Already Dead: A Novel

XXX

The goon is on his feet, pants bunched around his calves, penis shriveled inside its latex wrapper. He is holding his jacket, trying to pull something from one of its pockets, something that has snagged and will not come free. I reach for him, and instead of grabbing his shoulder I shove it. There is a dull snap as his shoulder pops out of its socket and he is sent reeling and crashes to the floor by the door. I look at the bound and half-naked woman at my feet. But she smells wrong. She has been polluted and will poison me if I try to drink her. I crouch, ready to leap on the helpless goon who now struggles with his one useful hand to pull free whatever weapon is concealed in his jacket.

The enforcer lands on my back.

One arm snakes around my throat and the stiletto thrusts at my face. I bring my hand up, the stiletto pierces the palm and juts out the back, the point halted an inch from my eye. I fall backward, lift my feet from the floor and land on the enforcer. He makes a noise and the arm around my neck loosens. I roll to my left, tumbling free of him, wrenching my hand from the blade and coming to my feet.

There is a tingling along my jaw and in my hand. I can feel the flesh knitting, the Vyrus in overdrive, closing my wounds as they are inflicted. The enforcer is up. He is between me and the goon now. No matter. There is more food here.

I turn to face Horde and his unconscious daughter. The stiletto enters my back, is plunged into my liver twice before I can seize his arm, hunch forward, and toss the enforcer to a far corner of

the room.

The pain is more persistent this time. The healing tickle not such a balm. The Vyrus is fighting a losing battle against the damage I'm absorbing. I must feed.

The enforcer is on me again, charging from the corner. He crashes into me and we sprawl on the floor. He straddles my chest, pins my arms with his knees. The stiletto comes down, drives through my left forearm and sticks in the crumbling concrete below. He covers my eyes with his thumbs and starts to gouge them out of their sockets. I wrench my head to the side and catch his wrist between my teeth.

His blood is acid. It fills my mouth, scorching my tongue. I close my throat against it. The small bones of his wrist crunch between my teeth and he howls and rips himself free and off of me. I gag and spit his torn meat from my mouth and yank the stiletto from my arm. I roll to my knees. The wound in my arm stays open, streaming blood. The Vyrus is dealing with my more mortal hurts. Ignoring that which will not kill me outright. The enforcer is between me and the others again. He comes in low, in a wrestler's crouch, the blood clotting at his wrist.

I see the Enclave in my mind. Their disciplined sparring. The control they exert over the Vyrus gone berserk in their veins. It can be controlled, this power. I have seen it.

He feints at my right arm, the arm that now holds his blade. I dodge to the left, away from the feint and into the real attack he had planned for my wounded left arm.

He cranks the arm up and back and pain explodes in my shoulder as he tries to snap it before I can react. But I am already reacting, twisting to my left, bringing the stiletto around in an arc behind his legs, and drawing it back, the blade raking the tendons just above the tops of his knees. He drops, his legs folding like marionette limbs beneath him, my arm falling from his grasp. I plant the heel of my left hand beneath his jaw as he comes down and force him back, his legs powerless beneath his body. I climb onto his stomach, still shoving his head back, baring his throat, and stab him in the neck. Over and over. Blood sprays, and air whistles from a dozen holes. I shove the blade in one final time, fixing it at the far point below his jaw, and then heave it over to the other side. I leave the stiletto lodged in his twitching corpse and stand up.

The woman on the floor has freed her hands and is clumsily trying to get to her feet, but the bacteria is still finding its place and she is delirious with it. The goon is by the door, whimpering and trying to get at his weapon.

But there is blood here at my left hand.

I turn to kill Horde and his daughter, and he shoots me in the stomach.

The gun is small, the slender European automatic of the well-to-do. The pain flares and disappears in the same instant. The tingle of regeneration fills my belly. I move at Horde, knowing I can pluck the weapon from his hand before he can fire it again.

Two vicious insects latch onto the back of my neck and I am knocked to my knees by 50,000 volts.

I open my mouth and howl silently and piss myself. Two wires run from my neck to the black box in the goon's hand. I flail at the wires, yank them from my skin and scramble to my feet. The goon is screaming, banging his head against the wall, fumbling one-handed with the Taser, trying to insert another charge. I take a step toward him.

Horde shoots me again. The bullet rips through the meat of my left thigh. I stumble but don't fall, and turn to face him again. And am stung by the 50,000 once more.

Steam wisps from the holes in my arm, leg and stomach, and Horde adds a new hole, this one punched through my chest. I feel my right lung collapse and I echo it, keeling and folding to one side until I am supported by my right knee and hand, left hand clamped over the gasping hole in my chest. No tingling now, and no vibrant clarity of senses. The Vyrus has run its course. I am an empty and useless vessel that is beyond repair.

Naked and still erect, Horde steps over his daughter and comes close to me, the gun declined at my head.

He glances about the room, at his lost and struggling wife, the fear-crazed goon, the nearly decapitated enforcer, and his sleeping child. Then to me.

— I will not lie to you, Pitt; that was unexpected.

He tilts his head at the enforcer.

— And rather spectacular. Honestly, I've never seen the infected in action. I had no idea of the ferocity. Or the reserves you can call upon. Was your recovery typical? Or are you unique in your constitution?

I bleed.

— Regardless, I think it's safe to assume that you are beyond help at this point.

He thinks for a moment.

— But just to be safe.

He shoots my right arm. I sit there, helplessly listing on my one good limb.

— All this carnage may be oversetting the scene a bit, but I trust that Predo will be able to tidy things up. And I'm sure that the authorities will understand the excesses I took in avenging myself on you. You would understand as well if you were to stay present long enough to witness what you did to my daughter. But it is not to be.

He shakes his head.

— A shame. Nothing would please me more than to have you in my lab. But. He heaves a sigh.

— Predo forbids it. I can experiment all I like with the. . well, one feels comic to call it this, but with the zombie bacteria. But he will not allow me a subject of research for the Vyrus. No bother, I'll get one on my own soon enough.

— Husband.

He looks at his wife.Ê Standing in clothes askew, leaning crookedly against the wall behind her. -I think I want to eat you.

She tries to take a step and stumbles, her body, already decomposing, is arguing with the bacteria over who controls what.

Horde smiles.

— Don't worry, love. You won't have to live with that feeling for long. And who knows, perhaps I'll cut something from Amanda for you to nibble. I assure you she'd feel only the mildest pain in the state she's in. The dear won't even remember. What do you say? Something she won't miss, of course. A little finger?

He turns his eyes back to me and shrugs.

— As you can see, I have a great deal to take care of here. My family is waiting.

He presses the barrel of the gun against the top of my forehead. I watch his finger as it tightens on the trigger.

Something changes in the room.

A darkness flickers across the corner of my vision. A darkness perilously cold chills the air. A darkness passes between Horde and myself, erasing its own scent as it travels. The darkness cuts through Horde and he drops rigid to the floor. The darkness bleeds across the room, momentarily blackens the shadows in a high corner, and is gone.

And I forget about the darkness and go after what I need.

I crawl up Horde's naked body, every part as rigid as his penis now, his skin icy to the touch, and a rim of frost on his gun. I dig my fingers under his jaw and pull. His flesh tears far easier than it should. Flesh tears with a crunch like stepping on snow. I bend my head to lap his blood. And find it frozen. His torn neck filled with dead crimson slush.

I rage.

And remember the sleeping girl.

I drag my gunshot leg toward her.

— Joseph.

The woman has the whimpering snot-faced goon. She holds his hair in her hand, his head pulled far back. In her other hand, she holds the enforcer's stiletto.

— You did a good job, Joseph.

The hard wiry muscles of her arms and shoulders flex as she pushes the knife into the artery.

Blood splashes.

From across the room I crawl until my mouth is over the hole in his neck. It has been years since I have had blood from the vein. It is just as I remember. The blood floods my throat and warmth swells in my stomach and a harsh burning tingle attacks my hurts.

A few blissful red minutes pass. They might be seconds or hours; over far too soon, a pleasure greater than their brevity would suggest. And when the man is empty and I am full and my face is rinsed in his gore, I feel as I always do when I feed, like I want more. I go for the girl.

And I am pummeled to the floor by her mother.

— Joseph.

I am fed, but weak. The Vyrus is replenishing itself, repairing its host. It wants more. I stand. She brings her doubled fists down on me again.

— Joseph!

Behind her I can see the girl's eyelids flutter. I must have her. I stand. And am hammered down again.

— Joseph.

I try to crawl past her. She is on my back and we are a pile of struggling limbs on the floor. I try to free my arms, to pull myself across the few yards between us and the child. The mother twists her legs around mine and binds my arms in the circle of her own.

