So, the “cure” meant life or death. Praise Kyua.
And I was still hoping the blue stuff was relatively harmless, like an addictive drug or an explosive. If this crap was ChemBet’s, it had to be worse. And so was my situation. ChemBet had real power. I’d already figured I was royally screwed, but every time I thought I had a handle on how deep the screw went, it twisted in a little more.
I thought about the briefcase I’d so carefully wrapped in plastic. I thought about the arm, moving on its own. A bit of conversation slipped into my head:
What would I have to gain?
Maybe everything.
The toad, whoever he was, was worried I’d try the stuff myself. Right. Given all Travis and Rebecca Maruta’s great work to date, I’d sooner saw off my head with a Spork. It also meant I couldn’t hand it back to them. These were, after all, the folks who’d fucked up death.
There also had to be a story behind that arm. Since it’d cost him, Misty, and myself so much, I wanted to know what it was.
Camp Kyua was ground zero. If there were answers, they’d be there. Under normal circumstances, getting in shouldn’t be a problem, but my corpse-kisser was plastered all over the net. I had a new ID card. I just needed a new face.
At the warehouse, the women’s room still had a mirror. Looking at my photo was one thing, but I had to fight my instincts to give myself a good hard look in the flesh. That was one thing going for me. Livebloods didn’t like looking at us too much either. Can’t blame them. Even if we’re dressed nice, you can never be sure what might pop out from where. Think seeing someone’s flabby gut poke from a T-shirt is freaky? Imagine desiccated intestines slipping over a belt.
But I had to change myself at least a little. Makeup could work, but I didn’t have any. That left the last refuge of the fashion conscious, self-mutilation. If thine eye offend thee cut it out, and replace it with something that matches your hair.
The few chakz who’d gone that way had generally died as teens, and were now trying for echoes of lost angst. Some idiots filed their teeth into points, which really made the LBs love them. One girl, featured on Nell Parker’s show, had carefully razored the skin from her hands, creating a kind of muscle-glove effect. Others just carved at themselves idly. None of them kept from going feral long enough to start a trend.
My attachment to my body wasn’t as strong as when I was alive, but it was all I had. I could take a knife to some of the skin, but the wounds would never heal. Break my nose?
I was pissed enough about it all to grab a brick and give myself a half-hearted whack that hurt more than I expected. I clutched my proboscis, danced around, banging into stalls and wall, using all the invectives I had at my disposal. After all that, another look in the mirror told me I’d only scraped the tip, exposing some cartilage, a pebble of white on a little gray hill.
That left getting some makeup.
12
Having seen myself on the net, I wasn’t thrilled about leaving the warehouse again. But, Halloween wasn’t two weeks old. One of those seasonal costume stores might still be open. I cruised until I found a quiet strip mall that had what I wanted, a costume outlet complete with a witty banner reading, EVERYTHING MUST GO—AS DO WE ALL!
The display window was full of overturned boxes, scattered masks of clowns, ghosts, and witches. Livebloods didn’t dress as zombies anymore, for obvious reasons, but there’d be plenty of greasepaint and fake wigs.
I had my hat and trench on, and it was cold enough so that pulling the collar up didn’t look out of place. Across the street sat an empty lot with a few sad chak shacks. That meant, I hoped, if I was spotted, my condition wouldn’t be too much of a surprise.
I was about to go in when I learned it wasn’t just the net. My face was also on the TV the pimple-faced clerk was watching. Next to that was a bank of security monitors, covering the merchandise. If he so much as glanced at a security cam while I was shopping, he’d see one picture right next to the other.
I looked at the chak shacks again. A Subaru would look suspicious parked there, so I walked over. A few goners sat inside a doorless ad hoc square of tin and cardboard, the smell of their decay thicker than the walls. Misty used to tour the Bones, bleach bottle in hand, cleaning up anyone she could, but these days it was like spitting in the ocean.
I stuck my head in and held up a bill, hoping one would remember what money was.
