Charlie Huston: My Dead Body

I put the wire saw in my pocket.

– Damnedinsatiablethirsteternallanguor. Dot com. So fair to say she was looking for something specific.

He looks at the floor.

– Fair to say, yes, fair to say.

– And the boy. One of those infecteds likes to cruise Goth and vampire sites looking for a Lucy? He out trolling for someone he could tap for easy pints?

Chubby looks up.

– No. No. I don’t think so at all. I think, forgive me the sentimentality, I think the boy was looking for someone to talk to. He struck me as, if anything, annoyingly earnest. I think, perish the thought, that he was lonely. With, perhaps, some tendency to overplay the roll of doomed and undead, he was certainly feeling genuinely isolated. Confused. Desperate, I would say, for something resembling normalcy. I am not at all unacquainted with the type. My business draws them like flies. Young men and women, out of their depths, looking for something they can cling to. It has long been one of the hallmarks of my professionalism that I aggressively vet my applicants and accept only those who I trust to be most willing, able, and adaptive to the rigors of a life in porno.

It’s not actually bullshit. Everyone knows Chubby is a cut above pornmeister. No junkies. No self-mutilators. No bipolars. No chicken. He runs a clean shop. Hi-tone freaks who like to fuck on camera, and coldhearted pros. And he takes care of his people. Full-time staff and freelancers. Chubby doesn’t leave anyone to swing in the cold if a bust comes down. Or any kind of stalker trouble. I ran security on his studio more than once. I won’t lie and say it was a happy place, but I never found anyone shooting up to get loose for an anal gang bang, or being slapped around because they didn’t want to do a face fuck.

All in all, Chubby’s a gentleman scumbag.

I find the other item I was looking for. A one-foot length of bicycle inner tube packed tight with sand, stitched shut at both ends with heavy thread. Lighter than you expect when you heft it, it’ll drop just about anyone when you lay it across the back of their skull. It goes in the pocket opposite the wire saw.

– Sure then, you know a lost soul when you see one. The boy was a helpless kitten looking for acceptance in a cold world. So why’d he take your daughter somewhere you can’t find?

He shakes his head.

– It’s not me they ran from, Joe. The boy.

He brings the cigar to his lips, realizes it’s gone out and lowers it.

– The boy was pledged to the Coalition.

I’m looking at the gun I took from Dallas, checking to see if it’s anything I can rely on. I look up from it.

– Shit.

Chubby nods.

– He crossed onto Society turf to meet my daughter. And stayed.

– Shit.

He takes a step my way.

– Things up there. Joe. In the past, if I wanted to know anything about what was happening, it took an effort. Subtlety. One had to mind one’s Ps and one’s Qs. Simple awareness of the Vyrus was a threat. Now. It’s… hectic. Word of bizarre goings-on reach my ears unbidden. There are rumors. Not among the straight citizens, not yet. But at the borders and fringes. Things are being said. In barrooms, massage parlors, shooting galleries, after-hours clubs, street corners, and, I’d dare say, in police precinct rack rooms when the bottle is being passed about. Things are being seen. Disbelieved most often, but they are seen. And reported on. Blogs. The tabloids even. Serial killings unlike anything since Jack the Ripper. That is the tone. There is a palpable tension on the street. Anyone who lives close to the edge of things feels as if something is coming. The straights itch. A second shoe is expected. An ill wind. Metaphors of every kind. In an atmosphere such as that, it takes very little for tempers to flare.

The gun is OK. It’s an automatic. It’s black. The barrel has a hole at the end big enough for something serious to come out of it. The clip is loaded. And I can’t find Made in China stamped on it anywhere. It’ll do what it’s supposed to.

I stick it in my belt at the small of my back and pull the jacket down over it.

– What happened, Chubby? Straight.

– What happened.

He snaps the cigar in two pieces and lets them drop from his fingers.

– Terry Bird accepted the boy into the Society. He cannot compete with the Coalition in terms of troops and arms, but he is an effective propagandist. Young man crosses battle lines for love, to the only place where such love will be accepted. Society turf. Infected and uninfected.

I grunt.

I can hear Terry pitching it in my head. It’s, you know, Joe, it’s exactly what we’ve been talking about. A story of acceptance. This is the kind of thing, this is a uniting kind of thing. Or some shit like that. Playing with his John Lennon specs and his ponytail, selling his version of the revolution. Years of old blood dripping from his hands the whole time. A show I’ve seen before.

Chubby places the toe of one of his formerly well-shined shoes on half the broken cigar and grinds it into the dirt.

– It raised Dexter Predo’s ire, having one of his own raised up as a Society poster child. And then things became rather more complicated.

He places his hands on either side of his belly.

– She started to show. Needless to say, the idea of this baby has generated passionate debate. Bird seems to think it could be the thin edge that would allow him to take the Vyrus public. Predo sees the opposite. Interrace breeding has always been a taboo that takes many blows to shatter. A certain air of imminent danger crept into the debate. It appeared they might become targets for kidnapping or assassination.

He drops his hands from his belly.

– And they disappeared.

– And you called Percy.

– Someone I care deeply about is missing in the midst of Vampyre warfare. There is only one person I want looking for her. And that person has dropped from sight. So, yes, I called Percy. He knows people. And he is an old friend. I was born and raised in Harlem. When I was a small boy, before they went underground, the Hood were our Black Panthers.

– And he told you about Evie.

– He suggested there was a young woman, Enclave, who might have a line on you.

I shake my head.

– You went to the warehouse?

He takes a step back.

– Oh no. I am trying to find my daughter. Being eviscerated would not advance the cause. Percy spoke to the lady. And she came to see me.

Does my heart skip a beat? I can’t say. I don’t count all of them. But it seems so.

– You saw her?

He nods.

I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to ask.

But I do.

– How’d she look?

He casts his eyes to the ceiling.

– She looked, Joe, both perilous and beautiful.

He brings his eyes to mine.

– As I imagine death must look.

Evie knows me. If anybody does. Possible she’d rather she didn’t, but there it is. Some things, by the time we know they’re bad for us, we’re already hooked.

She gave Chubby the bead on where he might find me. Hard to say how she knew for sure where that was, but figure she started with the idea that I’d be underfoot and went from there. However she sussed it, Chubby took the lead and poked. All the former street kids he has passing through his doors, he was able to put some feelers out. He knows what kind of setup a guy like me would need down here. And there’s only so many places like Freedom Tunnel. Asked some questions of some of the inhabitants who travel up top, got a description of some of the newer faces on the scene, and hit on mine.

Big guy, limp, attitude, eyepatch.

I keep to myself, but it’s not like I’m invisible.

And here we are.