— Joseph. Please, Joseph.

Her lips are on the back of my neck, and then her teeth, gnawing gently, experimenting with biting, but not breaking the skin. The girl's eyes open blindly, close, open again and close again. Her teeth are on my neck.

— Joseph. Help me. Teeth carrying poison.

I forget the girl, flex the muscles in my shoulders and back, and feel Marilee's grip fail. I writhe loose of her arms and legs and scuttle away from her. She sits in the middle of the floor, arms slack, looking at me. Then she looks at her daughter. And crawls to her.

— Ms. Horde.

She kneels next to the child.

— Ms. Horde.

She touches the skinny bare legs.

— Marilee.

She picks up the folded jeans and starts fussing them back onto the girl. She gets them as far as her knees and stops. She looks up at me.

— I'm hungry, Joseph.

Her hand rests on Amanda's naked thigh, gripping it too hard, dimpling the skin.

— I'm so hungry.

She looks at her daughter.

— Help me, Joseph.

The holes in my body are all closed, blood trapped inside, but I can feel that only one lung is inflating, and poisons released from my pierced intestines and liver are pooled in my gut. The Vyrus will deal with it, given time it will make me whole. But if the woman attacks me now, with the bacteria fresh and strong in her, she will finish me.

I stand and walk to her. She reaches a hand up to me. I take it and help her to her feet. She puts a hand alongside my face, and presses her mouth against mine. When she pulls away her lips and chin are smeared with the dead man's blood.

— I had a feeling about you, Joseph.

I bring my right hand up to the back of her head.

— From the first moment I saw you, I had a feeling you were special.

I bring up my left hand, the cuffs, one bracelet sawed through, still trailing from my wrist, and cup her chin.

— Special. Like you were someone I could trust.

Her eyes drift to her daughter and back to me.

— Can I trust you, Joseph?

I run a tongue over my lips, taste the blood.

— Yeah, sure.

— Good.

And I break her neck.

It's not easy. It's very hard. I am drained and weak and she flinches at the last moment. I heave once and her spine crackles and she starts to tremor. Then I heave again and feel the clean snap and she goes still.

I lower her to the floor, and as I do I meet Amanda's open staring eyes, see her mouth gaping in a silent nightmare scream, and then her eyes close again. This moment, I hope, to be lost with the rest of her terrors.

Lydia brings three of her hammers. Two of them are diesels, beefier than her but not nearly as cut. The other is a pre-op tranny a huge chick with a dick, shoulders and tits the size of bowling balls.

— Is she OK?

— They shot her up with something. I don't know what.

— They who?

I look at Amanda, limp in my arms.

— People who aren't around anymore.

Lydia nods.

— What now?

— She needs a safe place.

— How long?

— Don't know. Couple days maybe.

She looks at the tranny.

— Sela?

The tranny nods and answers in a throaty rumble.

— Sure, I can take care of the sweetie.

Lydia looks at me.

— OK?

I look at Sela.

--People may come.

Sela lifts both her arms, flexes them bodybuilder style and her biceps just about pop out of her skin.

— Their problem.

I nod.

— OK.

Sela lowers her arms.

— Let me have the cupcake.

I hold her out. Sela plucks her from my arms and tucks her easily into the crook of one of her own. I point at the bloody fingerprints on her jeans and shoes, left there when I finished dressing her.

— See if you can get her into something clean before she wakes up.

Sela is watching Amanda's sleeping face, one Lincoln Log finger brushes loose hair from her forehead.

— No problem, we'll get cupcake all sorted out. C'mon, ladies.

One of the diesels opens the door and checks the street outside, then signals an all clear. Sela follows her out and the other diesel brings up the rear, closing the door behind her. Lydia points at the closed door.

— She'll be fine with them.

— Yeah.

She goes to the door, puts her hand on the knob.

— We should get going, sunrise soon.

— Yeah.

We step out of the empty storefront onto Avenue B. Lydia locks the door behind us and we start down the street. I point back at the storefront.

— That a Society safe house?

— One of mine.

— Hn.

She's burned a safe house. Let someone outside her circle know about it. There'll be skin to pay for that. There's always skin to pay for something. Then again, chances are she won't have to worry about anything I know much longer. She looks at me from the corner of her eye, smiles slightly.

— Tom's been going batshit.

— Yeah?

— Yeah. Told him I went to give you some chow and you sucker-punched me and grabbed the key to the shackles. He tried to track you, but I had a couple of my people out gumming up your scent. He's frothing. Says he'll have me up on charges when Terry gets back.

— Still not back?

— No. Got a message from the drop, though. The Coalition's raising some kind of stink, clogging up all passages across their turf. Know anything about that?

— Nope.

She stops on the corner of 9th and B.

— I go this way. What about you?

I point the opposite direction.

— Home.

— Sure about that?

— Nowhere else left.

She nods.

— Anything else?

— Got a smoke?

She shakes her head.

— Give my money to the death merchants at the tobacco companies? You should know better.

— Right.

She stuffs her hands in her back pockets.

— The girl?

— If you don't hear from me tomorrow, wait for Terry. He'll know what to do.

— He usually does.

— Yep.

At home I get cleaned up, and in bed with a cigarette. Every time I take a drag the cuff still hanging off my wrist bangs against my neck. I could pick the lock, but my wallet with the picks is on the opposite side of the room. Too far away. I put my cigarette in the nightstand ashtray and take hold of the dangling cuff. I begin to twist it round and round. The chain bundles and knots and the cuff still locked on my wrist digs into the skin. I crank the loose cuff once more and wrench my locked wrist in the opposite direction and the chain pops, one broken link shooting across the room. I put the sawn-through cuff on the nightstand and pick up my cigarette. I rub my wrist, massaging the red skin under the single cuff I now wear like a bracelet. I spin the bracelet around and around and think about the girl that it had been locked to.

And I lie in the dark, sucking smoke into my one good lung.

When I finally sleep I dream. I don't dream about the girl or her mother or her father. I don't dream about Whitney Vale or Evie or the wretched things that raised me. I dream about a darkness. And I see all the details I had only glimpsed in that room.

The way the darkness seeped into the room through a crack in the air. How it cut the space between Horde and myself. How it passed through Horde, passed through him as he would have passed through a mist. How it flapped and shivered as with pleasure, gliding up to the shadows in the corner of the room. The things bulging from within the darkness, trying to get out. The shapes bulging from it, pressing it outward from the inside, like people trapped inside a black sheath of rubber. The hole it cut in the shadow. The last shape, digging from within it, before it inked the shadow black and disappeared.

The shape like an oily black relief of Horde's screaming face.

— Stop screaming, Pitt.

I open my eyes. They're already here.

— Little early, guys.

Predo has set the chair from my desk next to the bed and is sitting in it. He looks at his watch.

— It is nearly midnight. You have slept all day. Now it is time to get up.

— Yeah, guess you're right.

I sit up in bed and stretch.

— I'd offer you guys some coffee or something, but I don't like you. So. I throw off the covers and move to get up and Predo's giant holds up a hand.

— If you could just stay on the bed for now, Mr. Pitt.

— Yeah, sure.

I grab my smokes from the nightstand, light up, lean my back against the wall and sit there in my shorts and undershirt, and smoke. Predo lets it go for a minute, then gets tired of it.

— Where is the girl?

I take a drag. I think I can feel some of the smoke going into my right lung. A good sign.

— Say, Mr. Predo.

His eyes tighten, but he waits for it.

— Know what I'm noticing?

He waits.

— No? OK, I'll tell you.

I stub my cigarette in the ashtray.

— I'm noticing how you're not asking what happened to the Hordes.

I grab the pack of Luckys and knock a fresh one out.

— When last seen, one of your enforcers was with them. You'd think he'd have called in by now. But he hasn't. Know how I know he hasn't?

I flip my Zippo open.

— Because I killed him.

I thumb the wheel.

— But I have a feeling you already know that.

I light the butt.

— And that you don't give a fuck.

I close the lighter with a snap.

— Care to comment?

He temples his fingers and presses them to his lips.

— May I have a cigarette?

I pass him one. He taps it against his thumbnail then places it carefully between his lips and leans forward. I flick the Zippo to life and hold it out. He dips the tip of the cigarette in the flame, inhales, leans back and exhales with a slight cough.

— Filterless.

I close the lighter and put it back on the nightstand.

— Yeah.

He takes another drag, exhales without coughing this time.

— One of the advantages of the Vyrus. I do not personally take advantage of it often, but when I do, I prefer filterless. More flavor.

— Yeah.

— You are right.

He picks a flake of tobacco from his tongue.

— My agent did fail to report when expected.

He shakes the tobacco from his fingertip.

