My Dead Body

  Hurley nods.

  —Well an dem, dey do have dere own problems just now an all. Not dat I don’t say it’s time fer ‘em to stand up and pick a side, but dey do have dere hands full wit dat udder stuff.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  Terry flicks eyes from Hurley to me to the coin.

  —Something out in Brooklyn is causing problems. The Chosen, they’re having internal conflicts. Seems that when you were there, you did serious damage to their power structure. Left a vacuum. And, you know, I don’t know, nature may abhor a vacuum, but chaos loves one. Infighting. Someone, we get very little information from that quarter, but from what I gather, someone over there, one side or the other, has used a nuclear option.

  The coin goes to its side, he watches it wind down this time.

  —Making golems.

  I can’t help myself.

  —What the fuck?

  Terry shakes his head.

  —I said the same thing. I don’t know, all that East European mythology, mixed with all that biblical mythology. Mixed with, you know, us. Anyway, seems the confusion is just a matter of semantics. What they call a golem, we call a zombie is all.

  Hurley pulls down the corners of his mouth.

  —Nasty creatures. Imagine, usin’ such a ting ‘gainst yer fella types. Be a special punishment waitin’ fer dem when the final horn blows an all dat. Zombies. Detestable is what it is.

  Terry spins the coin, stops it, looks at Hurley.

  —No telling what pressures they were under. Not for us to judge a course of action. Right and wrong, absolutes, that gets us nowhere. Some liberality of mind, some flexibility of spirit, it all helps to keep us out of outmoded practices. Thinking forward, that’s where we need to be. Condemnation is a losing proposition.

  Hurley shrugs.

  —Say what ya will, Terry, an ya know I know ya know an all. But still, zombies. Dere’s a limit ta what civilized folks should be will-in’ lay hands to. Dat, I’d have ta say, dat would be my own.

  Terry looks at the coin, rubs his thumb over it.

  I tilt my head Hurley’s way.

  —Got to say I’m with you on this one, Hurl. Making shamblers, that’s a scummy business to be in. Let alone sicking them on anyone. Open the door to brain-eaters, it’s all downhill from there. How you figure that, Terry, someone making zombies?

  Terry raises his eyes to me, looks back at the coin between his fingers, nods, gives it a spin.

  —It’s all theory, anyway. I think, and this is the theory, I think someone caught a zombie and stuck it in a basement and kept it alive. A process that, I don’t know, I don’t want to think about. And they used it like a deterrent. Like, Don’t fuck with me or I’ll start making more golems and sending them onto your turf. So, again the biblical thing, they did it. Now they got them over there, golems in Brooklyn, started in Gravesend, but, these things, now a couple have wandered over the Manhattan Bridge. Duster turf.

  Hurley raises a finger.

  —It’ll end poorly fer dem dat done it. Mark me. Bound ta pay against ‘em. An it should if dere’s any justice a’tall.

  Terry puts a finger in the spinning path of the coin and it bounces off and falls.

  —Anyway, as if we didn’t have enough complications. I don’t know, you know, our visibility factor now, we’re just below the skin of things, one pinprick away from a gigantic pop that blows it wide open and just this chaotic mess with no sense of control, no order, and I am a big fan of things taking their course, but I’m trying to forge, you’ve heard this, trying to make a dialectic here. That’s what we’re about. We’re a counter-argument to the Coalition. We’re antithesis. For this to work, for us to achieve a synthesis, there has to be a degree of control in the conflict. Otherwise everything is destroyed. No synthesis, just a fucking mess. So. Here I am, consulting the I Ching, looking for clarity of thought, trying to illuminate my consciousness and see a way out of the fog, what they call the fog of war, and, as if you’ve been summoned to add darkness, you come and knock at the door.

  He taps the edge of the coin on the tabletop.

  —And what is especially, I don’t know, ironic, about your timing is, I’m, in my search for clarity, in this time of multiple crises for all Vyrally infected, I’m asking the book a question about how to deal with this new threat, like I said, yeah, and, the threat is, I’m asking the book, I’m asking it, this leads back to something you mentioned, about Lydia and her unwillingness to think before she speaks, part of what I’m asking the book is, How the fuck did Lydia get the idea that I know the location of the blood farm?

