No Dominion

You don’t fuck around like that and come out on top. If he hadn’t been put in his place, he would have just done it again. Spoiled kids are like that.

– So what is it?

The fingers of Daniel’s right hand run over the half-empty bag. He rubs a fingertip through a drop of blood that has congealed at the valve opening.

– As Maureen told you, it’s anathema.

– Maureen?

He smears the drop of blood between his thumb and forefinger.

– Sorry. Mrs. Vandewater to you.

I shift my ass on the floor, stiff from sitting here while I’ve been telling him the story.

– OK, it’s anathema. But the other thing, was she right about that? The visions.

– Well, visions.

He brings the fingers to his face and sniffs, grimaces, wipes them on the floor.

– In this batch, no. But in fresh anathema?

He shrugs.

– Certainly there are visions.

I look at the bag on the floor.

– Are they real?

– Simon, of course they’re real, they’re visions.

– But. Do they mean anything?

He scratches his head.

– You’re making it very difficult for me to answer you. Are they real? Do they mean anything? A vision is a personal thing. What can I tell you about what one might mean or not mean?

– Fucking hell, man, do they have anything to do with the Vyrus? Can you learn anything about…about?

– Yes?

– About us? About all this shit? I.

He smiles.

– Simon, I do believe you’re looking for a little wisdom this evening. How refreshing that is, coming from you. How hopeful.

I get up.

– Fuck you.

His smile gets bigger.

– Oh well, back to square one.

He holds out his hand. I take it and he pulls himself up, not needing my help at all.

He takes my arm, walks with me out of his cubicle and toward the stairs.

– I know what you’re asking. I do. But I want you to know, as well. I want you to know that for each of these questions you ask me, there are any number of ways the answer might be approached. Any number of lessons to be learned. That said.

He stops us at the top of the stairs.

– I personally did not find the anathema visions to be either illuminating or useful. Entertaining. Pleasant. A distraction. But empty.

I look at him.

– You?

He looks down, shrugs.

– We were all young once.

He looks back at me.

– Really, everyone was doing it back then.

– She said it was permanent. The addiction.

He releases my arm.

– Honestly, Simon, think. Once in a great while, think. An addiction. In the blood. In the Vyrus. How do you think such a thing would be best dealt with?

But I don’t need to think. I know. I’ve done it.

– Fasting.

He nods.

– Fasting. Starving it out. Killing it. And.

He raises a finger.

– What does that suggest?

– I.

– Think.

– I. No. I don’t. Just tell me. I’m tired and I want to go home. Just fucking tell me. Just tonight. I came and visited like you wanted. Can’t you just? Jesus.

He holds up both hands, palms out.

– Alright, alright. You’re tired. Just this last thing.

He starts down the stairs. I follow.

– The Vyrus, Simon, it’s not general. Not one thing. Not all the same. That boy you saw, the one who died when they tried to infect him? He wasn’t rejecting the Vyrus, it was rejecting him. Because it wasn’t for him. It wasn’t his Vyrus. Each of us, we offer something to it, and in each of us, it changes, becomes unique over and over again.

He stops at the foot of the stairs, faces me, taps a finger against my chest.

– The Vyrus in you.

He taps himself.

– Is not the Vyrus in me.

We continue walking, heading toward the door.

– Anathema: The Vyrus in freshly infected blood, at its most robust as it seeks to take root. It can sustain itself for a time outside a body. But the only body it would ever thrive for, it has been killed, killed when the anathema was harvested. Introduced to a new body, one already home to another Vyrus, the two will go to war. The visions? These are the death throes of the anathema, its longings for the body it should have inhabited. The addiction, its remnants in the blood, struggling for survival. Starve it long enough? And your Vyrus, the Vyrus meant for you, will kill it utterly. This is why the larger doses are so painful. Given time, the Vyrus in its proper place, in its home, it will always win out. But the struggle can destroy the home.