— Another of our agents went to the Horde residence and reconstructed some of the action that had taken place there. Based on that reconstruction, and my knowledge of Dr. Horde's predilections, I was able to make an assumption as to where he had taken his… party. The agent went to the school. Yes, I do know about the Hordes and their man. And my agent. And you are correct about something else, as well. I do not give a fuck.

He takes another drag, but pulls a sour face this time and shakes his head.

— What does that say as to how I feel about you?

He drops the freshly lit cigarette to the floor and steps on it.

— You see, you are mistaken about what is happening in this room, Pitt. You think you are maneuvering yourself into position for some kind of bargain. You hope to leave this room not only with your life, but with information, and perhaps some kind of profit. It is true that there is a bargain to be struck here, but what lies in the balance is not your life, but rather the manner of your death.

My cigarette burns a little closer to my fingers.

— You have killed an agent of the Coalition. And so you will die. Put simply, you can tell us where the girl is right now, and we will kill you in some quick and relatively painless manner. Or, if you prefer, you may withhold that information, and force us to extract it from you. After which, we will drive to a location in New Jersey which I understand is excellent for viewing the sunrise. Need I be any more blunt?

The heat of my cigarette's cherry reaches my fingers. I bring it up to my face and eke out a last drag before putting it out. I hold the smoke from that last drag, then jet it out my nostrils.

— I know Horde was the carrier.

I pick up the cigarette Predo crushed on rny floor.

— Yeah, I know, a statement like that is pretty much a conversation killer.

I drop the crushed cigarette in the ashtray.

— Where do you go from there? So let me expound a little bit. Just so you know I know what the fuck I'm talking about.

I gather my thoughts. And hope they don't fall apart too quickly.

— Say you're a man like Horde. Say that in addition to owning a company like Horde Bio Tech, you are also its top researcher. And just for the sake of argument, say you also happen to be a very sick motherfucker who happens to have access to certain facts about how things work on the darker side. That's our side, Predo. Oh, I'm gonna get dressed now.

I scoot to the edge of the bed. The giant takes a step toward me, but Predo shakes his head and he stops. Standing is tricky, but I manage. Predo watches as I shuffle to the closet.

— Not feeling well, Pitt?

— Been better.

I stand in front of the closet for a moment and look at myself in the mirror on the door.

Predo continues to watch the space where I had been sitting on the bed.

— You were saying?

Not surprisingly I look like shit. The bruises around my eyes and nose aren't so bad, but the tooth Tom knocked out is still gone. The Vyrus will knit bone, but it won't grow new ones.

— Yeah. So say you're Horde, and everything I've said is true of you. And it is true. We know that. So that all being the case, who could blame you for taking a professional interest in something like a very bizarre and dangerous bacteria? A bacteria that, I don't know, say a bacteria that consumes its host and compels him to eat human flesh.

The wounds in my arms and left leg are corked with plugs of brick-red scab. I pull off my undershirt.

— It would just make good business sense to look into something like that.

The holes in my belly and chest are scabbed as well and surrounded by angry red skin. If I can get some more blood they'll be gone in a couple days. If I get out of this room alive.

— Just imagine if something like that were to become widespread. Situation like that, the first company on the block with a vaccine would clean up. Face it, who's not gonna pay top dollar to get a shot that's gonna keep them from eating their neighbor's brain?

I open the closet, grab a pair of old jeans, pull them on and get a black T-shirt from the shelf. I face Predo as I shrug into the shirt.

— But where to start? How do you develop that vaccine?

I go to the desk, scoop up my wallet, keys and loose change, and put it all in my pockets.

— Now I don't know much about this kind of thing, but I'm guessing the first thing you'd need is someone already infected with the bacteria. The technical term would be zombie. Not many people know how to come by a zombie, Mr. Predo.

I go sit back on the edge of the bed and wiggle my feet into a pair of socks.

— You know where to get one?

I reach under the bed for my shoes.

— Sure you do. If anyone knows where to get a shambler, it'd be Dexter Predo.

I lace my shoes.

— But then things get really tricky. Way I hear it, the bacteria only lives in the human body, and sooner or later it kills its host. So what's a brilliant millionaire researcher to do? I grab my smokes and get a fresh one going.

— Some people might say, fuck it, I'll just keep making new zombies. Every time one is ready to kack, just have it bite a new subject and, presto: new zombie. Hell, some folks might extend the life of their subject by feeding it some brains. But really, how long is that gonna work? Gonna be a whole lot of bodies going in and out of that lab. Might raise a couple eyebrows. And this.

I jab my cigarette at him.

— This is where being a brilliant epidemiologist comes in handy. 'Cause it turns out the bacteria can exist outside a host. How? Fucked if I know. But it can. I've seen it. Which means you can get it under a microscope and look at it all you like without needing to make any new shamblers. Unless you have a reason for making new shamblers. Now what could possibly be a good reason for making new shamblers?

I blow some ash from the tip of my smoke.

— Any ideas?

He stares through me, studying the wall behind me. The giant just stands there like a good boy and waits for Predo to order him to tear my fingers off for being an asshole.

I point a single finger at the ceiling.

— Here's a thought.

I aim the finger at Predo.

— What if you had the idea to study the bacteria in the wild? What if, now that you had it isolated, you wanted to see how it spreads, how quickly? For a man looking to cure a potential zombie epidemic, that could be valuable information. Especially if you're thinking about starting the epidemic yourself.

I tap the finger against the side of my head.

— But, can't have something like a zombie epidemic getting out of hand before you're ready to deliver your vaccine and make your.Ê billions. That would suck. So what do you do? Oh, you go ahead and make a plan to put it out in the general population. But it needs to be a very special population. I put the finger away and smoke.

— See, nobody wants that kind of experiment on their turf. That shit gets even a little out of hand and next thing you know, there's a lot of attention focused on your yard. Nope, something like that doesn't get tested on Coalition turf. And not uptown, things are too tense with the Hood. Not on Enclave turf. Nobody fucks with Enclave turf. Sure, things are pretty open below Houston or in the Outer Boroughs, but it's just about impossible to keep an eye on things out there. Tough to collect data. And the experiment could fly off the handle. But what about Society turf? Hell, why not? Everybody wins. Horde gets to watch the bacteria move around in a population, and the Coalition gets to cause a little trouble below Fourteenth. A little sand in the Vaseline to keep Terry and his crew busy. That'd be good, what with DJ Grave Digga trying to stir up trouble. And after all.

I blow a smoke ring.

— You got a jerk like me down here to handle things in case the shit hits the fan. And a toady like Philip to keep an eye on me.

I blow a stream of air that rips my smoke ring to shreds.

— So Horde goes to work. He infects Whitney Vale. Tell me?

He focuses his eyes on me.

— Did you know he had been fucking her and that she was blackmailing him? 'Cause I'm guessing you never would have signed off on her as patient zero if you had known.

He blinks, slowly.

— Let's call that no. He probably sold her to you as a porn hustler no one would miss. When you found out the truth you must have flipped. And when I stumbled across Vale, you must have shit a brick. Metaphorically speaking.

Predo taps an index finger on his thigh.

— Will you be concluding soon?

I nod.

— I'll pick up the pace. How 'bout this? Horde fucks Vale; Vale blackmails Horde; Horde has one of his goons hold down Vale while he rapes her and infects her with the bacteria; Vale shambles around; I catch sight of one of Vale's victims and start tracking a carrier; I catch up to Vale and her pals at the school; shit hits the fan; Philip lets you know shit is hitting the fan; you call me in. You have to call me in, a scene like that one at the school, the TV news involved and all, if you don't call me in I'm gonna start wondering why, and you don't want me wondering shit. Back at the ranch, Amanda Horde finds out about daddy and her buddy fucking, and runs away; Horde calls Dobbs; Dobbs finds the girl; the girl bribes Dobbs off the case; Ms. Horde hears about Whitney being killed and gets a little more worried about her husband than usual, and she asks for help; you give her me to keep me. .

I stop, smoke in my lung. I blow the smoke out.

— You give her me?

Predo scratches his upper lip.

— Lost your thread, Pitt?

He puts his hand back in his lap.

— Not as easy as you thought?

I look at him.

— You gave her me. But you shouldn't have wanted me anywhere around the Hordes. I was looking for the carrier already. Get me looking for the girl and I might put it all together. I did put it all together.

The slightest smile creases the corners of his mouth.

— Apparently not.

He stands.

— Are you done showing off now? Would you like to know what it is you are missing?

I nod.

— All you had to do was ask, Pitt. Why should I have secrets from a dead man?

He pushes the chair back to its place next to my desk.