  He stops tapping the coin.

  —And you walk through the door. As if.

  He taps once.

  —As if, man, as if there was any doubt about it in the first place, man.

  He drops the coin.

  —As if.

  He takes off his glasses, rubs the lenses with a tail of his faded madras button-down.

  —Hurley, will you get Lydia in here, please?

  Hurley tsks again, walks to a closet door at the far end of the basement apartment, opens it, reaches in, and drags Lydia out. Wrapped in twenty yards of coaxial cable, a racquet ball stuffed in her mouth, dried blood from her ears and nose.

  Terry rises and points at her.

  —We’re all responsible for our own actions, Joe, I do believe that, but I have to say, I don’t know, but I have to say, in my opinion, and this is regressive, in my own opinion, this is your fault.

  He sits.

  —Though Lydia may disagree with me on that interpretation.

  I can only assume that Lydia won’t be saving my life this go-around.

  Shame.

  Especially seeing as I’d been kind of banking on setting her and Terry against each other and using the fireworks as cover to get what I wanted. Old dog needs new tricks. I’d put an ad in the paper, but I don’t have time.

  Time.

  Shit.

  Time.

  —Remember that time, Joe, when I asked you to, this is many years in the wayback machine I’m talking about, I asked you to take care of Selby Lovelorn? Do you remember Selby?

  I shrug.

  —His name was Lovelorn, Terry, how’s a man forget something like that?

  —Sure, yeah, yeah, right. So, I asked you to deal with him because, and memory is subjective, but I remember it was because he’d been warned a few times to stop mooning around that Goth club on Houston, stop hanging out there with the blood-letting crowd. He was getting too cocky about it is what I remember. Dropping too many hints to those kids that he was the real thing. Der Vampir, and all that crap. Do you remember?

  —Yeah, I got it.

  —And you, I don’t know, took it lightly because, I don’t know, because you did. Things were, this was right before you left the Society is what I remember, and you and me, we were having, communication was not at its clearest for us. Lots of information flying over each other’s heads. Missed cues about the disrepair of the relationship. So what I’d intended was, I’d hoped what was clear was that Selby was a terminal. And you, Joe, you gave me, you were sullen at the time. It was, I felt like I had a teenager, I mean a real teenager on my hands. You still looked like a kid, but you were old enough to, age does not always bring wisdom, but you were old enough to have grown up a little. At least. And I got all that, yeah, no, yeah, no stuff from you all the time. So you go out to visit Selby. To fulfill your roll within the Society, use your natural skill at the best of your ability for the betterment of all. And what did you do? Do you remember this part?

  I remember. But I keep it to myself.

  Terry illuminates everyone else.

  —You, he, Joe there, what he did was, he went and talked to Selby Lovelorn. He told him he was on, what you told me was, you said to him he was on thin ice and he needed to lay low.

  He shakes his head.

  —Joe Pitt talked to someone. Explained they had a problem. Cautioned him to be mellow.

&
nbsp; He rubs his nose.

  —Do you, do you remember what happened next, Joe? So what happened next was that Selby Lovelorn, prince of the Goth scene, he went right back out that night and, I don’t know, figuring that the heat was on, he went for broke. This girl, this blood-letter, she nicked herself with a razor, offered a little dribble to him, thinking, I don’t know, thinking it would lead to some kind of transcendent sexual experience. And Selby, he latched on. And he wouldn’t let go. And he started chewing into her arm. And she started screaming. And this was all happening in the lounge at that damn club.

  He presses his palms together.

  —And I had to deal with it. Which, in and of itself, that should be no big deal. I’ve never been above getting my hands dirty. But at the time this was happening, I was establishing my face in the uninfected community, trying to integrate with the local activist culture. Very subtle moves were happening. So to break cover, to step out and deal with a major publicity fiasco like that, it upset the tone of what I’d been saying elsewhere. It was. Joe.

