My Dead Body

  —Hurley is.

  Hurley draws his head back.

  —An it’s mad ya are at da end, Joe.

  Terry’s lips go thin.

  —Your brain is boiling, Joe.

  It is. My brain is boiling. I have a fever. I’m not sure I’m sweating anymore. Moisture all used up. Skin feels like ash. Touch me and I’ll flake and float away.

  I drink whiskey for lubrication.

  —Just that Hurley’s of the old school. Germ warfare, extermination of the species, that’s not his thing.

  Hurley hooks his thumbs in his suspenders.

  —An of course it ain’t. Now, I’m all fer a war, on an intimate scale, mind, a straightaway settlin’ of differences when diplomacy has failed, but every man has his limit, don’t ya know.

  I almost laugh, but my throat’s too dry.

  —Funny choice of words. I was just thinking along those lines.

  He flips his fingers.

  —An what worry o mine is it anyway? None. Terry boy, he sees fit ta shake his saber and bug his eyes at Mister DJ Grave Digga an treaten him a bit wit a fate worse dan death, well, so be it an all. Fer goodness sake.

  He snaps his suspenders.

  —Tis not like he would do it.

  Lydia kicks her heels against the floor.

  —Hurley.

  She loses the words, coughing, but nods her head up and down.

  Hurley waves the nods off.

  —An yer just feelin’ sore, Lydia, because ya didn’t have yer way. An I know yer worried ‘bout dem kids in Queens an all, but we’ll take car o dat. Dis expedience Terry is talkin’ about, dat word, dat word means we’ll do it quickly is all. Yer just makin’ tings more complicated dan dey is.

  —Terry sold zombies to the Chosen in Brooklyn, Hurley.

  He frowns, brows drawing down so low they almost cover his eyes.

  —Be careful now, Joe. Terry may want ya ta die slow, but if I lose my temper listenin’ ta foul rumor, I won’t be responsible.

  My head, it feels like my scalp is a blister. More whiskey for that.

  —So maybe I’m provoking you, Hurl. To make it quick. All the same, I gave Terry the zombie juice years ago. It was in these dentures the Horde kid’s dad made. Crazy, huh? Remember that time you saved me from Predo and his goon? Think hard. All that shambler trouble at the time? Doctor Horde was behind that. Terry used the teeth to make a few shamblers, sold them in Brooklyn. That’s where the new ones came from.

  Hurley’s frown deepens, eyes hidden in shadow, a cloud over the man that could only be darker if it was spitting rain and lightning bolts.

  —Strivin’ ta confuse me with memories o the distant past is a poor course of action.

  —Hurl, move a little away from those guns, would you?

  Hurley, standing near the gun racks where he’s been gradually drifting for the last minute, born on a tide of uncertainty toward a comfortable shoreline, stops and looks at Terry, and the gun Terry is pointing at him.

  —Aw now, Terry boy.

  Terry looks at the gun in his own hand.

  —Just until your mind clears, Hurley.

  Hurley shakes his head. Shakes it again.

  —Aw hell, Terry.

  —These are complex issues, Hurl, not one of your, I don’t know, strengths, man.

  —Sure, and but.

  He gives his head a final snapping shake.

  —Aw, now that’s done it but good an shaked everythin’ inta place.

  He points a sausage finger.

  —Zombies, Terry. Of all da tings in da world.

  Terry inhales deep, exhales.

  —Take a deep one, just draw a deep one in and let it go, just to get some oxygen flowing, clear the cobwebs there. Shine a light on what you believe.

  Hurley draws in a deep breath and lets it go in a rush, and shakes his head.

  —Naw, dat didn’t shake da taught loose. It’s in dere good.

  He takes a step toward Terry.

  —Ya did it, didn’t ya? Supplyin’ dem wit zombies? Ya did it. An I mean ta say, zombies. It just goes ta prove what I been tinkin’ fer some time now. Yer not clear in da head yerself, Terry.

  Terry raises his shoulders high, drops them.

  —Just flex those muscles and relax, go easy on this, old friend.

  Hurley raises his shoulders, drops them.

  —Still I feel tense as before.