— What you are missing, Pitt, is information you could not possibly have in the first place. That being the case, I do not think you should be at all embarrassed. You did quite well, all things considered. The information you are lacking has to do with Horde Bio Tech and the disposition of that company's stock. HBT is not a publicly owned company. Indeed, until recently it was owned entirely by the Horde family. They still control the majority of the stock. Specifically, preferred stock shares that carry weighted voting rights, the shares that control the company. Those shares comprise sixty percent of HBT's total value, and Dale Horde owned all of them. Of the remaining forty percent, the non-preferred shares, the vast majority are held by elements of the Coalition. We came into possession of these shares at a time when Horde was in need of funding, and not quite as liquid as he might have liked. Fortunately, we were able to help. Does the pie' ture begin to leap into clarity?

I stare at him.

— I think it does. Horde owns and controls HBT, controls every aspect of its operations, including to what questions it may or may not devote its considerable research laboratories. Those laboratories are central to the Coalition's interest in Horde and HBT.

He leans down a bit, looks at my eyes.

— I think I may see a little light dawning in there, Pitt. Good. Let me be brief before that light dims. It is true that Dr. Horde wished to research the bacteria, but his true interest was in the Vyrus. That was an interest we were unwilling to allow him to pursue. There is so little we know about the Vyrus, it would never have done for Horde to perhaps make significant discoveries. Discoveries we could not be certain he would share with us. Discoveries he might use against us. Still, the resources HBT can bring to bear far outstrip any that we have previously had at our disposal. Which led to the proposal that we should investigate strategies which would allow the Coalition to take control of those resources.

I watch the smoke drift off my cigarette.

— The stock.

Predo wags a cautioning finger at me.

— Careful, Pitt, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. But yes, the stock. If the Coalition were in control of HBT, we might steer whatever course of research we wished, secure in the knowledge that we had installed our own people in the key positions necessary to protect the nature and results of that research. How to take control? We thought to take advantage of Dr. Horde's appetites and maneuver a subject not unlike Ms. Vale into his path. That plan was discarded. If cornered by blackmail, Dr. Horde might become a fierce adversary, an adversary with knowledge of far too many of our secrets. So we came to assassination. If Dr. Horde should die, his shares would fall to his wife. And she, we felt, would be quite easily convinced to relinquish control of them. But even with our advantages, assassination is difficult, much more difficult when the subject is a man like Dr. Horde. Any investigation into his death would be exhaustive. And if an assassination should go awry, he would certainly retaliate against us. We were, in fact, mired in the planning stages when you became involved. And I had a thought. Why should the Coalition assassinate Dr. Horde when you might be made to do it for us?

I lick my fingertips.

— It is not generally in my nature to work on the basis of instinct, but I felt this was an opportunity that warranted some little risk. The question was whether or not you could be depended on to act in a predictable manner. I felt certain that you could.

I pinch out the cherry at the end of my cigarette.

— You are, as you have proven, not an utter fool, and could therefore be expected to discover a certain amount of the truth. You have a notorious temper. And though you seem to be the only one not aware of it, you are famously unmerciful with those who abuse children. Was there any doubt that when you learned some very little about Dr. Horde that you would lose that temper? Very little doubt. You are an independent contractor. If you failed, Dr. Horde could not hold us accountable for your actions. If you succeeded, we would be prepared to conceal the few threads that connect you to the Coalition. If captured, the authorities would likely interpret Horde's murder as the action of a madman. Once in the hands of the police there would be little you could tell them before you expired in custody. And if you survived and found yourself at large?

He gestures to the room.

— Well, here we are, tying up loose ends. Is there anything else you would like clarified, anything that might make your position more apparent to you so that we might move ahead with the unalterable course of events?

I drop the snuffed butt into the ashtray.

— Why'd he cut Leprosy?

He looks at the ceiling.

— Leprosy?

I rub my thumb and index finger together, brushing the gray ash from them.

— The kid.

He looks back down.

— Yes. The one you had asking about Dr. Horde's daughter. Well, I can't say for certain, but I think he viewed your involvement as a balm to his wife. He never intended that you should lay hands on the girl. He hoped perhaps to track your progress so as to find young Amanda first. For himself. I think it likely that he got carried away questioning the boy. His taste for youth seemed to have more to do with inflicting pain than with receiving pleasure.

I think about lighting another smoke, decide not to.

— Why infect him?

— He infected the boy?

I nod. Horde shakes his head.

— To play with his toy? He was quite proud of having isolated the bacteria. I am just as curious about why he killed the detective Dobbs. Do you know?

I rub my forehead.

— He didn't.

— Who did?

— Dobbs was Horde's peeper. He had all the goods on his wife and her lovers. She had her own plan. Wanted to take off with her daughter, but knew Horde could make her out as an unfit mother. She went to Dobbs for the pictures and whatnot, and he balked. So she choked him to death and grabbed the stuff.

— You are certain?

— When we met she asked about my sense of smell. Could I tell her scent? Next time I saw her she was scrubbed and clean, just like whoever did Dobbs. It was her. She wanted to get her daughter out.

— Yes, I can see that. And it brings us back around to where we started. Back to my question. Where is the girl?

— You don't need her.

— The girl.

— Let the girl be, she doesn't know anything. She was fucking unconscious when it happened. I got rid of Horde, let the girl be.

— Yes, Pitt, you got rid of Horde. And you got rid of his wife, as well. Which leaves the girl as Horde's heir, heir to the stock, Pitt.

He takes off his jacket.

— An underage girl.

He tucks his tie inside his shirt.

— For whom that stock will now be held in inviolable trust.

He unclips his cuff links.

— Controlled by the Horde family's rather too incorruptible lawyers.

He rolls up his left sleeve.

— Until she comes of age at twenty-one.

He rolls up his right sleeve.

— Unless she dies in the same horrible, disfiguring fireball of an automobile accident in which her parents will be shortly dying.

He puts his hand out to the giant.

— In which case the stock will be made available to the other shareholders. And, I believe, I have already told you who those shareholders are.

The giant places a pair of black leather gloves in his hand.

— So.

He pulls the tight gloves on and snugs them over his knuckles.

— Where? Is? The? Girl?

I look at his hands, then his face.

— I gave her to Lydia Miles.

He doesn't move.

— Lydia Miles?

— You know, the Society's resident gay rights loudmouth.

— Where did she take the girl?

— Got me. But if I don't call in a couple days she'll give her to Terry Bird.

I decide it's time for another smoke, so I get one ready.

— And did I mention that I have Horde's teeth?

Light it.

— Not his real teeth mind you, just those fancy fake dentures of his. Now those are some interesting dentures. Not too many reasons for dentures like those, full of a nasty bacteria and all. Unless you plan on making a bunch of zombies on someone else's turf and you want them to look normal. Normal for zombies, I mean. Shit like that would be just the thing to make Terry ready to hook up with Grave Digga and launch a two-front offensive on the Coalition. Something like that he could take to all the small Clans. The Dusters, the Wall, even the Outer Borough freaks, they'd all flip. Hell, Daniel might be interested in something like that. Picture that: Daniel and a dozen Enclave knocking on your door. Gives you the chills.

Predo's fists close tight. I can hear the leather squeak.

— Where are the teeth?

After I got Amanda dressed, I stripped and wiped blood from myself with Horde's clean undershirt. He was far too skinny for anything of his to fit me, but I managed to scavenge an outfit from the enforcer and the goon. Then I went through the pockets of my own discarded clothes and found the picture of Amanda, the one she had ripped in two. I fit the halves together and translated the torn and stained phone number on the back. I had the girl in my arms when I remembered the teeth.

I found the case in Horde's clothes. The hinge creaked slightly when I opened it. Inside, the teeth were fitted snugly in a foam rubber nest. They gleamed. He must have cleaned off Marilee's blood before he put them away. I eased them out, careful not to touch the biting surfaces. They looked perfect, like the healthiest teeth in the world, a bit on the sharp side perhaps. I opened them. The canines had tiny black dimples at the tips, holes smaller than those of syringes. Inside they would be hollow, a delivery system for something that isn't supposed to exist outside a human body. I closed them and returned them to the case.

I collected the girl, found the door she had told me about and carried her out of the school. It was raining, hours after midnight and the street was empty except for a couple scuttling past, trying to share a too-small umbrella. I got to the pay phone on the corner, called Lydia and gave her the girl.

Then I came home, got cleaned up, left the teeth sitting on the bathroom sink, and forgot about them until right now.

— The teeth are someplace safe. Someplace they'll stay as long as the girl stays safe. Something happens to her, I send the teeth to Bird

He frowns

— Who sends them if anything happens to you? I blink. And that's enough for him to know. He smiles. -You did not give them to anyone. They are simply hidden someplace, are they not?

Quickly, you only get one chance at this.

— I gave them to Lydia with the girl.