  He splits his palms and shows them to me.

  —It was a real fuckup.

  He closes his hands into fists.

  —And what I come back around to when I reflect on that incident, what I come back around to, and generally I avoid this kind of self-recrimination because, you know, what’s the point, but what I came back around to is asking myself why I didn’t do what I’d expected you to do?

  He holds up one fist.

  —And I don’t mean Selby Lovelorn. I handled him with a great amount of discretion and permanence. What I mean is. It’s this.

  He holds up the other fist.

  —You, Joe. What I mean is, if Selby had crossed a line and needed to be let out of his obligations to this world, well, man, then hadn’t you done the same? Didn’t I owe it to the Society to remove a man who’d chosen to disregard the greater good for the sake of his own sensibilities? A man who, with every day it became increasingly clear, a man who was turning his back on our philosophy. Didn’t I have a responsibility to, I don’t know, to put that man out of the sphere where he could do us the most harm? With what you knew about the Society, I think, from where I am now, I think I lost an opportunity there. Blew a chance to make things run smoother. If I’d just fucking killed you then.

  I nod.

  —We all have regrets.

  He unballs his fists.

  —Yes, we do.

  He looks at Lydia, still bundled on the floor, her eyes trying to find a way to burn holes in his face.

  —Speaking of regrets.

  He rubs his forehead.

  —I seem to have been rash. Letting my anger get the better of me. I should have, like the book says, I should have stepped aside when Lydia charged in here and accused me of withholding, what was it, withholding knowledge of crimes against humanity. But that kind of thing gets under my skin. Always has. If I’d waited a moment before telling Hurley to, you know, calm her down, Lydia might have mentioned that her Bulls were nearby and waiting for her to come back out.

  He taps a finger on the book.

  —A little too late, I threw the coins on that one.

  He gets up from his thrift store bargain table.

  —They had recognized you, Joe, they would have probably grabbed you off the sidewalk. Just for, you know, being you. I’m guessing they made some socioeconomic assumptions based on your appearance and didn’t think to move till you were already on the doorstep. But you’ll be the last one in.

  He points up.

  —We have, I don’t know, we have a few dozen partisans in here. Some clerical staff. A couple members in hospice, dealing with the shock of recent infection. And the old school. Us. Lydia’s Bulls have the front covered. We have the alley, but they have the rooftop behind us. It’s a stalemate scenario.

  He circles the table and leans his hip against it.

  —How long, if you were to make a guess, how long would this kind of dissent take to travel uptown? I’m talking about the awareness of it, not the dissent itself. Which would make no sense at all.

  I scratch my knee.

  —Things were normal, maybe a day before word got out. Way things are now, word is already on its way.

  —Yeah, that’s my thought.

  He looks down at Lydia again.

  —And when Predo hears we’re all tied up here, and that’s not meant at your expense, Lydia, he’ll jump. Move his people down. You know, the Coalition owns property here. They hold leases. So, while we’re fighting with ourselves, he’ll literally bus his people down and put them in those properties. By the time we can, if we can, come to terms, we’ll have at least two hundred Coalition members housed on our turf. That’s if he doesn’t just come at us here. Attack Lydia’s Bulls from the rear while they’re focused on us, and then. It’s all so. Things just. I’m.

  He takes off his glasses and covers his eyes.

  —I’m at something of a loss.

  Eyes still covered, he raises a finger.

  —Even if we avoid Predo’s involvement, a division like this is, I don’t know, has the potential to be mortal. Man, it’s like, how do you restore confidence in your leadership when they’ve just gone toe-to-toe in a power struggle? Because, our people, they’re out there, watching how this resolves. If we can’t, if Predo knows, all the Society knows, and that just. That just.

  He takes his hands from his eyes.

  —Cripples us, man.

  My stuff is on a shelf across the room. Keys, wet matches, knife, saw, tobacco. I stare at the tobacco. I’m getting crawling claws in my belly again and a smoke sounds better and better.

