Charlie Huston - No Dominion

– OK, baby?

She nods, breath short.

He puts the tip of his index finger to the tip of her upturned nose.

– Here we go.

Pigtails ties off PJs’ arm with the tubing and slaps a vein to the surface. It’s a nice dark vein, thick and purple under her pale skin. He braces the vein with his thumb and slides the needle in.

A bead of PJs’ own blood rises to the surface of her skin. She squeals softly from the back of her throat. The Count presses the plunger, forcing the poison into her vein. Poncho holds PJs’ head between her hands. The syringe empty, the Count draws it free, places a cotton ball over the hole in PJs’ arm, and releases the tubing. Instantly, PJs jerks. Pigtails leans over her and grabs hold of both her arms. The Count places the used syringe back on the coffee tray and wraps his fingers around her legs just below the knees. PJs shivers, her mouth goes wide, the sound in her throat grows louder. She starts to tremor and the three of them hold her limbs and head firmly as she shakes. The sound rises in pitch, peaks, stops, her eyes roll back in her head and her muscles go limp. The Count and Pigtails release her and Poncho strokes her cheek and kisses her brow.

Pigtails claps.

– Now me!

– How does it work?

– Really, really well.

– Not what I meant.

– I know.

The girls have all had theirs, Pigtails shaking only the slightest bit and Poncho not at all. The three of them are sprawled on the thick, white synthetic fur rug next to the couch. An occasional moan comes from their lips, a muscle twitching here or there, as they stare blindly at the ceiling.

The Count goes from one to the other, checking their pulses. Satisfied, he looks at me.

– What do you know about blood?

– It tastes good.

He starts stripping the paper from the last syringe.

– What do you know about the Vyrus?

– It tastes bad.

He rolls up his sleeve.

– Yeah, that’s what I hear. OK, so I’m pre-med, yeah? But that doesn’t really mean shit. All it means is that pops is a doctor and he and moms want me to be a doctor and I scored well on my SATs and went to the right prep school and got into Columbia and declared myself a biology major and I’m taking the classes I’m supposed to. But that doesn’t mean I’m very good at it or anything.

– I’ll take your word for it.

– You should, bro, you should. So, I got what you said. I heard the same thing, the Vyrus can’t survive outside a body.

He picks up the IV bag, still more than half full.

– But here it is.

He holds the bag close to his nose, an expression on his face like a man smelling a piece of really stinky cheese.

– And it’s alive in there.

– How?

– Don’t know. But it doesn’t last.

He fits the needle to the valve.

– We get the stuff and we need to hit it right away. When the Vyrus in there dies, it’s over. So you do the math, process of elimination and all, and you know where the high lives. It lives in the Vyrus.

He draws the blood into the syringe.

– But you got to get it right. Too much, you will freak fucking out. Wait too long, ’til the Vyrus peters out: sick as shit or worse. Could be someone out there has developed a preservative, a medium that keeps the Vyrus together for a limited amount of time. How they got the idea to stick it in their arm is beyond me, but I’m sure glad they did.

– Where do you get it?

– A guy.

– What guy?

PJs is slowly coming out of it, stretching, rubbing her face, touching her skin. The Count goes to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of water. He holds her head up as she takes a tiny sip. It’s been no more than a half hour since she went down.

– What guy?

He presses his fingers to PJs lips and she kisses them. He chucks her under the chin and goes back to the couch.

– Look, bro, we got a good thing going here. This.

He holds up the syringe.

– This is so good. You have no idea. And our hookup is solid. But he’s a hookup. That means all I have is a pager number. He either calls me back or he doesn’t. And when he does call me back, if he’s holding, he just sends a delivery guy. Some guy who doesn’t even know what he’s carrying. The delivery guy, he’s a civilian, not infected, not even a Renfield. He just thinks he’s carrying dope. Different guy every time.

– How did you get the hookup?

He swabs his arm with an alcohol-drenched cotton ball.

– All this sterilization, not really necessary. Not like we can get infected, right? Just makes it better, part of the ritual.

– The hookup.

He picks up the tubing.

– From another fish. Look, can we talk about this later?

– Who was the fish gave you the hookup?

He slaps a vein.

– I heard you were at Doc’s last night.

– So?

– I hear a kid freaked out. A fish.

– Yeah.

– You see that?

– Yeah.

– He probably hit too much. Or waited too long and the Vyrus was dead.

– What of it?

– Well, that was the kid who got me the hookup.

He holds the tip of the needle at the vein.

– I don’t want to be a bad host or anything, but I’m gonna hit this shit now. You don’t have to go. Stick around. The girls come out of it, they’ll set you up. You can see what it’s all about.

I look at my watch. If I stay any longer I’ll be here all day. He’s pressing the tip of the needle to his vein. I reach over and grab his wrist.

– Any idea where the hookup is? Where it comes from?

He looks at my hand on his wrist, up at my eyes.

– Hey, man. I been a good host, right? You mind moving that?

I take my hand away.

He nods, smiles again.

– Thanks. All I hear, the only rumor I ever hear, is that it comes from Uptown.

I’m standing up, slipping on my jacket. I freeze.

– Uptown. The Coalition?

He shakes his head.

– No, no. Up. Town. Above One-ten. All the way up. The Hood, bro. And that’s what I know. Now, you can stay, go, whatever, but I’m gonna zone out here.

He puts the needle in, pushes the plunger, and unties the tubing. Before he can pull the needle free, he’s out.

PJs squirms over to him and removes the syringe from his arm. She leans her head against his thigh, looks at me and holds up the syringe.

– Do me again.

I walk out the door.

How you die, one of the easiest ways, one of the very easiest ways, you go off your reservation. Go outside the territory you know and you may as well be cutting your way through the Amazon. Sun comes up, you got no safe house. Run into the local Clan, and you will, they’ll chop you down, a Rogue on their turf. Go to ground, find some hole to hide in, get caught without blood and try to poach something, you won’t just be chopped, you’ll be put out in the sun. Do not go off the reservation. You’re a Rogue lucky enough to have an arrangement with a Clan, do not leave that turf.

Above One-ten. That’s way off the reservation. That’s Hood turf. Haven’t been up there since I was a kid. Since I was a kid from the Bronx. Since I was something you might consider human.

– Hey, Lydia.

– Pitt?

– Yeah.

Silence on the other end. Then.

– Where’d you get this number?

– You gave it to me.

– That was awhile back.

– Guess I’m lucky it still works.

– Yeah, you are.

I sit at my desk, spinning my Zippo around and around on my heavily doodled blotter.

– You still there, Pitt?

– Yeah.

I spin some more.

– You called me, Pitt.

– Yeah, I did.

Spinning.

– Just wanted to say hi, or something on your mind?

I stop spinning.