He shakes his head.

— No. You did not. They are hidden someplace. Someplace close at hand, I would say.

He exhales.

— And so. Here we are again. But with a variation. Where is the girl, and where are the teeth?

I think about making a break for it, but I'm done. So I take a drag instead and say what's on my mind.

— Predo, you're a dick.

The uppercut catches me under the jaw and dislocates it. I fly into the air, across the bed, crash into the wall and tumble onto the mattress. He's stronger than the enforcer was.

The giant scoops me up and full nelsons me in front of Predo. Predo squares up.

— Where?

I try to say something smart, but can't get my jaw to move, so I just shake my head. Predo cocks his fist. He'll knock my jaw clear off this time.

-'Lo, Joe.

We all look up to the top of the little circular stair that leads down to this room. I grind my jaw and it pops into place.

— Hurley. How you doing?

He stands at the top of the stairs looking down at us, a huge hammerlike.45 held casually in either hand, neither of them pointing at anything, yet.

— OK. Door's unlocked up 'ere.

— Yeah?

— Tought I'd come in. Ya don't mind?

— Naw.

He nods at Predo.

— Mr. Predo.

Predo lowers his fist.

— Hurley. It has been a long time. How is Terry?

— Same. But he won't like yer bein' down 'ere none, Mr. Predo.

— He'll be understanding on this occasion. Trust me.

The giant is eyeing Hurley, wearing the unmistakable expression of a big man who wants to prove he's the most dangerous guy in the room. Hurley keeps his eyes on Predo, wearing the expression of a man who knows who the most dangerous guy in the room is. Predo's face shows nothing.

Hurley lets the barrel of one of the forty-fives wave in my direction.

— Terry sent me over. Wants ta see ya.

— He's back?

— Yeah, wants ta see ya.

— Well, I'm busy, but I think I can get away.

I look at Predo. He lifts his chin at the giant, and the giant releases my arms.

— Let me just go to the can.

I walk into the bathroom, pick up the case and stuff it in my back pocket. The tableau in my bedroom remains in place. I stand at the foot of the stairs.

— Don't worry, Mr. Predo, I'll take care of what we were talking about. Get it to someone who can handle the responsibility like you suggested. And you look after my friend. OK?

He doesn't say anything.

— OK, Mr. Predo?

He nods, begins stripping the gloves from his hands.

— Yes, I suppose that will have to do.

— Yeah, I suppose it will.

Halfway up the stairs I get hit with a last piece. I pause and look back down.

— I took care of business, didn't I, Mr. Predo? Did that job you wanted done?

He rolls his sleeves back into place and begins to fit the cuff links to their holes.

— Yes, you did.

I'm thinking fast, trying to make it fit, trying to get something out of this.

— I killed Horde?

— Yes.

He is straightening the knot in his tie and pauses to look at me.

— Rather esoterically, I am told. How did you go about freezing his blood?

I'm watching him close.

— Figure you know more about that than me.

He looks down at his tie.

— I assure you, I do not.

I play it as it lies.

— However I did it, I figure I'm owed.

He smoothes the tie down his shirtfront.

— You were thinking?

— I'd like my stash replaced.

He picks up his jacket.

— Replaced?

I dangle it one more time.

— Yeah, from when your guy without a smell snatched it.

A spark of interest flares across his face, and dies in the same instant as he snuffs it.

— I don't employ such things, Pitt.

I leave it there. He slides his arms into the jacket.

— You are correct however, you did provide a service. I will arrange delivery of compensation.

He tugs on the lapels of his jacket, seating it firmly on his shoulders.

— But the Coalition is a progressive entity, Pitt. We do not deal in superstition.

He flicks a loose strand of hair into place.

— If it is the paranormal that you are concerned with?

I wait.

— You should try talking with Daniel. He is the only one who traffics in such things.

I open my mouth. Hurley taps me with one of his sledgehammer guns.

— Terry's waitin' on ya, Joe.

II look at Predo. He tilts his head.

— I look forward to seeing you again, Pitt. I touch my sore jaw.

— Yeah. Do me a favor. Lock up on your way out.

I follow Hurley up the stairs and out onto the street. He tucks his guns into his waistband and buttons his jacket over them. We walk side by side toward Tompkins Square.ÊÊ

— Didn't know you knew Predo, Hurley.

He shrugs.

— Yer around long enough, Joe, ya get ta know everyone.

— Not only is he an agent provocateur, but he's an escapee and I want to know what the fuck has been going on!

— Sure, sure, Tom, we all want to know what's been going on, man. But you don't get knowledge by screaming, you get it by listening. So let's just, you know, try to cool it and listen to the man. -Fuck that shit. You heard Hurley. Dexter Predo was in his apartment. Fucking Predo! He's their fucking spy master! What more evidence do you want?

— Well, if we're supposed to execute a man, as you suggest, then I want a whole lot of evidence, Tom.

It's just like old times.

— Fine. Fucking fine. Then I want to call a tribunal! I want a fucking court of enquiry.

This time I didn't have to be coldcocked by Hurley to get to Society headquarters. But here I am all the same.

— Hey, Tom, if it comes to that, it comes to that. No problem. But let's just get the ball rolling with a few simple questions, OK?

— Fuck questions! I want a full interrogation into this right fucking now.

Terry walks over to Tom, nodding his head.

— Tom. I think I need you to take a walk.

— What? No fucking.

— Hurley.

— Yeah.

— Take Tom for a walk.

Tom stares at him.

— No fucking.

Terry holds up his hand, index and middle fingers spread in a peace sign.

— Cool it, Tom. Take a walk. Now.

— This is fucking.

Terry puts the hand on Tom's shoulder.

— What, Tom? This is fucking what?

He gazes into Tom's eyes, and Tom shuts up.

— That's it, right, man? You're done? You're cool?

Tom nods.

— Yeah. I'm cool, Terry.

— Good. So take a walk.

He pats him on the shoulder and watches as Hurley leads him up the steps.

— Lydia.

Lydia looks up from the cup of coffee she's been staring into since I came in.

— You mind taking a walk with the boys?

— Nope.

She follows them up the stairs without looking at me. Terry Waits until they are gone and the door closes. Then he comes over to the old card table and sits down across from me.

— He's a firebrand that one, very passionate in his beliefs.

I play with my Zippo.

— That must help.

— I don't follow, Joe.

— Well, I sometimes get the feeling you're grooming him for my old spot. He'll do a good job. He likes cracking the whip.

Terry shakes his head.

— Nobody will ever do that job as good as you, Joe. You were the best.

— Yeah, well, those days are over.

— They don't have to be. You could always come back.

I don't need to answer that, so I light a smoke instead. Terry holds up his hand.

— I'd rather you didn't.

— Right.

I put the smoke out.

— See you got back OK.

— Yes.

— How'd it go up there?

He sighs.

— It's not like the old days, Joe. Digga is a much different man than Luther was. Luther was from my school, a revolutionary, not a reactionary. He was there in the sixties, saw how change can really happen. Luther made some of that change. It's hard now to explain how big a change that was, getting the Coalition to give up the top of the island. Man, truth be told, I don't know if we could have ever gotten our independence down here if it hadn't been for Luther X. Kid like Grave Digga, history doesn't mean much to him. But I think I got him to see some light. He knows he can't go making war by himself, and he knows we aren't about to join in with his hostilities, even if the Coalition did assassinate Luther. You can't change the world if your motive is revenge. Vibes like that just aren't productive.

— Uh-huh. So how'd you get back down?

— I was able to make an arrangement. You can always make an arrangement if you're patient and flexible.

— That arrangement have anything to do with giving Predo passage down here so he could pop in on me?

Terry shrugs.

— Well, I did grant a transit. But I didn't ask questions about how they would use it.

— That was part of the arrangement?

— One must bend to avoid breaking, Joe.

— Thought you didn't look too concerned about Predo being at my place and all.

— That's not fair. I'm always concerned about you. You're a friend.

— Sure. That why I'm here? Friendship?

He leans forward in his chair.

— I'd like to think that all our arrangements are made on the basis of friendship. But Tom is right. There has been a great deal going on. And I am very interested in hearing your side of it.

— Fair enough.

I take a moment to get my story together.

— So it's like this, Terr, there was some trouble.

I stop. Terry nods encouragingly.

— And I took care of it.

Terry waits. And waits some more. And smiles.

— Is that really the way you want to handle this, Joe?

— Yeah, it really is.

— OK, OK, man. That's fair. But it raises other issues.

— Like?

— Well, you know how I feel about capitalism, no fan of the WTO am I. But there are advantages to doing things on a quid pro quo basis. Like a barter economy. So let's put this on a goods and services level.

— How so?

