Charlie Huston - No Dominion

The doors snap shut and the train jerks and rolls. I scent the air in the car and find it safe. My eyes are clearing quickly now, my vision all but normal. I look around and catch sight of a service advisory, a sign telling me at once why the platform had been so crowded. Telling me the C and B trains are out of service and that all express trains are running local. Local, as in hitting every stop between here and home. Slow and steady all the way.

A long slow train through the gauntlet. And me, no cigarettes at all even if they would let you smoke down here.

Stopping, starting, pausing in the middle of the tunnel for a red signal, rolling. The train takes its own goddamn sweet time. 116th, a college kid with a sketchbook in his lap, drawing the passengers seated across from him, just their feet. 110th, last stop in the Hood, people cramming on and off. No ton tons macoute. 96th, back on Coalition ground, a guy walking the center aisle, a display of Duracells in his hand, incanting, Battery one dolla, battery one dolla, battery one dolla. No enforcers. 81st, a DJ and his crew, still coming down from last night’s gig, shoving each other back and forth, showing off for a cute girl in their midst. 72nd, the speaker squawking, endlessly repeating its message that this train is running local. 59th, a homeless guy that reminds me of the Renfield that fingered me on the way up, but it’s not him. 42nd, man with a baby carrier on his chest, the baby’s eyes returning again and again to my face. 34th, a woman overloaded with Macy’s bags. My eyesight clear by 23rd, I see a subway card above the seats; a stanza of Dylan Thomas:

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.

And I ride the rails, straight down to 14th Street. Straight down and free and clear. And I just know that it’s gotta be bad news.

At 14th, my nerves shot to hell, I get off. I transfer to the L line, cross over to First, and walk out of the station and back into the day.

The sun presses on me just the same as it did Uptown, but here it is almost a relief. As if it were a different, more familiar sun. I walk quickly to 10th, stopping in at my deli. I grab a six-pack and a carton of Luckys. The guy gives me a book of matches and I light up. I walk the last half block to my front door. I step into the vestibule and check my mail. Just a couple things for occupant, same as always. I go down the hall to my apartment, unlock the three deadbolts, go inside, turn off the alarm, close the door, snap the locks, rearm, and lean my forehead against the wall. I stay like that ’til I know I have to move.

I walk past the couch, wanting nothing half so much as to sink down onto it, drink my way through the six and smoke Luckys one after another. Instead, I go down the stairs into the basement apartment and get my other gun.

There’s nothing wrong with the 9mm I took off Shades, it’s just that I know this gun, I trust it as much as a gun can be trusted. Being a gun, it’s more than likely gonna end up in someone else’s hand being pointed at me someday, so I don’t trust it too much. But it’s mine and I’ve used it to kill people before, so I know it works. I leave Shades’ piece in the gun safe and pocket my own. Then I crack the fridge.

The bag of anathema is still in my jacket. I take it out and give it a sniff. I have no way of knowing for certain if it’s still potent, but it sure as shit smells like it is. I stick it in the fridge. I don’t want anyone smelling that stink when I come through the door. I look at my own last pint. The blisters on the backs of my hands throb. My whole body feels baked and dry, skin bright pink. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Fuck it.

I pop the pint open and suck it down. Once it’s in me, I wonder what the hell I was debating about. Of course I’m drinking it now, you should always drink it now. Drink all of it you can whenever you can. Anything that makes you feel like this, you should drink it. I drain it, slice it, lick it clean. It’s good. The blisters don’t go away, but they feel a fuck of a lot better. Everything feels better. We’ll see how good it feels in a couple days, if I’m still alive and haven’t scored. I toss the empty into the biohazard bag and close up.

In the can I give my face a good splash, wash away the last bits of scab clinging to the inside of my mouth. Some of Vandewater’s blood is on my shoulder. I towel it off. I see the hole she ripped in the collar of my jacket. I stick my finger in it. Gonna take a pro to make that look OK again. I put the jacket back on. I toss all of Shades’ sun-gear in the trash and dig out my own, tired of the stink of someone else’s sweat in my pores.

I slam one of the beers and put the rest in my normal fridge, the one with actual food in it, or stuff with mold growing on it, anyway. I grab my picks and I stick a couple extra packs of smokes in my pockets. Wishful thinking on my part, hoping I might actually get to smoke all of them. I leave.

The Count’s place is where I left it. I could lurk outside, wait ’til someone goes in and slip in behind them. But lurking and the sun don’t go together. Instead, I go next door to the El Iglesia de Dios.

Churches don’t bother me. Some guys, they do. Some make a big show of it, avoiding places like this, part of the scene they think. Some are genuinely freaked out. Those are the ones that are sure we’re all cursed. They may not say it out loud, but they think it. Most of those kind, they don’t last. Who can last walking around thinking their immortal soul has been consecrated to damnation? Except the folks who think that way and really dig it. Those ones are out there, too. They bug me. Who’m I fooling? They give me the willies. But churches don’t bother me one way or another. Just four walls and a roof. And maybe a big wooden cross with a guy nailed to it. Nothing I haven’t seen before.

I go into the church. There’s a couple old ladies in there, kneeling, heads bowed on folded hands. Could be praying. Could be junkies on the nod. Churches are good for that also. I walk past them, right up the aisle and through the door behind the altar. There’s a corridor. At one end an office door, at the other a stairwell. I take the stairs.

I run into a guy in a coverall. He’s carrying a toolbox. He gives me and my ski mask and sunglasses a look.

I point up the stairs.

– All done?

He looks blank for a second then nods, hooks his thumb back up the way he came.

– Yeah, yeah, all set. Where’s the?

– In his office. He’ll have your check.

– Oh. Really? OK. Thanks.

We edge around each other and I keep climbing, going past a couple landings and whatever he may have been repairing in here. The door at the top is padlocked. I don’t bother with the picks here, just grab the lock and give it a good yank and the screws holding the hasp fast to the door frame tear loose. I push the door open. Jesus, it’s bright out there. I go out on the roof and close the door behind me.

There’s a gap of about six feet between me and the fire escape next door. I jump it. I don’t need a running start. I come down on the escape, making a lot of noise, and have clambered up the iron ladder to the roof before anyone can peek out their windows.

No shade at all. I scoot around on the verdigrised copper sheeting. I find a window that looks in on darkness. I break it and go in. It’s some kind of hut, a storage and service unit of some kind. Cobwebs and boxes and gardening tools, of all things. But no door into the building.