Charlie Huston - Already Dead

There's still time till the sun goes down, time to kill before I can go looking for the girl and the carrier.

The girl and the carrier.

Something snaps together in my head.

Oh fuck.

I smell my hand. It's not there anymore, I washed it off in the shower. I go to the heap of dirty laundry in the corner. I throw the burnoose to the side, find the black jeans I had to wear to the Cole last night because Lep's blood had ruined my suit. I hold them to my face and sniff, cigarette smoke, the dirty pavement I slept on, my own sweat. Same thing with the shirt I wore. But he touched me, I know he did, shook my hand and gave me that fake hearty slap on the shoulder. Where's my jacket? I slide open the closet door and take my jacket off the hanger. It's the nice one, the lightweight leather sport coat Evie bought me. It's got a scuff on the sleeve from last night's nap on the sidewalk. I put my nose against the right shoulder and inhale.

There it is, that smell. The one I smelled on my hand last night after Horde and I shook. That odor from the school. That musky sex scent that was all over the cardboard mattress and the zombie girl. It was on Horde's hands. It was all over him, but I couldn't smell it because the reek of Leprosy's blood was still in my hair and nostrils.

They have names, the shamblers from the school have names. The boys' were Joey Boyles and Zack Blake. The girl's name was Whitney Vale. That's the one I care about.

She was nineteen, born and raised in Nyack. Her mom says she split as soon as she turned eighteen and she'd only seen her a couple times in the last year when she showed up to ask for money. The dad's been a no-show since she was born. She was working part-time as a bag checker at one of the used record stores on St. Marks. The manager says she hadn't shown up for a week or two. I get all this off my computer when I check the sites for the Times, News and Post. I try Googling her name and get the articles I just read along with the AP coverage, and some creep claiming he has nude pics of her that he's willing to sell.

I look at the clock, it's 9:11 P.M. It'll be dark enough for me to go out now. I get up from the computer and pull on a T-shirt and the leather jacket. It's plenty hot out, but I need something to cover the revolver I stuff in the waistband of my black jeans.

My head is still aching from the mickey Horde slipped me. I open the closet door and look at the padlocked minifridge next to the gun safe. Last pint I had was Saturday. Usually I would have had a drink on Monday, but Evie was with me, and then I had to run out to see Horde and then someone stole my stash.

Maybe I missed something in the fridge.

I could open the fridge and look inside, but I know it's empty. It's just that the Vyrus is talking to me, reminding me how I'm gonna start feeling in the next twenty-four when it starts eating me.

I turn around and go up the stairs.

It's early and it's a Tuesday; St. Marks isn't in full freakshow mode, but it's summertime so you still get an eyeful. Squatters sucking on forties bought with the change they panhandled this afternoon, aged hippies who live in the same rent-controlled apartments they had in the sixties, Jersey kids clogging the sidewalk booths to buy cheap sunglasses and get shitty tattoos. More than anything else it's depressing. This street used to be dangerous, now it's a mall.

Sounds is on St. Marks between Second and Third Avenues on the first floor of an old brownstone. It's one big room filled with bins of CDs, and vinyl for the classicists. Just inside the door a guy is standing in front of a bunch of cubbyholes where they keep customer's bags. He's a white kid wearing unlaced Nikes, baggy jeans, a Kobe jersey, and a Lakers cap turned sideways on his head. He's standing on a milk crate so he can keep an eye on the dozen or so customers browsing the stock. I go up to him and stand there while he checks out a chick in a camo micro-skirt who's digging through the trance bin.

– Excuse me.

His eyes flick to me and then back to the chick's legs.

– Yo?

– Manager around?

He shakes his head.

– Know when he might be around?

He shrugs.

– Anyone around I could talk to?

He shakes his head.

– Not hirin'.

– Uh-huh. You worked here long?

The chick walks up to the counter with a CD and the guy uses his position on the high ground to try and get a look down her top while the college student at the register rings her up.

– I asked if you worked here long.

The chick turns from the register and hands the guy a beat-up playing card. He turns to the cubbyholes and finds a Tibetan-style handbag with a matching card clothespinned to it. He hands her the bag, openly leering at the tops of her tits sticking out of her middy tank top.

– Whadcha buy?

She takes her bag, sticks her CD in and heads for the door.

– Music, asshole.

He watches her as she goes out.

– Yeah, fuck you, too, bee-atch.

He looks at me.

– Whaddaya want?

– Like I was saying, you work here long?

– Fuck do you care?

– I don't, I just thought you might know Whitney Vale.

He grins.

– Oh shit, man.

He turns to the kid behind the counter.

– G, fool wants ta know about Whitney.

The college kid doesn't look up from the Skinny Puppy liner notes he's reading.

– Tell him to get in line.

The box guy looks down at me, still grinning.

– Hear that, fool? Get in line.

– Yeah, I heard. You ever get to take a break in this place?

– Yeah, whatsit to ya?

– Nothing, just wanted to make sure they aren't abusing their workers.

I turn to leave.

– Yeah, fuck off, freak. Go hang with the rest of the ghouls been coming around.

I walk out.

The nice thing about St. Marks, it's easy to loiter. You can just hang out and drift up and down the same couple yards of pavement and nobody will pay you any mind. I cross the street to the deli and buy a couple packs of Luckys in case this takes awhile. Then I stand on the corner and smoke and wait.

He comes out a couple times to stand on the steps and have a cigarette himself, but it's over two hours before he takes his break. He crosses the street and heads toward my corner. I turn around and get fascinated by the beats the guy there sells out of his little stall. The box guy walks past me. He slaps hands with the doorman outside the Continental, then goes into the McDonald's next door. I walk past and watch him through the window as he gets his order to go. He comes out and turns to head back to the store and I come up behind him and take him by the arm.

– Hey, man!

– What?

I turn him around and start leading him toward 9th. I grin.

– Damn, G, it's great to see you! What you been up to?

– Wha the fuck?

He tries to pull his arm free. I squeeze it tight and put my mouth close to his ear.

– Fuck with me and I'll take you back to the store, stuff you in a cubbyhole and flush the card so no one can claim your ass.

He comes with me. I steer him around the corner and halfway down the block before I let him go. He's gone scared and babbly on me now.

– Hey, hey, man, I didn't mean anything back there, you don't gotta be a dick about it. I mean, you're not a dick.

– I could give a fuck what you said.

– So whadaya want, G? I gotta get back to the store an' shit.

I stare at him. He starts nodding.

– Right, G, right, you wanna know about Whitney.

– When was the last time you saw her?

– Got me, G. Like, maybe two, three weeks back we worked together.

– She quit?

– Naw, G, ya don't quit that job, ya jus stop goin' in.

– She have any boyfriends, anyone hanging around her?