  He stops walking toward Terry and rubs his forehead.

  —An I do not feel unsure a’tall. An I know it. Yes, I do.

  He takes his hand from his forehead.

  —Ya did it, Terry, ya did it an it ain’t just a story Joe is tellin’. Ya did it.

  —It’s a complicated world, Hurl, like I’ve always said, and some things you do, they have to be done.

  —An don’t I know it, havin’ done so many of dose tings? An don’t I know it? But I say it again, zombies. Shame, shame on ya, Terry Bird. Shame.

  Terry plants his feet.

  —Hurley, man, if you suddenly, if you think you can guide things, if you think you can make the choices that will lead us to a better world then, hey, I don’t know, say so and we’ll change our whole dynamic.

  Hurley clucks his tongue.

  —It ain’t about dat an ya know it well. An I hardly know anymore what it tis we’re leadin’ to. Dis better world. A world wit zombies in it? No. Somehow, an I can’t say where it was, but somewhere, ya jumped a track, Terry boy, an tis up ta me, yer true friend, ta get ya back on it. Zombies an shootin’ Lydia outta hand like dat, and all dese last few years an da mess we’ve become.

  He rubs at the corner of his eye.

  —I long fer da old days, I tell ya. An I don’t see nuttin’ in what yer talkin’ ‘bout dat will bring ‘em back. So, trust me on dis, trust yer oldest friend, dat gook what ya got in yer hand, I tink ya should give it ta me. If ya can step over da line ta usin’ zombies, ya might do about anytin’. An I’ll lie an I’ll cheat an I’ll kill till the graveyards are full up, but always wit me own brain an mouth an hands I’ll do it. Openin’ a bottle an lettin’ out a genie ta kill everyting, dat’s not fer us, Terry boy.

  He puts out his hand.

  —Yer like a souse on da bottle an tis time ta take da cure. Get clear. So hand it over.

  Terry nods.

  —Yeah, Hurl. Rough times these.

  He shoots.

  Hurley keeps walking at him, brushing at the spreading blood on his chest.

  —Now, Terry. We’re not children surely? Was dat called fer?

  Terry shoots again.

  Hurley pats his hip where the second bullet went in.

  —An it’s not like I’m suggestin’ ya step down or anytin’. I’m just sayin’ ya need ta remember da limits of, well, human decency here.

  Terry shoots again.

  Hurley flexes his left arm below the bullet hole in his shoulder.

  —It’s a tough ting ta admit ya got a problem. An if da fact yer shootin’ me doesn’t spell it out ta ya, I don’t know what will. Give me da bottle, Ter. Ya dan’t trust yerself just now.

  Terry shoots again, his arm fully extended, Hurley just in front of him, the barrel almost touching Hurley’s neck when it goes off, blowing off a chunk.

  Hurley coughs, spits a mouthful of blood on the floor, takes another step, another, and grabs Terry by the shoulders, gun pinned between them.

  —Before ya do somethin’ ye’ll regret, Terry, why don’t ya hand me dat bottle o nasty? Just fer me ta put away someplace safe. Where ya won’t tink on it an get confused. We’d not want to overstep da bounds of our friendship here, now would we?

  Terry tries to pull back, twists, but Hurley’s lost one man from his paws tonight. He doesn’t ever lose two.

  —Hurley.

  —Terry now.

  —Hurley, this is just, I don’t know, man.

  —Isn’t it now? Isn’t it just that.

  The gun goes off five more times, two of the bullets come out of Hurley’
s back, the others trapped inside the mass of him.

  He grunts, wraps his arms around Terry, and squeezes.

  When he stops squeezing he drops what’s left of Terry.

  He looks down at the mess. Plucks the gun from it. Pops the clip.

  —Empty now. Shame. He drops both.

  Bends and picks up the vial, and walks to me and offers it.

  —Joe, would ya mind?

  I take it from his hand.

  He keeps it out.

  —An if I might?

  I hand him the whiskey and he walks to Terry’s body and lowers himself slowly to the floor and takes a drink that finishes the last three inches of bourbon.

  —Damn it all.

  He looks at the empty bottle and flips it away to roll across the floor.

