Charlie Huston - Already Dead - A Novel

So here I am, walking the streets at five in the morning, watching the pale line of blue at the tops of the buildings, looking like just another sad-case junkie trying to get lucky.

I see my mark.

It's not the kind of thing I like, but it'll have to do. A girl in her early twenties wearing last night's party clothes, clearly doing the walk of shame home from some guy's apartment. Her eyes are dull and she's running her fingers along the sides of the parked cars, trying to keep her drunken balance. We're on 1lth between B and C. Just up ahead, a brownstone is being gutted and made over for condos. Scaffolding canopies the sidewalk and a thin plywood fence screens the ripped-out facade of the first floor. I can catch her in that dark tunnel, kick through one of the boards, tap her in the building, and the construction guys will find her in an hour and call the cops. It's a crappy job, but hell, I'm probably doing the chick a favor getting her off the street before some nasty piece of shit grabs her and rapes her.

I come up behind her and whack her on the back of the head. I give her a good straight shot, use the pad of muscle at the base of my open hand. Her head snaps forward and her brain bangs against the front of her skull and she goes limp. She's so gone I barely had to hit her. I catch her as she goes down, lay her out on the sidewalk, get a grip on one of the four by eight plywood sheets that make up the fence, and wrench it loose. I scoop up the girl, get her inside, scrape the plywood back into place and get to work.

She has some great veins in her arm and I don't have time to get creative. I unzip my kit, roll on the gloves and put the works together. I remove the needle from the blood cup, screw it into the receiving tube and attach the hose and bag. Then I tie the tourniquet above her elbow and swab her skin with alcohol. I hold the needle in my right hand and her arm in my left, bracing the vein with my thumb, and slide the needle in. It's a good strong vein. Blood fills the tube. I release the valve and pressure from her young, healthy heart pumps blood through the hose and starts to fill the bag. I watch the rich, almost purple blood and my dick starts to get hard.

It's over in less than five minutes. I break down my works, carefully slide the IV bag inside my jacket and it's over. I'm gonna drink this straightaway when I get home so I don't even have to worry about adding anti-clotting agents. She's got a tiny mark on her arm, but her skin is dark and I don't think she'll be bruising. Little luck and she'll think it's a bug bite. Before I leave I open her handbag and shake the contents onto the ground. I take the five bucks she's got and her cell phone. I'll just dump the phone later, but it'll make it look a little more like a mugging this way. I stand up and get ready to move the plywood out of the way. I stop.

I take another look at her, limp and helpless on the ground. I should take another pint. Just to be safe I should take one more. Hell, I should just drain her. I can. I can carry her to the avenue like she's my drunk girlfriend. Get her in a cab, take her home and have all the time in the world to get it all. Fucking chick like that, walking around loaded, shit-faced out of her mind, chick like that is asking for trouble. Shit, chick like that probably has a death wish. Be doing her a fucking favor. I bend over to pick her up.

I stop.

It's the Vyrus. It's just the fucking Vyrus talking. It's not me. I know better. That's not the way to do things. It's stupid and it's weak. It's not who I am. I may not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but I'm smarter than that. And I'm not that weak. Not yet.

So I shove the plywood out of the way, step onto the sidewalk, shove it back and head for home. I get about two steps before Hurley clobbers me again.

— I fucking knew it.

Oh, hell.

— Fucking knew it. Consorting. Consorting and poaching.

I keep my eyes closed. I know who I'm gonna see when I open them and I'd just as soon put it off for another minute.

— Mr. Clean. Mr. Shit Don't Stick on Me, and there he is, consorting with the Coalition and poaching that chick.

— Don't say chick.

— Yeah, yeah. Poaching that woman. I told Terry, told him and told him, but he coddles this guy. Knows he spooks for the Coalition and he lets him stay down here anyway. Well not anymore. Wanted evidence?

I open my eyes. Closet. Dark. Dank. Dim cracks of light sneak in around the edges of an ill-fitting door.

— I got evidence.

I'm lying on my side. I go to push myself up and realize that my hands are cuffed and my ankles are shackled. I squirm into a sitting position. The brick wall behind my back sweats moisture.

— What kind of evidence?

— Well I saw him, didn't I? Me and Hurley both saw him.

— But doing what, Tom?

— We saw him take that Coalition chick. . woman into his place, and we saw him poach that other ch. . woman.

— How do you know she was Coalition? Are they wearing uniforms now?

— Trust me, you saw this one, you'd know she was Coalition.

— How?

— How? The way you always know. Had that attitude, that the world belongs to me attitude. Talk about a bitch who thinks her shit doesn't stink. This one--Don't call women bitches.

— Yeah, right.

I scoot closer to the door and put my eye against one of the cracks. I'm back at Society headquarters. Squares of carpet sample are spread around on the floor and handmade anarchist protest posters that look like oversized ransom notes cover the walls. I can see Tom Nolan's back. He's standing at a hot plate, stirring a big pot of something steaming and smelly.

— So you saw him with a woman who might be Coalition. And what else?

— She was Coalition. But even if she wasn't? He poached. Right on the street, just whacked that girl.

— Was she a child?

— What?

— Was she a child?

— In her twenties or something.

— So she's not a girl, right?

— Right, yeah. He whacked this woman right on the street and dragged her into a construction site. Tapped her right there for anyone to see. A total fucking abuse of Society policies. On our turf. A slap in the face to our beliefs and methods. That can't be disputed, period. And besides, you're the one who's always going on about how more women are tapped than men.

Lydia comes into view and stands next to Tom.

— I'm not going on about anything. There is a huge imbalance in the number of women victimized by Vyrus-incited violence.

— That's what I'm saying.

— So you just had Hurley knock him out and carry him down the street to here?

— Hey, I had to take action. There's no telling what he's plotting with his bosses up there, what kind of trouble they have him stirring up. It was time to deal with it. He's a Coalition stooge and the time has come.

— Uh-huh.

She turns from Tom and faces someone I can't see.

— Hurley, did you see the woman he took into his apartment?

— Yeah.

— Was she Coalition?

— Don't know. Coulda bin.

— You think she was?

— Don't know. Tom said she wuz. Coulda bin. Nice lookin' lady.

— Uh-huh.

Tom turns from the hot plate.

— Hey, don't say lady.

— Why?

— Because it's demeaning.

Lydia looks at Tom.

— Get off him, Tom.

— What the hell, you just gave me shit for--Because you know better. Hurley's an old dog. Let him talk how he wants.

— Jesus! Fucking double standards. That's, you know what that is? That's counterrevolutionary. We're all equals. We're all equals

or we're not. I don't like rules, but if we're gonna have them they have to apply across the board. -Get off it, Tom.

She turns back to Hurley.

— What about the woman he tapped?