  —You need a symbol. Something you can rally around, show unity with. Something that gives people hope that you can move forward. That kind of thing.

  Terry raises his eyebrows.

  —That’s some interesting thinking, Joe. Did you have something in mind?

  I point at my tobacco.

  —I might think more clearly with a smoke.

  He shakes his head.

  —Should have picked Camel as your last name instead of Pitt.

  I get up and go for the Bugler.

  —Sure, except I’m a Luckys man.

  —And Joe Lucky wouldn’t have fit at all.

  I flick out a paper and wave it back and forth. It crinkles enough to let me know it can be rolled.

  —Doesn’t seem so.

  He rotates a finger.

  —Your thought, Joe.

  I get another of my crippled jobs rolled, but the match heads are just smearing on the striker. I cross to the little propane stove in the corner, turn on the gas, hit the sparker, wait for a flame, and light up.

  All is right in the world.

  —My thought is, Predo’s not worried about you right now. What he’s worried about is the hit he’s about to lay on the Cure house. Got a heavy contingent ready to go in sometime after midnight. His back is the one that’s turned. You kids can settle your differences, you can slide up there and put a hurt on him while he’s trying to clean up Horde’s mess. As a bonus.

  I suck smoke, let it go to work on my lungs, and kick it back out.

  —Chubby’s daughter and her beau are sitting tight up there too. Complete with their handy little symbol of unity right in her stomach. All you got to do is stop sweating out past scores with me and go get it.

  I get some more of that smoke inside me.

  —You can keep from killing me too soon, I’ll even show how to get up there without anyone seeing you at all.

  Terry runs a hand down his ponytail, purses his lips, walks over to the shelf where my stuff is and picks up the amputation blade. Taking it from the rubber sheath, he steps to Lydia, squats, places the tip of the blade against the racquet ball in her mouth, and stabs an inch of the blade into the ball. Putting the knife aside, he pokes his finger into the slit he’s made, hooks it, and gives a hard pull, popping the saliva-covered ball past her teeth and dropping it on the floor.

/>   —Can I interest you in a negotiated settlement, Lydia? She spits.

  —You can fuck off and die, Terry. You and your hypocritical dialectic bullshit can fuck off and die.

  He picks up the blade.

  —My options are limited here, Lydia, and in deference to our working relationship, I’d like to avoid doing anything that I can’t, you know, maneuver around. Anything with irreparable consequences. So if you’ve got your knee-jerk anger reaction out of your system, do we have room to talk here?

  Through her teeth.

  —After Predo and the Cure house, we go to Queens. The hole. The kids. No discussion. No compromise. We save them. The right fucking thing, Terry. With no gray.

  He shrugs.

  —Hey, man, that’s the kind of opportunity I’m looking for every day of my life.

  He starts to untie the twists of coaxial binding her, looking over his shoulder at me.

  —Joe?

  —Old buddy.

  —Why’d you let Selby go?

  I drop my butt and crush it.

  —To see if I could get away with it.

  He yanks a loop of cable free and rises.

  —Yeah. I was right. Should have killed you then.

  I start pocketing my keys and such.

  —Think of all the fun you’d have missed out on over the years, Terry, without me around. Like a king without a court jester.

  Nobody will give me a gun.

  —Wasn’t for me, Lydia, you’d still be hog-tied on the floor.

  —I don’t see the connection.

  I fumble with the buttons of the clean shirt Terry had someone dig up for me.

  —Just saying you might have one of your Bulls lend me a piece for this gig. Seeing as how I’m the one talked Terry around to not killing you.

  She shrugs her chiseled shoulders into her Carhartt jacket.

  —Last time I saw you with a gun, Joe, you were shooting me in the stomach with it.

  —Well, if you’re gonna dwell on the past like that, we’ll never have nothing to build a relationship on.

  She shakes her head.

  —You need help with those?

  Buttons with one thumb, think about it. I’m gonna be a T-shirt and zipper guy for the rest of my life. Should I have a chance to worry about a change of wardrobe.