— Well, like the Dusters. That cost something, asking them to go uptown and pick you up. Not to mention that it aggravated an already sensitive relationship with the Coalition. So that's one, I don't know, call it one unit.

He holds up a finger.

— On a less tangible level, there's just the general bad vibes you've been stirring up around here that last couple days.

He holds up a second finger.

— You're also asking us to kind of, I don't know, take it on faith that whatever's been in the air is cool. That's trust, Joe. That's, and I hate to put it in these terms, but that's an expensive commodity. So that might need a little extra compensation.

Two more fingers.

— And then there's the cleanup I hear Tom did on that Leprosy kid and his dog. Now that's a big service, but I know you liked that kid and whatever went down must have been tough on you. So.

He sticks up his thumb, shows me his open hand.

— I'm not sure how to assign value to all of that. So maybe you have an idea of how to make us even on this deal. Because otherwise, I just don't see any way around it, we're going to have to insist on getting a little more information, a little more than just your say-so that things are gonna be cool. You get me?

— I get you. I come across with something worth something or you're gonna put me in a room with Tom and Hurley.

He puts his hand on the table.

— Don't be like that, Joe. The Society is a collective, man, I have to keep everybody happy. If it was up to me, I'd just take your word, shake hands and maybe ask you to buy me a beer. You know how I work.

— I know how you work, Terry.

He grins.

— Sure you do. So.

The grin goes away.

— What you got, Joe?

I pull the case out of my back pocket and set it on the table. The hinge creaks open. He looks at the teeth. Looks at me and

raises his eyebrows.

— It's a bomb, Terry. Set it off and all hell will break loose.

I don't tell him everything. But I tell him enough. And he likes it.

— What the fuck?

Tom is standing on the sidewalk with Hurley when Terry brings me out.

— Easy, Tom.

— Where the fuck does he think he's going?

— He's going his own way, Tom, just like all of us have to.

— Fuck his way! You can't just.

— Cool it, OK? You want to be security chief, you have to learn that it sometimes involves some subtlety, some grace.

— Fuck subtlety. You can't make a decision like this on your own.

There needs to be a hearing and a vote.

I get out a smoke.

— You know, Tom…

I light it.

— You are one lousy anarchist.

His hand goes in his pocket and comes out with the revolver he took off me. Before he can point it at me it's in Terry's hand and Tom is on the ground. Terry looks down at him.

— Joe is gonna take off, Tom. He's walking clean. That's the way it's gonna be and there's not going to be a vote. Hurley, take him back in.

Hurley helps Tom off the sidewalk and they head for the door.

Tom stares at the sidewalk the whole way, tears of rage boiling down his cheeks.

I watch till he's inside, then shoot a look at Terry.

— Still got the moves.

He tilts his head and shrugs.

— The tools of the oppressor have to be used sometimes.

— Sure.

I point at his hand.

— That's my gun.

Terry looks at the revolver, then holds it out to me.

— Be careful with it.

I take the gun and drop it in my pocket.

— Always am.

I start down the street, he calls after me.

— By the way, you ever find out who it was that was poking around? The no-scent thing?

— Gonna go look into that.

— Let me know.

I stop and turn around.

— I almost forgot, Predo was asking after you. Didn't know you

guys had a personal history.

Terry takes off his glasses and polishes them on his Grateful Dead T-shirt.

— Well, live long enough, and you get to know everyone.

— So I hear.

He puts his glasses back on, waves and goes inside.

Lydia stops me at the corner.

— She wants to see you. I rub my head.

— Later. I have to go somewhere.

— How much later?

— Not much.

She nods, gives me the address.

— She's a peach, you know.

— Whatever.

— Sure, whatever you say.

I head west toward A, where I know I can flag a cab.

— Joe.

I keep walking.

— Yeah?

— No lie, Joe, I don't like men much.

Still walking, letting her talk at my back as much as she wants to.

— And I like straight men even less.

Walking, thinking about what I have to do next.

— But you might be OK with me one of these days.

Calling back over my shoulder.

— Then I got something to look forward to.

She laughs.

— If you can keep alive that long, Joe.

— Come in, Simon.

I do. I sit on the floor of Daniel's cubicle and watch him eat. He sits cross-legged and holds a tiny bowl between his thumb and index finger. The bowl can't hold more than a generous tablespoon. As we speak he brings it to his lips, wetting them with drops of blood that he then licks away with the tip of a tongue as pale as his skin. He gestures to me with the bowl.

— Would you like some?

I look at the meager brass vessel in his hand.

— Why not, it's probably from my stash anyway.

He puts his nose close to the bowl and inhales.

— Yes, I think it is.

He offers the bowl to me.

— Please, finish it. I've had my fill.

I take the bare thimble of blood, then toss it down my throat. It's good.

— You gonna tell me why, Daniel?

He nods.

— But I would like to ask you a question first.

I run a finger through the gloss of blood left in the cup, lick it clean, and set the bowl on the floor between us.

— Shoot.

— How did it feel?

I watch the empty bowl.

— What?

— Please, Simon. Be coy with others, but not with me. That's not for us. How did it feel?

I think about starving. I think about the cramps and the burning that followed. I think about being helpless. And I think about the shimmering brightness of the world when I was at the naked edge of death.

— It felt good.

— And?

— Dangerous.

His hand spiders over his skull.

— Apt as usual. Good and dangerous. You have just summed up the existence of Enclave. Thank you. And your question now. Why?

— Yeah.

— Because you are Enclave, Simon.

— No, I'm not.

He shakes his hand in the air.

— We don't need to have this debate again. You are what you are and nothing can change that. You simply need to become aware of it.

— So you decide it's time for me to find out about myself, and you pitch that. . whatever the fuck it was at me? That Wraith? Have that thing come into my place and strip my stash. I almost got

killed.

— But you didn't. And tell me, if you hadn't been so close to the Vyrus, so close to your true nature, would you have survived your encounter? Would you have been strong enough to face down your enemies?

I think about the enforcer and his strength, and Horde's bullets ripping into me.

— No. But I don't think I would have been there in the first place.

— But you would have. If you had been fat and well-fed you would have fought events as they happened, and you would have died before you ever reached that room. As it was, you were forced, by what you perceived as weakness, to acquiesce to events. Until you were ready.

— That's just plain crap.

— No, it's truth.

— No such animal, Daniel.

He nods.

— That may be the greatest truth of all.

— Christ. Is there more of this?

He pinches his lower lip.

— Just a little more. Just a small promise from you.

A promise to Daniel. A promise to the man who sent something into my home to starve me. And then sent it again to watch over me. Sent it to kill Horde before Horde could kill me. A promise that will have to be kept.

— What promise?

— Just a promise to think. About your life. How you live your life.

Oh, Jesus.

— You were given the Vyrus how long ago?

— About thirty years.

— Yes. That's quite a good span for most. Many last not even a year. Most, no more than ten. Those who endure find they must dig deeper, burrow into little caves and secret places. They find they need the protection of others who will not question the manner in which they live their lives. The dark hours, the healed wounds, the strange persistence of youth. But you. To live alone, without protection, among those without the Vyrus, for thirty years. That can be seen as an accomplishment. Or a great failure. You, Simon, you are clinging to life as you think it should be led by a man. But you are not a man, not a human man. And you have not been a man for so very long. You have a true nature, all of us who receive the Vyrus have a true nature, but only Enclave see that nature. You see it, and that's why you cling to a life that cannot last, because you are frightened of it. And that's good. The Vyrus is awful. Trying to embrace it, trying to become it, is a terrible task. Exhausting. Painful. But to do anything else? Anything else is a lie. And you, Simon, you aren't made for lying. That's a truth.

I stand up.

— That it?

He tilts his head to watch my face.

— Yes, I suppose it is. Just that you keep your promise and think about it.

— I'll keep my promise.

— Of course you will. And what will you do now?

— Now I'm going.

I head for the door.

— You know, Simon.

— What?

— Most of us, we only touch the Vyrus at first under supervision.

Even I was watched over when I took my first fast. Few manage it alone. And you did it under extreme circumstances. So I hear.

I stand at the doorway.

— And?

— That could mean something.

— What, Daniel? Can you just tell me what's on your mind and cut the crap?

He laughs.

— What's on my mind.

He wipes a single milky tear from the corner of his eye.

— What's on my mind.

Still he laughs.

— What's on my mind, is that I am failing.

He looks at me, a skeleton smile cracking his face.

— And someone will have to take my place.

And I get the fuck out of there.

Sela's place is on Third Avenue and 13th, above a deli. She buzzes me in.

— She's asleep.

— Wake her.