“Anyone want to make five bucks? Buy yourselves some bleach?”
They all picked up their heads. A few could only hiss, but two managed something sounding like, “Yes.”
One was a blond woman with a swollen gash down the center of her face that looked like a big flat worm. The other was a door-wide guy, relatively intact, but having trouble keeping his eyes open. I started with the girl.
I explained what I wanted as carefully as I could, but she wasn’t as smart as she looked. Then again, I didn’t notice the back half of her skull was missing until she had my money in hand and was walking across the street. She never made it into the store, just sort of staggered to the front of Sam’s Liquors, sat down and tried to eat the cash.
I was running out of money, but I pulled out another bill and turned to option two. After checking the back of his head, I went through my instructions again.
He nodded and said, “Yeah, yeah,” like he was listening. That was a good sign.
Better yet, about twenty minutes later, he came back with a big bag.
I hadn’t asked for all the candy, but it looked like he got the rest right.
“Thanks, buddy,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he answered. He smiled widely, showing a few corn-kernel teeth, pleased he’d remembered his manners.
“Make sure you buy some bleach, you big lug,” I said. I repeated it, slowly, holding my nose for emphasis. “Rot, you know? Big stink.”
He smiled again. “You’re welcome.”
I shoved another bill in his hand.
“Bleach,” I said loudly. I pointed to the others. “For everyone. Understand?”
The smile vanished. He nodded again. “Bleach.”
For Misty’s sake, I walked him back across the street and gave him a push toward a convenience store. He waddled, slowed, but then picked up some steam that took him inside. I could’ve stayed and helped more, I suppose, but I could also end up cleaning rot out of chakz until Judgment Day.
Back at the warehouse, I swapped my usual clothes for a moth-eaten sweater, stained sneakers, and mottled pants. The big guy had done well. Inside the bag, there was a fright wig, greasepaint, spirit gum, latex wounds, vampire blood, a wad of scar wax, and scissors. I was starting to think he’d actually buy that bleach. Whether he’d use it on the rot or try to drink it was another question.
I had to make at least one, big, obvious change, something to act as a distraction from the rest of my face. I covered my left eye with the scar wax, rubbing what was left of the waxlike crap past my temple. A little black greasepaint made my right eye sink even more. In honor of Jimmy Stewart from the Styx men’s room, I used the spirit gum to stick a nice open wound along my neck.
The fright wig was tougher, the frizzy long hairs didn’t look remotely real. Trimming made it worse. I tried pouring vampire blood on it, to tamp things down. By the time I was finished, it didn’t look exactly like hair, but neither did mine. The result vaguely resembled an oozing scalp. I twisted my head, let my arm dangle, and practiced exaggerating my limp.
Christ, I looked like an asshole.
Finding a bare wall that may have once been white, I stood against it, held the toad’s cell phone camera at arm’s length and kept snapping until the flash card filled.
Phase two would tell me if any of this gaudy shit actually worked.
I drove back into town, found a big-box store with a help-yourself-just-give-us-the-money photo section, and staggered into the fluorescents doing the funky corpse. The aging greeter uttered a muted hello with about the same energy the goner h
ad grunted, “Bleach.”
So far so good.
The sheer size of the place let me keep my distance from the shoppers and minimum-wage clerks. Even if someone saw through the disguise, I’d have a shot at getting away. I did tense up when I noticed I was shambling in front of a wall of TVs showing my face.
No one was around to notice except a chak in a turtleneck standing in the laxative section. Either he’d gotten lost or had swallowed something he shouldn’t have. He gave me a second look then tsked so loudly it sounded like one of his teeth had snapped. He didn’t say anything. None of his business.
I made it to the photo-printer, fumbled with the tiny data card, but managed to get it in the slot. I picked the best shot, took the receipt and pushed my last bill at the cashier. Too busy chewing on a chocolate bar, she didn’t give me any change. It ticked me off, but I didn’t think I should make a fuss.