  —Damn it all.

  He folds himself over Terry’s body.

  —An I never expected to live forever.

  He closes his eyes, head resting on his folded arms.

  —But damn it all da same.

  His barrel chest pumps a few more times, but that’s all he has left in him.

  • • •

  Time was, you’d have told me I was gonna be in the room when Terry died, and I’d have told you that would never happen on my watch. Now here it is, and most I feel is maybe that I wish I’d had a chance to get a crack at him myself. Figure, as unwell as I am, Vyrus going all haywire, dying already started, I got about a thousand reasons why I should feel this bad. None of them having anything to do with Terry Bird being dead and gone.

  But that don’t mean I’m gloating.

  I look at Predo’s head, still in my lap, and roll it to the floor.

  No, I’m not gloating. Things got to die sometimes. That’s all.

  So I wipe the smile off my face.

  —Did it go through?

  Lydia feels at her back.

  —No. Shit.

  She lost her fair share of blood in the basement and on the stairs. That big old gun put a hell of a hole in her gut. Wound has closed over, no more blood leaking, but she’s having trouble finding her feet. We could start a stumble club her and me.

  —Someone’s gonna have to dig it out.

  —I have people for that.

  —Lose more blood when it happens.

  She stops trying to rise and lowers herself until she’s lying on the floor.

  —Need to get up.

  Footsteps.

  —I can help.

  We’re both looking at her, Delilah, gazing down at Lydia, over the rim of her belly.

  —I can help.

  —Now, baby.

  Ben comes over.

  —I’m not sure.

  She doesn’t look at him.

  —Benjamin, I want to get out of here. You know how to do that?

  He points at the door, scratches his head.

  —I’m not sure what’s out there.

  She nods.

  Lydia is shaking her head.

  —No, no, no, no. No way. Never.

  I lever myself out of my chair, the cramps keeping me bent, and find a few things to lean on till I get to Lydia.

  —Here.

  I get a hand in her armpit and pull.

  —No, I won’t, I won’t.

  Even with the bullet in her, she’s in better shape than me.

  I look at Ben.

  —Kid.

  He gets her by her other arm and we pull her off the floor and start hauling her across the room.

  —No, Joe. I won’t take a mother’s blood. I won’t, given or not. I won’t.

  I get her where we’re going.

  —Here.

  She looks at Amanda.

  —Joe. No.

  I point at the lab.

  —Girl wanted to find a cure, wanted to help. Think she’d care? She wouldn’t. Go on, before it goes bad.

  Her nostrils are flaring, just this close to all that spilled blood, smelling that it’s still fresh inside.

  —She said not to.

  —She was being pissy and temperamental. She wanted to help. Whatever. Stop talking about it. Do it.

  It takes her another second to get over her qualm, and she gets to it.

  I leave her there, walk away from the desk, find my chair and sit back down, and try not to look at what she’s doing, or drown in my own saliva.

  Delilah comes over.

  —What about you? You’ll be more help if you can fight.

  The Vyrus rages at the nearness of all that blood.

  I wave her off.

  —Look who’s the realist all of a sudden. None for me. Dilutes my bodily fluids. Need my strength for later. But I tell you.

  I take out my tobacco.

  —If one of you kids could roll one of these and find a light somewhere, I think I’d be OK.

  Ben takes the packet, unseals the bag, looks inside.

  —You’re out of rolling papers.

  I wave a hand at some books in the lab.

  —Improvise.

  He goes looking for a book.

  I grunt.

  —Hey, see if she’s got a Bible over there. Those onionskin pages at the front work best.

  —Classy, Joe.

  Lydia is on her feet. Still with a wobble, but shiny-eyed and loose-shouldered.

  She wipes her mouth.

  —Ready to go to Queens?

  Ben comes back with a smoke rolled in a bit of printed paper, and a butane igniter.

  —Mister Pitt.

  —Yeah, hit me.

  I stick the double wide smoke in my face and he burns the end off it and I cough up a chunk of my lung on that first paper hit, but it’s worth it.

  I look at Lydia.

  —Why the hell would I want to go to Queens?