The apartment is a tiny one-bedroom. The front door opens directly into a living space, doors to the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom open directly off of that. The place is done up in an ultra-feminine Middle Eastern lounge kind of thing. There's lots of pillows and rugs, mandala-printed fabric hanging from the walls, and scarves draped over lamps. Sela leaves me in the living room and passes through a beaded curtain into the bedroom. I hear her talking softly and hear some mumbled replies. She comes out and waves me over.

— Don't keep her up long, she needs her sleep.

— Yeah, tomorrows a school day.

I start for the bedroom and feel a vise clamp on my shoulder. I turn back to Sela. She takes her hand from my shoulder and puts a finger in my face.

— Whatever she was shot up with is still making her dopey. She needs her sleep.

— Yeah. Got it.

She takes her finger out of my face and I go through the curtain. The bed is a huge futon on the floor, piled with more pillows. There's a little floor space rimming the edge of the mattress, which is fine because all that's in there besides the bed is a hookah and several wicker baskets that look like they stand in for closets.

Amanda is sitting up against a mound of pillows, wearing a tattered and massive Tears for Fears T-shirt that is probably left over from Sela's more conventional youth. However long ago that might have been. She rubs her eyes.

— Hey.

I squat down next to the bed.

— Hey.

She looks around for a clock that isn't there.

— What time is it?

— After two.

— Hn.

My leg starts to throb where the bullet went in. I ease myself down and sit on the edge of the futon.

— You OK?

— Yeah. But I feel tired all the time.

— Sela taking care of you?

— Yeah, she's fierce. Says she's gonna show me a great workout so I can get arms like hers.

— Huh.

She scratches at her tangled hair.

— So what happened?

— What's the last thing you remember?

She leans deeper into the pillows and looks up at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck up there in a swirl.

— We were getting ready to leave the school.

— That's it?

The air conditioner in the window gurgles and hums.

— Yeah. I think so. But I had all these dreams and it's hard to. What happened"?

I open my mouth. The truth sits inside it. And stays there.

— Some guys jumped us.

She sits up again.

— No way.

— Yeah.

— Sweet. That's so cool. Who were they?

— Some guys your dad had hired. They were following me.ÊÊÊ

— No way. Ê

— Yeah.

— So what happened?

— You got your head bonked, went out. Concussion.

She feels her head.

— There's no bump.

— Happens that way sometimes.

— So what'd you do? Wait. There was a total fight. I. One of my dreams was like about a fight.

— Yeah.

— You kick ass?

— Not really.

— Lame.

— But one of the guys had a gun.

— No. Way.

— And I got it from him.

— Dope. That is so dope.

— Had to carry you out over my shoulder.

She buried her face in her hands.

— Uhhh. Was I heavy? Did I feel totally fat?

I watch her. She looks out from behind her hands.

— Don't be lame, kid.

She smiles.

— So what then?

Once upon a time.

— Then I figured, fuck this shit. Your folks want to send out dueling bounty hunters for you that's their business. But it's not mine. So fuck 'em.

— You didn't call?

— Fuck them.

— They don't know I'm here?

— Like I said. Fuck them.

She thrusts her arms up in the air.

— Phatl

She drops her arms and pushes herself deep into the pillow.

— That is just so phat.

I look up at the stars, and back down at her.

— So what ya gonna do?

She shakes her head.

— I. Well, I'm so broke. So I'm going to the bank and get some money. Then I want to take Sela shopping to say, like thank you. Then, I don't know. She said I can hang for as long as I want. But. I think I'll go home in a couple days. Like check in and everything. Get my folks off my case. Once they chill I can bail again. But I'll get some real cash together first. And if Sela says it's chill, I'll come hang with her some more. For like the rest of the summer. That would be so cool. She's hot. I just want to like work out with her all summer and get cut and hard before school starts.

— Good plan.

I stand up. She wriggles out of the pillow.

— So, you gonna be around? You hang with Sela much?

— Not really.

— OK.

She drops back into the pillows.

— Cool. Whatever.

— Yeah.

— Hey. Can I have that?

I look. She's pointing at the cuff bracelet still clipped to my wrist. I pull out my wallet and get out a couple picks. Cuff locks are easy, it pops right open. I squat back down.

— Hold out your arm.

She puts it out. I hold the open cuff.

— You have to do something for me.

She nods.

— When you get home. Leave me out. Whatever goes down, don't tell your folks or whoever that I found you.

— OK.

— That's a promise I'm asking for.

— OK.

— Don't break it.

— As if.

— Right.

I snap the cuff onto her wrist. She looks at it.

— Hot.

I leave.

Sela holds the front door open for me.

— How much longer do I get to keep her?

I point at the TV.

— Put the news on tomorrow. She'll go home after she sees it.

— Why?

— Because her parents are gonna be dead.

— You have anything to do with that?

I think about killing Marilee, and missing out on killing Horde.

— Not the way I would have liked to.

Sela tosses her head, throwing roped dreads back over her shoulder.

— There gonna be trouble?

— Not for you, she loves you.

She taps one of those ruby-tipped fingers against my chest.

— What about for you?

I walk out the door.

— Sister, she doesn't even know my name.

I stop by Nino's on the way home and get a pie. Large pepperoni, hold the garlic. Then I hit the grocery for a six and a few packs of Luckys. At home I lock myself in and make sure the alarm is on. Not that any of it will keep out Predo's boys if he sends them. Not that anything could keep out Daniel's Wraith. Not that I care much right now. I go downstairs.

I sit up in bed and watch CNN. I eat the whole pie and still I'm hungry so I raid the fridge upstairs and find some leftover Chinese and eat that. That fills my belly. The other hunger, the real hunger, is still there. But it's always gonna be there, and it can wait for another day. I watch more news and drink more beer. When I run out of beer I sit in the dark staring at the TV screen, and smoke.

The story breaks around six A.M. They show some stills of the crumpled, fire-blackened Jaguar sedan. It looks as horrific as Predo promised. They wiped out the car in the early A.M.s, on a lonely stretch of road just off the 27.

The anchor fills me in on how the highway was empty at that time of night and no houses were near enough to hear the crash or see the flames. By the time emergency vehicles arrived the fire had all but burned itself out. Fortunately, the license plate broke off the vehicle in the crash and was spared from the fire. The anchor tells me the car was owned by Dr. Dale Edward Horde and that it is believed that he and his wife were in the car, driving on a late whim to their Hamptons house.

By the time I wake, the Hordes' deaths have been confirmed. So has the fact that their daughter is missing. There's some hyper-ventilation after that. Some circling of carrion feeders as they sniff a too-good-to-be-true story. Then a report comes in that Amanda walked into a police station and told them she had run away a week ago and had just seen the news on TV. By the time the cameras are there to watch her leaving the police station, she is flanked by a double column of bodyguards and lawyers and the TV is already calling her the richest teenager in New York. I turn off the box and smoke.

The package arrives that evening. It's delivered by a private courier who doesn't ask me to sign for it. I take the box down to the basement room and slide the Styrofoam case out of its cardboard sheath. Inside are several refreezable cold packs surrounding ten pints of blood. A note on top. For services rendered.

Payment in full.

D. Predo

I take out one of the pints and think about the dose Horde hit me with at the Cole, the one I thought Predo had him hit me with so they could steal my stash. Now that I know better, I figure Horde did that on his own. Maybe he was trying to kill me, maybe just get me out of the way for awhile while his boy and Predo's enforcer worked the neighborhood. Hell, maybe he just wanted to see how the Vyrus would handle it. I look at the pint and wonder what might be in it other than blood. Then I drink it. Then I drink two more. Then I stop being bothered by anything Predo might be planning, or Terry, or even Daniel. I stop worrying about whether Amanda will tell the cops about the guy who found her. I stop worrying altogether.

I don't have anything to worry about.

For now.

The easiest way for Predo to take care of me would have been to dose the blood. He didn't. He won't bother with anything else. He'll be too busy keeping an eye on the Horde situation, making sure no loose ends come unraveled in front of the press. That will be a full-time job for awhile and he won't want to clutter up his desk with any other projects. Once he empties his in-box, he'll move the teeth to the top of his priority chart. Getting those back or having them destroyed so they don't end up in Terry's hands will be front and center. Too bad for Predo that Terry already has them.

Terry got it right away. I told him what the teeth had inside, and that was all he needed. I didn't have to tell him the story or name any names. I didn't even have to mention Predo. Something like those teeth, Terry could only see one reason for those to be made, and only one Clan who could have had a hand in their making. But he'll hang onto them. For a very long time. He knows it's a one-shot deal. Figure he could try and use 'em lor blackmail, but what then? Predo would never do a deal that didn't involve getting the teeth back. And what could be good enough that you'd give up the biggest stick on the block For it?