We’re at the door, the cooler of blood and the box of money waiting where I left them.

He points at the cooler.

– This, what’s in there, it’s empty. Outside of a body, disassociated from a, forgive me, but disassociated from a soul, it is only nourishment for the Vyrus. But it is not what it seeks. It seeks transformation. In you. Your Vyrus is incubating in you. Waiting to give birth to something more. We are cocoons for it, Simon. Each of us unique.

He spreads his arms.

– But none of us special.

I look at him.

– Daniel.

– Yes?

– None of that helped me a fucking bit.

He sighs.

– Well, I’m tired, too. So it’s all I have for you tonight.

He hauls the door open.

– Go home, Simon. Get some rest. Think about it. You’re always welcome.

I pick up the cooler.

– You want any of this?

He rolls his eyes.

– Not listening at all, are you?

– Just asking.

I pick up the shoe box.

He points at it.

– But you know, we can always use a few extra dollars.

I give him the two grand Digga gave me.

– Don’t spend it all in one place.

He fans himself with the sheaf of bills.

– Big spender, Simon. You’re a very big spender.

I step out the door.

– Daniel. What about Percy?

– What about him?

– You guys gave me his name. Was he? Were you in on?

– It’s not all plots and intrigues, Simon. Sometimes, shit just happens.

I nod, turn and walk away.

– Safe home, Simon.

– Yeah, same to you.

And I’m gone.

So, it’s the job now. It’s the job and the whip and Terry’s mosaic. And if that’s it, if it’s the job, then it’s doing the job my way.

Anathema.

Whatever the fuck it is, figure it’s a problem that’s not going to go away on its own. Now that that shit is in the community, figure someone’s gonna have to root it out. Gonna have a long to-do list tomorrow.

I owe Chubby Freeze. Chubby who vouched for me. Whether I really needed it or not. Chubby, who’s more connected than he’s let on. Figure he and I will have to have a talk about that, too.

And Predo. I’ll have to talk to Predo. The job means talking to Predo. Fucker works during the day. Can’t keep regular hours like the rest of us. Interacts with too many people out there in the world for that. Gonna have to talk to him about inter-Clan security issues. Wish I had thought of that. Figure that was enough of a reason to have said no to Terry right there. Fucking hell.

I’ll need to start scouting some helpers. Some of Lydia’s people maybe. I wish Sela was still around. But she’s not. Sela’s Uptown looking after the girl. That’s where she belongs. I don’t want to think about the girl any more than that.

Daniel. Gonna have to talk to him some more. Jesus. Ask him a question and all he does is kick up more dust. But it is interesting dust.

Like, if it’s so hard to infect someone, to find a match, and seeing as we do so little live hunting, leave behind so few that have been fed on directly and left standing; seeing all that, how is the population maintained? Seeing all that, it makes me wonder about where new fish come from. Makes me wonder if Vandewater’s the only one with a profile. And all the fresh faces down here? All those young rhinos up in the Hood? Maybe Tom’s not the only one who was making his own new fish. Maybe Vandewater’s not the only one manufacturing enforcers.

Figure there’s something there. Something in there and in all Daniel’s pseudospiritual psychobabble. Something about the Vyrus. Something about it being unique in the vein. About the way only some people can take it. Something about…Hell. Figure it’s something I’m not smart enough to put together on my own. But sure as shit figure that’s a section of Terry’s mosaic that needs dusting off.

And figure Terry’s no fool. Yeah, he knows me pretty well. Knows me a fuck of a lot better than I know him. Better than I want to be known. Figure he was right: I want to know things.

Can’t leave a scab alone. A scab, for instance, like that picture up there in the old lady’s place. That picture of her and Predo and Terry. The Count telling me, She makes enforcers.

Figure that’s a scab I’m gonna want to pick at plenty. Pick it till it comes off in my hand and shows me the wound below.

Tomorrow.

Now, I got that beer at home, and all those cigarettes.