The hardest part turned out to be cutting the damn photo down to size and slipping it into the fucking ID card. That took nearly all morning.
All I had to do now was present myself for a test at the right center, and fail. The state didn’t like to waste fuel, so it was a good bet they’d ship me to whatever camp was closest. Camp Kyua was nearest Chambers, a town that used to be a trade hub, and was now mostly known for sitting on Settler’s River without being swept away. I reached their chak center around noon. It was a squat brick building with few windows that once served as a DMV.
Inside, a faint chemical smell, like Lysol, hit my nostrils. No surprise. All chak centers were equipped with decontamination stalls—showers, pretty much, mostly water, twenty percent antiseptic. If you passed the test, the shower was voluntary, but highly recommended. If you failed, well, then pretty much everything was mandatory.
I slogged with deliberate slowness through the silver poles and black nylon ribbon, scraping my feet on the remains of arrows taped to the linoleum. Chakz aren’t much for lines. We’re not impatient, most of us just don’t understand them. We’ll wander toward anything shiny, or stand in the same spot for hours blocking things up.
So I was a little surprised that the line wasn’t bad, meaning it looked like a line, mostly. It occurred to me that the testing process self-selected the smarter ones. You had to get here and follow the arrows, which already made you better off than some. Goners were supposedly too decayed to go feral, but I had to wonder if the LBs left them alone because there was no way to monitor them all effectively.
There was a gap between the last two chakz. A woman, hunched over so far her chinbone touched her navel, was where she should be, but ten feet behind her stood a lipless man, if you could call it standing. While she was bent forward, he curved sideways, his spine twisted into a nearly perfect half-moon, like he was standing on the sloping deck of the Titanic right before it split in two.
Not wanting to draw attention by cutting ahead, I gave him a nudge.
“You on line?”
He pivoted toward me, then back toward the distant bag woman. His eyes went a little wide at the space. “Yeah, sorry. Thanks.”
Since that was a reasonably coherent response, I decided to ask, “Do you know Kyua?”
He put a finger to his bare teeth, telling me he did, but didn’t plan on talking about it. Kyua helps those who help themselves. Looked like I was in the right place. Every five minutes or so, the line moved, but he didn’t, and I’d have to nudge him again.
Things went on like that for a while. My mind was knocking around aimlessly when a voice from behind whispered, “If someone bigger shoves you, do you shove back?”
I whirled. A raggedy was behind me, looking up expectantly, half her face missing, the muscles exposed. Not a raggedy, the raggedy, the one I’d seen twice already, at the accident site, then at the motel. Had she seen through my shitty disguise?
Before I could open my mouth, she repeated the question. “What are you, a goner? If someone bigger shoves you, do you shove back?”
“That some kind of metaphor?”
“No, idiot, it’s a test question. You’re smart enough to nudge the guy ahead of you, I thought maybe you’d know the answer.”
Maybe she didn’t recognize me. I shrugged. “I’m not sure. The usual, ethical answer might be something like, only if I had to, to protect myself. But if they’re looking for a tendency toward violence, then the right answer might be no, never, or only if they’re not a liveblood. Go with that.”
She lowered her head and moved it back and forth, like she was trying to memorize what I’d said. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
I’d forgotten to alter my voice, not that I’d be any good at it, but I risked a few more questions. “You from Chambers?”
She scanned my face suspiciously. Not wanting to give her too close a look, I staggered back a little, hoping it looked natural.
“Why, are you?” she said.
I nodded, lying. “Haven’t seen you around town. Then again I’m not good with faces, whole or half. What brings you?”
“What do you think? My test. Took me days to walk here.”
So she’d picked Chambers, too. “I heard rumors some of the chakz that get here plan to fail on purpose. You one of those?”
She shook her head. “No fucking way. But if I do fail, might as well wind up at Kyua, right?”
The conversation was interrupted. The hunched-over bag lady had been seated for her test at one of three desks beyond the end of the line. Now she’d bolted to her feet, her back so curved, she nearly slammed her chin on the paperwork.
