on me again. I get up.

  —Come on.

  She holds my arm and walks me across the room.

  —I'll rig it here, make it look like you smashed the door and blindsided me and got the keys.

  We're at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the sidewalk trap. They're steep.

  —It won't hold, but Tom can't make a serious move on me. He knows I can take him.

  —Hurlehungh?

  —Hurley won't do anything without Terry. Come on.

  I crawl up the steps and she pushes the steel door open.

  —Bloohnd?

  —No, I don't have any here. Hit your stash, but don't stay at your place, they'll be looking there. Go on. Go.

  She shoves me up onto the street, then reaches up through the trap and grabs my pants leg. I look down. Her face and one arm are stuck up through the trap, the picture of Amanda Horde in her hand.

  —Take it. I wrote a number on the back. Use it if you have to.

  I groan as I bend to take the picture from her.

  —Help that girl, Joe. I find out different, or find out you were lying to me, and I'll come after you with my people. We'll firebomb your house and then we'll dog you through the streets.

  —HoKugh.

  —So fucking run.

  I do, lurching and stumbling down the sidewalk, the loose cuffs still dangling from my wrist, the girl's picture in my hand, and no place to hide.

  I make it ten yards before the heaves grab me. I bend over the hood of a parked car and choke up bile until I'm empty and gagging on air. When it stops I look around, trying to find a dark corner to creep into. But nothing will be dark for long. Home, Lydia said. Go home and hit my stash. She doesn't know there's no stash to hit. I pitch myself off the car and reel down the street. At the end of the block I lean against a street sign: 3rd and C.

  Evie lives on 3rd. Just a block and a half away on 3rd between A and B. Evie will look after me, she'll take care of me.

  And she has blood. Over five quarts of it.

  I shake it off and take the right onto C, away from Evie and
the blood that's killing her.

  Christian and the Dusters would take me in, but there's no way I can make it to Pike before the sun is up. I need a hole. I need a deep hole in the ground where I can ride out the last waves of the cramps. I look up at the sky; it's already bright enough to burn my eyes and make them tear.

  I need a hole.

  The blue sawhorse barricades are still in front of the school on 9th, but the cop car is gone. Five-thirty A.M. traffic is on the streets, but I can't worry about that; I'm less than an hour from getting burned down. I edge between two of the sawhorses and walk hunched over to the door. There's a new chain and padlock. I'm far too weak to break it or to force the thick double doors. I won't be scaling the side of the wall, either. Maybe if I didn't have the cramps I could shimmy up a drainpipe. If I try it as I am I'll probably get hit with a cramp halfway up and fall a couple stories onto my head. That might be just enough to solve all my problems. Instead I start checking the ground floor windows. The steel screens on almost all of them have suffered some form of abuse over the years. It doesn't take long to find one where the lower right bracket has been wrenched from the brickwork.

  The corner of the screen can be pulled up, but only a few inches, not enough for me to squeeze through. I squat, get a grip on it with both hands and push up with my legs and arms. The screen is made from heavy-gauge steel that's gridded in a pattern like chicken wire, the edges sharp prongs. They dig into the palms of my hands, popping holes through the photograph I hadn't realized I was still holding. The screen starts to bend. From down the street I hear the rumble of a sanitation truck. Just a few yards away from me on the sidewalk is a huge mound of trash. A cramp hits and tries to cut my legs out from under me. My knees buckle slightly and the screen starts to spring back. The truck's air brakes blast and squeal as it slows, approaching the abandoned school. I squeeze my eyes shut, muscling the screen upward, and its spiked edge pops through the skin of my hands just like it did the photograph. The cramp bundles my organs, trying to curl me into myself. The screen wrenches upward, leaving a gap perhaps large enough for me to wriggle through. I pull my hands free of the prongs as the truck grinds to a halt behind me, smash them against the window, grab the jagged-edged sill and pull myself up. Broken glass digs at my belly, offering awful relief from the cramps. My upper body flops inside and my pants get caught on the screen. I tear them loose, using my forearms to pull myself along the floor and into the empty schoolroom. I writhe to my knees on broken glass and peek out the window at the sanitation guys climbing off the truck. I reach out and lace my fingers through the holes in the screen and pull. It's easier to drag back down than it was to push up, and I get it close enough to the window that maybe it won't be noticed from the street. That done, I stick my fingers past the broken shards of glass and pull the bloody photograph from the bloody barbs.