Charlie Huston - No Dominion

They begin taping down the edges of the plastic.

– Predo, it is true, looks forward. But to what end? He sacrifices territory, maneuvers behind the scenes, probes for weaknesses in the uninfected world that he might manipulate, looks always to the future. To adapting to the future. But only for himself. Only out of a desire for power. He is craven. And he disguises this, hides it from himself, by cocooning himself with influence. But I have seen him cower. From the back of my hand.

They pick up the guy by the wall and carry him to the middle of the plastic.

– Bird, at least, went off on his own, attempted to forge his own kingdom. It will crash down around him, but he has a sense of vision beyond himself. Predo is narrow.

One of the boys has a briefcase. He opens it. Inside there are works: needles, syringes, plastic bags, loops of rubber hose.

– Predo is selfish.

She walks over to her window. Daylight glows at the edges of the drapes. It hurts my eyes to look at it.

– That is why we are caged up here, surrounded by filth. Robbed of our heritage. Unable to exert our influence as we should. Unable to shape the future.

The boy pulls the bag from the guy’s head. It’s a young guy. Hispanic. Close-cropped hair, a hoop piercing his left eyebrow.

– Except by using the tools of the past.

One of the boys on the plastic sheet draws a scalpel from the briefcase.

Vandewater moves to the edge of the plastic, standing over the boys who kneel on either side of the Hispanic kid.

She looks at me, sitting over here on her couch, arms once again wired behind my back.

– Have you ever infected anyone, Mr. Pitt?

– No.

– Then this will be an education for you.

One boy opens his mouth. He sticks out his tongue. The other, the one with the scalpel, places the tip of the blade against his partner’s tongue and cuts. He pushes the scalpel until the blade has disappeared inside the healthy pink flesh, then he draws it downward, slicing it open to the tip. Blood begins to gush. The boy with the butterflied tongue bends forward, he opens the Hispanic kid’s mouth, and covers it with his own. Blood seeps out around the seal created by their lips.

Vandewater looks at me.

– There are other ways to do it, of course.

The Hispanic kid starts to jerk.

– But this is one of the surest.

His heels kick the floor.

– Ultimately, it all depends on the subject.

His palms slap the plastic and his fingers clench and unclench.

– You see, not everyone can accept the Vyrus.

The boy lifts his mouth away, blood still leaking from his tongue. He looks at Vandewater. She watches the Hispanic kid for another moment as greenish yellow foam begins to erupt from his mouth and nose. She shakes her head.

The boy with the scalpel places it against the Hispanic kid’s neck and shoves it deep into his carotid, cupping his hand around the entrance wound to keep the blood from spraying the room. The Hispanic kid’s tremors subside. In less than a minute he is still.

The boy with the sliced tongue wipes at it with a cotton pad. The wound has stopped bleeding and a scab is forming. The other boy puts his tools aside and the two of them begin to roll the plastic sheet with the Hispanic kid inside.

Vandewater steps out of their way.

– And so we will have to try again.

The door opens. Another head-bagged kid is brought in.

– A student body is an invaluable resource.

The new kid is laid out on a fresh sheet of plastic. The bag comes off. This one might be twenty. Middle Eastern. Khakis and a button-down.

– Away from home for the first time, they become depressed, alienated. Their behavior may be uncharacteristic. They get involved with drugs. Run away from school. Walk into dangerous parks after midnight. Commit suicide.

The two boys prepare to repeat their procedure, switching roles so that the one who last wielded the scalpel will now be cut.

– This is especially true of freshmen. They drop like flies.

More tongue slicing occurs.

– And even more true of the racial minorities. So driven. I’m speaking particularly of Asians, East Asians, and Middle Easterners now. The internal and external pressures to succeed, it can be unbearable for a youngster.

This one tremors and shakes, but no foam spews. Instead, his throat works as he sucks the infected blood out of the boy’s split tongue.

Vandewater bends to observe.

– There, we have a match.

After several seconds the boy pulls his mouth free. The Middle Eastern kid’s mouth opens and closes and his own tongue runs around his lips cleaning them of blood. His eyes are open, but they stare unfocused and sightless at the ceiling.

Vandewater moves closer, stands over the kid, looking at his face.

– Now he has great potential. He could accomplish remarkable feats.

The boys have begun assembling the works from the briefcase.

– With nurturing and care, with a firm hand to steer him, he might become something worthwhile. A scholar of our kind, one who might someday unlock all the secrets of the Vyrus. A statesman, to unite the Clans. A poet, to write verses of our plight. An able soldier, to take arms in the coming battles.

One of the boys takes the kid’s arm and inserts an IV needle into a vein.

– But it is not to be. I will not have him.

The blood cup is fitted to the hose and the blood begins to fill one of the pint bags they have at hand.

– I will not have the brown, black, and yellow in my land. Once, yes, they had a place. But they proved treacherous. And they will not be given a second chance.

The bag is full. One of the boys closes the valve at the end of the hose, slips the full bag free, and connects a fresh one. Blood flows.

– Do you know what you are looking at?

I shake my head.

– There is no reason you should. You are looking at a weapon. A very old weapon.

Another bag full, another attached.

– Although it has never been used as such before. In the past it has always been simply a vice. Albeit a very dangerous one. And very exclusive.

Another bag.

– One wonders where the original inspiration came from, who it was that stuck their finger in the air and declared, eureka!

She picks up one of the full bags.

– I suspect it was an accident.

She walks toward me.

– I suspect it was a Vampyre, crazed with hunger, attempting to feed on someone who had been very, very recently infected. Through some odd set of circumstances, this Vampyre fed only for a moment. And made a discovery.

Behind her, another bag is filled.

– That, when consumed, the blood of one freshly infected will induce the most remarkable sensations. Remarkable, and addictive.

She raises an index finger.

– An unbelievably expensive addiction, mind you. For who can afford to be addicted to blood twice over? Who can bear the risks of hunting not just for sustenance, but for pleasure? Thus the exclusivity.

They’re massaging the kid now, rubbing their hands over his legs and arms, as if squeezing dry a tube of toothpaste.

– That expense lies also at the heart of the secret as to why something like this has laid buried for so very long. Of course, I say something like this, knowing that nothing else like this exists. The point being, our lives are difficult to say the least. And they can be very long. And, if one does not have resources, very boring. An effective distraction from the basic needs for survival would be compelling in and of itself. Even if it were not addictive.

Another bag.

– It was decided some time ago, some very great time ago, that this was an indulgence that could not be afforded. It was declared anathema by the body that governed the Clans. When there was such a thing. In fact, that was the name it was given.