Charlie Huston - Already Dead

I know what the kid doesn't. I know her dad and Whitney crossed paths down here, right in this room, right on that square of cardboard not ten feet away from us. But by the time they did, she had already crossed paths with something much creepier than Amanda's pederast father. By the time he found her the carrier had already taken a bite out of the back of her neck. Did he even know?

Figure it this way. He comes down here with some muscle, the same muscle that probably killed Dobbs for him, and they found Whitney. Couple days after being infected, her brain would still be pretty much intact. Her speech centers, even some of her short-term memory might work. She might even have been fighting her new impulses, trying not to become what she already was. Figure Horde and his goons confront her somewhere. She won't answer any questions. They think she's being tough, but she's just having holes bored through her brain by the bacteria. Doesn't matter, they find the pictures and whatever else she has on Horde. But he's not done, wants to teach her a lesson, but wants to do it somewhere private. Figure he remembers the place Dobbs found his daughter last year. Maybe that makes it better for him, having her on the floor in here, makes it easier to think about Amanda, makes it closer to what he really wants. Whitney wouldn't have been easy. The smell of his living flesh so close would have made her crazy. His guys would have had to hold her down while he raped her. And when he was done? What the fuck did he care. He has the evidence now and if she talks to anyone it's just the word of a teenage runaway slut against his. No contest. So he left her there. And the next people to see her were probably the two fashion junkies who came looking for a safe place to fix.

But it doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything for me, just fills in a couple gaps. It doesn't make my job any easier. It doesn't make me any less hungry. It doesn't help me forget the little girl lying on her side next to me taking a nap. It doesn't make my cold hand feel less of the warmth of her body as she curls tighter, pulling my chained arm close to her. It doesn't make me any less aware of the cardboard sheet on the other side of the room where I smelled the rank sweat of Horde fucking a still-breathing dead girl.

It makes no difference to me at all. I still have to get her home. I still have to find the carrier. I still have to do the job.

I tell myself this.

But all the while I see pictures of Horde's neck in my hands, my thumbs digging a hole through his skin and ripping open the throbbing artery. And I feel the hot blood splash against my lips and chin as I fit my mouth over the hole. As if that will make the world a better place.

Fool.

I am such a fool.

– You really allergic to the sun?

– It's called solar urticaria.

– Sounds like VD.

– It's not.

– So what happens if you go to the beach or something?

– What happens if you stick your hand under the broiler?

– No shit?

– No shit.

– That's so wrong.

– Yep.

– Were you born with it?

– Not really.

– So when was the last time you were out in the sun?

– Long time ago. You got any change?

We're on the corner of 10th and A, standing in front of a pay phone. I wiped most of the gore from my face and hands before we came up and have my jacket buttoned to hide the blood on my shirt. The holes in my hands have scabbed, but aren't healing nearly as quickly as they would if I was straight. They ache and throb like my face and ankle. But the needles keep me too occupied to worry about things like that. All my hurts will be healed when I get some blood, but I'm running out of time.

– Here.

She's holding out her hand, change pooled in her tiny palm. I pluck out two quarters.

– What's your mom's number?

– The apartment or her cell?

– Cell.

She rattles off the number and I dial. She stands on one side of the phone, trying to make it look like she's not with me. Pretty hard to do with the cuffs, even when they're covered by an extra T-shirt from her bag.

– Hello.

– Ms. Horde, it's me.

Amanda looks at me.

– Joseph. I.

– I have her.

– Oh, I. Thank you, Joseph.

Amanda raises her eyebrows.

– She's just so relieved, isn't she?

I ignore her.

– Do you want to come and get her?

– Yes I. No. No, you should. Can you bring her here?

Amanda is making little kissy faces.

– Is she just so grateful to you? Can she just not wait to see me?

– Sure. What's the address?

She gives me an address on 81st off Park Avenue. Amanda is just looking bored now, watching everything but me, and listening to every word I say.

– We'll grab a cab and be there in twenty minutes.

– Good. Good. Joseph?

– Yeah.

– Can I?

– What?

She doesn't say anything.

– You want to talk to her?

Amanda turns her head to look at me again.

– No. No. That's. Just. You better just bring her home.

– OK.

I hang up and grab Amanda's backpack from the ground.

– Let's go.

– Didn't want to talk to her darling daughter?

– Guess not.

– Don't be shocked.

– I'm not.

I wave the backpack at a passing cab. It stops. I open the door and wait while Amanda thinks about it. She looks inside the cab, looks at me. I gesture at the open door. She shrugs and climbs in. I get in after her and give the cabbie the address and we roll. She's looking out the window. I'm gritting my teeth and a little gasp squeezes out between them.

She turns from the window and looks at my face, looks at my swollen and scabbed lips stretched tight over my teeth.

– What's eating you?

– Nothing. Just shut up for awhile.

– And I was looking forward to another chat. As if.

And she goes back to the window. And I go back to feeling the pain that's building inside me. My veins have started to burn.

The hours spent in the school basement hiding from the sun have brought me closer to the next phase of Vyral starvation. The stage where my body will simply shut down as the Vyrus makes adjustments deep within my brain. I'm at the border now, this is as far as I've gone. I know I can take the pain right here in this moment, but I don't know if I can take what will come in the next minute or the minute after that or all the very few minutes remaining to me.

So I grind my teeth and clench my right fist, my fingernails digging into the scabbed palm of my hand. And I tell myself that she is not the answer. Tell myself that having the cabbie pull over and dragging her into a dark alley is not the answer. But the Vyrus is telling me a different story. That's OK, I can ignore it. I can ignore it just as easily as I ignore our hands sitting on the seat between us, the chain joining them beneath a retro Joan Jett T-shirt she picked up somewhere on St. Marks because she thought it was cool.

– Moooom, I'm hoooome.

The elevator from the lobby opens directly onto the foyer. It's no more or less than you'd expect: large, but not too large; expensively appointed, but not too expensively appointed; tasteful, but not too tasteful; boldly decorated, but not too boldly decorated. All in all, the kind of place I would expect to find a fabulously wealthy and dysfunctional family with ties to the Coalition. But not too much like that. I wait for the inevitable housekeeper to arrive, but none does. Nor does anyone answer Amanda's call. I look at her. She looks back and shrugs. What did you expect, a victory parade? I smear my forehead against my shoulder, wiping some of the cold sweat away.