Hurley and Tom left my door unlocked when they tossed my place for the anathema. I push it open with my toe, kick it closed, and reactivate the alarm. The upstairs has been given a going over, but not too rough. They know where I live. Downstairs is gonna be a mess.

I can smell Hurley and Tom and the partisans they brought with them. But that doesn’t keep me from smelling the real trouble. It doesn’t even matter that the smell is always around. In the air. On the sheets.

It’s different when she’s actually here.

I stand at the foot of the stairs and look at her, sitting on the floor in front of the open closet, in front of the open minifridge with the lock torn off, staring into the biohazard bag in her lap. The room, a mess around us.

She looks up.

– You missed my reading, Joe.

My alarm clock is on the floor, near my feet. It’s just after midnight.

– I know.

– That was really important to me.

– I know.

She looks in the bag. Looks up.

– Joe, what is this?

– You should put that down, baby.

– What is it, Joe?

I adjust my grip on the handle of the blood-filled cooler.

– That’s the job, baby. That’s what I do.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Bites her lip. Talks.

– You need to tell me.

She holds the bag out at arm’s length.

– You need to tell me about the job. Now.

I think about the new job. I think about trying to explain that to her. I think about telling her the truth. I think about losing her.

It’s a decision she should make for herself. One for which she will need the truth.

I take a deep breath.

– I’m a courier. For organ dealers. I move body parts.

The bright red bag dangles from her hand.

I take a step. I set the cooler on the floor.

– Some people, they need money. They need it bad.

I place the shoe box on top of the cooler.

– They need it so bad, they sell pieces of themselves.

I take the bag from her.

– Kidneys.

I squat in front of the closet and stuff the bag in the fridge.

– Eyes sometimes.

My back to her, I look at the lock that Hurley twisted off.

– Lengths of intestine.

I’ll need a new lock now. For my secrets.

– An artery.

I look at her over my shoulder.

– Skin.

Her face doesn’t change, but tears trickle down her cheeks.

I sit on the floor, my back against the wall, keeping my distance from her.

– These things have to be moved quickly. I do that.

I take out a cigarette.

– But sometimes there’s a problem. Someone balks. The money doesn’t come through.

A book of matches is on the floor near my hand. I pick it up.

– Alternate buyers are always standing by. But the material has to be stored briefly while things are worked out. Held in escrow. I do that, too.

I light my smoke.

– I have to be on call. I have to go where they say when they say.

I take out my gun and set it on the floor between us.

– And it’s dangerous.

I inhale smoke.

– It’s dangerous to know about it.

I close my eyes and blow smoke.

– So I don’t tell people.

It’s quiet for awhile. I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to open them, see her looking at me, know what she’s thinking about me. I keep my eyes closed and listen to her cry.

She stops.

– Joe.

– Yeah.

– What’s in the cooler?

I open my eyes. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the cooler.

I get up. I cross the room and get the cooler and the shoe box. I set them both in front of her. I squat and open the cooler.

She looks at the bags piled inside, an alien depth of color. Strange fruit.

She touches one, lays her hand on top of it. Looks up at my face.

– Is this for me, Joe?

I shake my head.

– Not this, baby.

I tip the lid from the shoe box.

– But I’m gonna get you what you need. Anything you need, I’m gonna get it.

She reaches for me.

Her arms go around my neck.

She puts her lips next to my ear.

– I’d rather have your blood, Joe. I’d rather have you inside me.

Something catches in my throat, snagged on the lie. But I can live with that.

– My blood’s no good for you, baby.

Her hands clutch the back of my neck, they find the tear in the collar of my jacket. She works her fingers into it.

– Oh, Joe, your jacket.

– I know. I’m sorry.

She tugs my head lower so she can see the ribboned leather.

– I don’t know if I can fix it.

I pull her face back to mine.

– I can live with it.

She squeezes me tight.

And it’s uncomfortable, squatting there, Evie hanging from my neck.

But I can live with that, too.