No, the only way to use the teeth is to show them to the other Clans. Do that and it will mean all-out war, the kind of war that we couldn't keep underground. The kind that would finally rip the lid off the whole thing. The kind of war Terry says lie doesn't want. So he'll sit on them for a good long time. Until he's ready to go after whatever it is he really wants.

And I doubt I'll be around long enough to have to worry about that scene. Christ, I hope I'm not.

I heal. The scabs fall from my wounds and the white puckers of scar fade to smooth skin. My stomach fits itself back together and I am whole again. It takes six pints over a couple days to get me there, but I'm whole again. And ready to take care of my last loose ends.

I go out around midnight Sunday.

I make the stop at Niagara first. Billy's behind the bar.

— Joe, whaddaya know?

— Nothing worth the price.

— Good un. Drink?

— Yeah.

He hits me with a double bourbon.

I take a drink.

— Philip?

He jerks a thumb at the back room.

— Saw 'im weasel in past me while I was weeded back here.

— He ever get ya with the rest of what he owes?

— Naw.

Someone down the bar hollers at Billy's back. He flips the bird over his shoulder.

— Fuck ya, ya fucker! Shut up or I'll pound yer fuckin' head.

The guy at the end of the bar shuts up. I toss down the rest of my drink and Billy fills it again and knocks on the bar. I lift the glass to him.

— Thanks. I'll go get the rest of your money.

— Sure, Joe, but you don' gotta.

— Be a pleasure.

I walk to the back room, telling myself I'm gonna do this cool. Keep it easy. This is Billy's shift and I don't need to cause a scene. Then I see him. He's chatting to a girl. She's staring at the wall, trying to ignore him.

I try to keep it cool, but I don't.

I walk up behind him and kick his chair out from under his ass. He goes to the floor. The girl gives a little yelp. I grab the back of Philip's collar and drag him to the bathroom. I kick the door closed behind us, lift the toilet seat and shove him down on the can. His skinny ass slips all the way down into the water and his legs fly up off the floor. He tries to struggle out and I shove him in deeper.

— Want to see if I can fit you down the pipe, Phil?

— No.

— Then stay the fuck put.

— Sure, Joe. Whatever you say, Joe.

— Shut it.

I pick up half a roll of toilet paper that's sitting on the sink.

— You say a fucking word, I will stuff this ass-wipe down your throat.

He nods.

I drop the toilet paper and punch him in the face and his nose breaks.

— I told you to get Billy his money.

I punch him in the face and his jaw cracks.

— Or I was gonna fuck you up.

I punch him in the face and his cheek splits open.

— And now you're fucked up.

I grab his hair and yank his dazed face up so he can see me.

— You do as I tell you from now on, Phil. You go against me again and I will feed you to a fucking shambler. No lie, Phil. I will stick you in a tiny box with a fucking shambler and eat popcorn and watch while it eats your fucking face. Got it?

He jerks his head up and down.

— Now give me your money.

He tries to get in his pockets, but he's too fucked up. I pull him out of the can and rip his pockets open and grab the wad of bills I find inside and shove him back into the pot.

— I'm the badass down here, Phil. I'm the big bad fucking wolf and Predo is all the way up on the Upper East Side. Remember that next time you think about doing a little spying for the Coalition. You be afraid of me from now on. I ever start thinking you're not afraid enough, I'll give you a reason to be.

I walk out and drop the cash on the bar. Billy picks it up,

— Joe, this is more than he owed.

I walk to the door, my heart still pounding.

— Keep it. And there's a clog in the toilet.

She sees me when I come in, but she ignores me. She sees me sit at the bar, but she keeps working the other side. I wait. She lets it go for about twenty minutes. Then someone right next to me orders a beer and she has to come around to this side. She gives the other guy his bottle, then looks at me.

— Yeah?

— Got a beer?

She pulls one out of the ice, pops the top and puts it in front of me. I take a drink.

— Thanks.

She nods.

— Four bucks.

I dig out a five and drop it on the bar. She takes it and goes to the register and brings back a buck and puts it in front of me. Then she stands there and stares at the Sunday night band and pretends that she's listening to the bluegrass.

— Baby.

She stares at the band.

— Baby.

She turns her face to me, keeping her arms folded over her chest.

— Yeah?

— You busy after work?

She looks down into the beer bin.

— Fucking-A, Joe.

— Baby, nothing happened.

Her head snaps back up.

— Did I ask? That's not my business. I told you, you want to fuck someone, fuck 'em. I shouldn't be surprised if you do.

— I didn't.

— I. Don't. Care.

I take a drink.

— Yeah. Right.

She puts her hands on the bar.

— Joe. I don't care.

She leans closer, not to be heard.

— I can't fuck you. I won't fuck you. So you want to fuck someone? I won't ask you not to. But.

She crosses her arms again and looks back at the band.

— But what, baby?

She doesn't look at me.

— But Tuesday night is date night and you told me you were fucking busy and you were just fucking another fucking girl, a girl with a fucking limo. Fucker!

She yanks her bar rag from her studded leather belt and throws it at me. I let it hit my face and drop to the bar, where it tents over my beer. Someone calls for some margaritas and she goes off to mix them. I pull the towel off my beer and light a smoke. She comes back a minute later and takes up her position staring at the band.

— That was work, baby. I know it sounds like crap, but that woman was the job.

She faces me again.

— And what's that, Joe? I don't even know what the job is. I don't know what keeps you out and why you get beat up and where you get money and why you have guns or what you keep locked in that little fridge. Is it drugs, Joe?

She leans in to whisper.

— Is it drugs? That's fine, you know I don't care. I just want to know. So what is it, what's the fucking job?

I twist the tip of my cigarette against the edge of the tray, lathing away the ash.

— It's hard, baby. The job is hard.

She turns back to the band.

— Great. Thanks. That's a big help.

I keep playing with my smoke.

— The job is hard. But you're harder, baby.

She keeps looking at the band.

— You're the real work.

Still looking at the band.

— And you're worth it.

She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.

— Give me that.

She plucks the cigarette from my hand, takes a drag.

— I changed my mind.

She holds the cigarette out to me and I take it.

— Yeah?

— Yeah. It's not OK for you to fuck other women. Or men. Or fucking anybody.

I look at the faint print of her lipstick on the smoke, and put my lips around it.

— No problem.

— And I want to go to dinner.

— No problem.

— Tonight, after work. I want a late dinner. And not diner food. I want to go to Blue Ribbon for oysters.

— No problem.

— And I want to sleep over.

— No problem.

She narrows her eyes.

— You sure you didn't fuck that bitch?

— Yeah.

— OK.

She grabs a beer from the ice and gives it to me.

— I've got to work.

— No problem.

She goes to work, taking care of all her regulars who have been patiently waiting while she fights with her boyfriend.

I drink beer and smoke and use the time until she gets off work. I use it keeping my promise to Daniel. Thinking about my life.

I think about it.

I think about what I do and how much longer I can keep it up. How much longer Predo is gonna let me hang around now that I've finally spat in his face. When Terry's gonna get tired of having me on his turf. How long it might be before Tom slips the leash and lays for me in an alley with a gang of his anarchists. I think about what Daniel said, about digging in.

I could go back to Terry, tell him I'll take my old job back. Tom would have to go. Terry'd make that happen. Kill two birds that way. But then I'd be back where I was twenty-odd years ago, the lash in my hands. And sooner or later Terry is going to get itchy about someone else knowing he has the teeth. No, I've been with the Society, and that hole's not for me.

I could go see Christian. Get my own hog. Bunk out in the Duster clubhouse. Live the Pike Street dream. They'd be happy to have me. The Dusters are always happy to have another good man in a fight. But I'd have to wear the colors, a uniform. And I'd look terrible in a top hat.

I could split the city. Go try my luck in the Outer Boroughs. Maybe find some unclaimed turf. It's out there. Red Hook. Coney Island. There could be good blocks out there. Clear off any other Rogues and start my own Clan. Make a name. Be a boss. But that's a long-odds bet, very long odds. Impossible odds. And I'm not ready to roll those bones yet.

Or I could do as Daniel says, become Enclave. Embrace my nature. Live a life of discipline. Learn how to master the Vyrus. And when the time comes, I could let it take me, and see if I survive. Daniel seems to think I might. But Daniel is crazy. And he's dying. And I'm not anybody's savior.

Amanda Horde knows that.

Besides, none of those lives has Evie in it.

The band plays “Silver Dagger” and I watch Evie open beers. Every now and then she throws me a wink or comes by and leans across the bar and whispers something funny in my ear.

I look at my life, and I find it lacking. But it's my life. I creep a little closer to the edge every day. One day the edge will crumble under my feet and I'll fall.

Fine.

Why should my life be different from anybody else's?