“No, no! You bastards! Bastards!”
A few chakz behind me groaned and gnashed their teeth. It was kind of an involuntary reaction, but if it went on too long, some would go feral. There was a quick nod from the tester and two guardsmen in khaki uniforms grabbed her.
They couldn’t straighten her out without breaking her, and that would only rile the chakz more. Instead, they lifted her sideways, still bent over. Hands scratching and legs kicking, she looked like a petulant piece of furniture. They took her beyond a blue door where they kept the decontamination showers and the holding cells. I assumed the door was soundproofed because we didn’t hear her once it shut.
Chak Centers being one of the few places where public smoking is still allowed, the tester tamped out her cigarette with a shaky hand and put up a sign reading, NEXT WINDOW.
I looked back at the raggedy. “Not everyone feels the same way about the camp.”
Her shrug looked strange with one shoulder gone. “Everyone’s got an opinion.” She nodded for me to turn around. “You’re up.”
Another desk had opened up. I lumbered up and plopped my card in front of a forty-something woman with coiffed hair. Kafka228 herself, for all I knew, looked at the card, at me, then back at the card.
“None of my business,” she muttered. I sat and she started with the test.
“Can you tell me your middle name?”
“Sorry, I don’t know. Billy?”
“Close enough. If someone shoved you, would you shove them back?”
I managed a grin. “You bet!”
That part was easy.
The rest wasn’t. About an hour after my shower, they shoved me, the raggedy, and a bunch of others, onto an old school bus. It had undergone a few modifications since it trucked around the kiddies: there was a stainless steel gate between the driver and the passengers, and the emergency exit in back had been welded shut.
Things seemed to be going as planned for a change. Despite my appearance, I almost felt like a detective on a case.
Then about five minutes into the trip, it dawned on me we weren’t going north. We were headed south, away from Camp Kyua, toward God knew where. The raggedy noticed, too.
“Crap!” she shouted.
I agreed.
13
There was nothing to do but enjoy the ride. At least no one felt like singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” We made a few stops at other registration centers, each one farther sou
th, dashing any hope I had that we might turn back. Every time, more not-so-happy campers were shoved on by the guardsmen.
Soon, the bus was so crowded we were stacked, two or three chakz high. I wound up in a twisted position that would have killed a liveblood, buried on a seat I couldn’t see, head shoved sideways against the window. Every time we hit a bump, and there were lots, it felt like my skull or the glass would break. Eventually the glass did crack, not enough for me to climb out, but enough to let the November wind freeze the fake vampire blood on the dome of my skull.
The pickups done, we headed away from so-called civilization. After about an hour of steady uphill progress, the bus creaked and slowed. Unable to move my head, I turned my eyes toward what was left of the window. It was night, but the moon was out. Through the spiderweb crack in the window, I saw a tall gate, chain-link with barbed wire up top. There weren’t any signs warning that it was electrified, but the still-smoldering palm and charred fingers of the disembodied hand poking through the chain-link gave that impression.
My fellow passengers grunted and moaned, sounding more like undead cattle than a threat to public safety. I barely heard the bus door sigh open. A smell you couldn’t miss, like overcooked bacon, pushed away what was left of the air.
We didn’t walk so much as fall out, keeping our cramped shapes as we hit the ground. Even after I extricated myself from the lump of entwined torsos and limbs I couldn’t stand at first. When I straightened, all kinds of things snapped, crackled, and popped inside me.
Aside from the bacon smell coming from the fence and the familiar chak version of body odor, my nostrils met something more immediately dangerous, a strong stench of rot. As I looked around, I could hear that German GPS saying, Sie sind angekommen.
You have arrived.
Chak-camps were the result of lots of talk, but no planning. Most were repurposed stables, racetracks, country fairgrounds, that sort of thing—big spaces used to holding lots of garbage. I had no idea what this place was when it was alive. It looked like they’d just found a field and tossed it up, which meant they were running out of space.
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