  She’s at the gun rack, pauses in her inventory and points at Terry.

  —Know what that is?

  I squint at the body.

  —Dead people?

  —Karma.

  She returns to looking for a gun that will suit her mood.

  —That was Terry’s bullshit karma finally catching up to him because he delayed and deferred doing the right thing for too long.

  —Uh-huh.

  —I’m not saying there’s anything mystical about it, just that he sowed and he reaped. Being a selfish asshole gets you nowhere.

  —Uh-huh.

  She turns to look at me, hefting something that looks designed to efficiently kill people in large numbers.

  —Are you on the phone?

  I hold up a finger.

  —Hang on, this will be fast.

  —Who are you calling now? Digga has his hands full. Joe? Who are you?

  I get my connection, my voice sounding so strangled through the pain in my gut and my half-crushed windpipe that I don’t even have to act to make myself sound freaked out.

  —Yeah, I want to report a shooting. A murder. A cop, a cop was just shot over here. Where they make cement. Queens, I’m in Queens. English Kill. Next to the bus depot, where they make cement. I work. Oh my god. There’s a, some kind of sex slave thing. In the factory, the main building. Chains and. Please, please, they killed a cop and they know I’m here.

  I hang up the phone, drop it, stomp it into shards.

  —Really, Lydia.

  I take a drag.

  —If you wanted to change the world.

  I blow smoke.

  —That was all you had to do.

  Lydia kills the thing on the stairs.

  Opens the door, starts shooting, keeps shooting, empties a clip into it, pops a fresh one in the gun and empties that one too. Whatever it was, it had finished off the last of the starvings. Monsters out of the way, we spend more time than reasonable getting down the stairs. Mostly that’s my fault. Ben tries to carry me to make things go faster, but I go into a fit of convulsions and the arm wrapped around his neck almost throttles him and he decides he’ll just let me lean on him so he can drop me if it happens again.

  Delilah walks j
ust ahead of us, one step at a time, waddling with care.

  Lydia is leading the way, gun first, poking it into every open door on every landing.

  —Insane. I should. Insane.

  I trip down a couple steps, grab the banister.

  —You were the one that wanted to be public.

  She takes the turn on the second floor landing.

  —We always thought it would be an announcement. A press conference. Not a SWAT van driving on an officer-down call and finding a Vampyre concentration camp. It was. We wanted it to be organized. Controlled.

  —Sure, a civilized declaration that Dracula is real and there are a lot of him and, oh yeah, it’s communicable.

  She leads us down to the ground floor, stepping carefully through the bodies.

  —It’s information. We needed to shape it, control the definitions. Why shouldn’t the signified define the signifiers?

  —You sound like Terry.

  Her head snaps around, gun barrel in parallel.

  —Don’t.

  —It was never gonna happen like that. No one was ever gonna buy that. It was always going to happen, and it was always going to be a mess.

  I step away from Ben, use the wall, start for the back of the building.

  —At least this way we blew it up ourselves.

  I find the back door, find the ring of Cure house keys still in my pocket.

  —Could have been someone else blowing it up under us.

  I start trying keys in locks.

  Lydia puts a hand on the door.

  —How was this better? How is it better we blow ourselves up?

  I grin.

  —I don’t know. I guess it just feels better than letting someone else do it.

  She starts to frown, but it turns to a grin of her own.

  —Yeah. Alright. So let’s go deal with the rubble.

  I find the right keys and pop the locks.

  She pulls her hand away from the door.

  —So those enforcers don’t know about the back way?

  I shrug.

  —Probably they do.

  She stares at me.

  I shrug again.

  —My bet is all the little piggies got called home as soon as Digga hit Coalition HQ.

  —And if not?

  I point at the basement door.

  —If not, that’s plan B over there. Your call.

  She pulls the door open and we step into the alley, Ben and Delilah waiting to see if we get gunned down from the rooftops. We don’t. And we don’t get shot up on the street when we come out the front of the Cure-owned building that faces onto Seventy-second. And the Impala is where I left it on First Avenue. And I haven’t lost the key in all the business of the night. And there’s still a couple hours to daylight.