Already Dead

by Charlie Huston

  Then I fall down.

  The cramps have become a huge hand that tangles its fingers in my intestines and balls itself into a fist. I crawl, leaving bloody smears on the floor from my oozing hands, and find the basement door. I look at the stairs, then let gravity tumble me down. I want to stay at the foot of the stairs in a tangled mess of blood and glass and cracked bones. Instead I take advantage of the fist relaxing

  for a moment and get to my feet. Anyone coming into the school will see the bloody handprints on the floor and follow them to the basement. I need my hole. I stuff my hands into my armpits to keep more blood from dribbling on the floor, and memory leads me through the rank blackness. I make it to the old storage room, shoulder the door open and fall behind a pile of the broken and graffitied desks, just as the fist squeezes closed.

  Fuckmefuckmefuckme. Please! Makeit! Stop!

  —Hey?

  Stopstopstopstopstop!

  —Hey.

  Pleasepleasepleaseplease!

  —Get out of here.

  Nonononono!

  —This is my place, you got to get out.

  —No. Just. Just fucking leave me aughhhlone!

  —No, asshole, you have to get out. I ... Shit, you're fucked up.

  The fist starts to relax, my intestines slowly slipping from its fingers. I open my eyes.

  She's squatting a few yards away, shining a flashlight on me; the girl whose picture is clutched in my lacerated hand.

  She points at my face.

  —The cops do that to you? '

  —No.

  —No?

  —No.

  She points at the top of my head.

  —What's that?

  I reach up to feel whatever she's pointing at and the loose cuff hanging from my left wrist knocks me in the chin.

  She shakes her head.

  —But the cops didn't do that to you.

  —No.

  —Uh-huh. Well, whatever. You still have to get out of here.

  —You got the lease on the place?

  —Yeah, right. No, I don't have the lease. But it's my hideout. Find your own.

  I touch my face.

  —Can't really see myself walking around much right now.

  —Why? You said the cops aren't after you.

  —I need to stay here.

  She stands up.

  —You are being such an asshole. Look, you can't stay here. OK?

  —I. Hungh.

  The fingers start to tighten again. I pull my knees up against my chest.

  —Oh, maaan. You're a junkie aren't you? You starting to jones? Here.

  She pulls something out of her pocket and holds it out to me. A twenty-dollar bill.

  —Go get a bag and fix. Just do it somewhere else.

  —I. Uhn. I'm not. Augh.

  She takes a step back.

  —Don't throw up in here. Do not puke in here!

  I clench my teeth, shaking my head back and forth; not at her but at what's happening inside me. She steps closer, shoves the toe of one of her Nikes under my ass and starts trying to shove me toward the door.

  —Out. Get out

  My gut ripples and I heave up a final dribble of bile that lands on her sneaker.

  —Grossl So gross! Get out

  She's kicking me now. The point of her toe hitting the side of my stomach is a new agony. I reach out to block her foot and the picture falls from my hand and cartwheels to the floor. She looks down at it, at the blood-smeared image of herself. I hold a hand up.

  —Aughm! Amandahungh.

  She bolts for the door. I grab the cuff of her jeans. She stops, lifts her other foot and steps on my arm.

  —Let go!

  I keep my grip and she tries to rip her leg free and trips herself onto the floor.

  —I'm gonna scream! I'm gonna!

  She starts screaming and reaches down, clawing at my hand, trying to pry my fingers loose from her jeans. I grab her wrist.

  SNAP!

  She stops screaming and stares at the cuff I have ratcheted onto her, chaining her right wrist to my left.

  —That is so wrong.

  —Take it off.

  —I don't have the key.

  —Gaaaud. So lame.

  We're sitting next to each other, our backs against the wall. The cramps haven't hit me for five minutes and I'm starting to hope I might be in the lull.

  —Let me see that.

  She reaches for the photograph still lying on the floor.

  —Don't touch it.

  Her hand stops.

  —Why not? It's of me.

  —The blood, don't get it on you.

  —Whatever.

  She picks it up by the edges. It doesn't matter, really. The Vyrus can't survive outside a host. But it bothers me, seeing her fingers graze the blood, knowing what was recently living in it.

  —I can't believe they gave you this.

  She drops it on the floor.

  —How'd you find me? You talk to that Dobbs creep?

  —Sort of.

  —Talk about lame. That guy doesn't have a clue.

  —No, he doesn't.

  —Doesn't matter. I'm not going back.

  I rattle the cuffs.

  —Yeah, you are.

  She rolls her head to the side and looks at me.

  —You ever try dragging a screaming teenage girl down the street?

  I remember a night over twenty years ago: a young girl screaming, a hunger I didn't know how to control. But it doesn't matter. The past is a dead thing. I can't change it.

  —You ever been knocked out and hauled around in a sack?

  —No way. My dad would freak and you would never get paid.

  —Not taking you to your dad.

  She bugs her eyes at me.

  —Oh, no

  She laughs.

  —Her? She sent you?

  She picks up the picture.

  —Of course she gave you this one. She knows I hate it.

  She tears it in half and drops the pieces to the floor.

  —Bitch. So what's she want? There a junior deb ball I'm supposed to go to or something?

  I pick up the pieces of the picture and put them in my jacket pocket.

  —She doesn't want you to end up like Whitney Vale.

  She starts to say something else, closes her mouth instead. She looks at her shoes, rubbing the toe of one against the bile stain on

  the other.

  —Whitney got what she deserved.

  Whitney Vale, eighteen, jamming a knife into the back of a kid's skull; her body being eaten by a germ.

  —For what?

  —I don't know. Maybe for fucking my dad"?

  —Like I said, your mom doesn't want you to end up like Whitney.

  —Oh. My. God. She told you that? She is such a freak. I know what she says about him. But my dad has never touched me. The only reason he fucked Whitney is 'cause she was all over him. So gross. The only guy who ever touched me was one of mom's creepy boyfriends. So what's she want to do, kidnap me to protect me from my dad? She is so lame.

  She stands up.

  —Let's go.

  —Huh?

  —Take me home.

  I look at my watch, it's just after sunrise. She yanks on the cuffs.

  —You got me, toughguy, now take me in.

  —We can't go yet.

  —Look, I'm not going to spaz or anything. I mean, the sooner you take me back there, the sooner I can run away again. So let's just get it over with.

  —We have to wait.

  —For what?

  —For the sun to go down.

  —Why?

  —Because I'm allergic to it.

  She stares at me.

  —You are such a loser.

  —Because. It's hard to pee when you're handcuffed to some ass-hole and you're both just waiting for the pee.

  The door is swung open. I'm squatting on one side of it with my arm stretched out, and she's on the other sid
e. Our hands grip the edge of the door, mine just slightly above hers.

  —So say something.

  —For a girl who has some experience living in squats, you're awfully pee shy.

  —Fuck you.

  I chew on my split lower lip, sucking at one of the cuts, trying to ease the prickles inside me with the dull copper taste of my own blood. It doesn't help. All it does is whet my appetite, as if I need it whetted. I stop sucking.

  Blood still fills my veins and pumps through my heart and carries oxygen to my brain, but as far as the Vyrus is concerned it might as well be dust. My blood has been occupied and harvested, whatever it is that the Vyrus consumes has been stripped away. But there's more of what I need right on the other side of this door.

  —Hey!

  —What?

  —Don't pull on the cuffs.

  I look. She's right, I've been tugging her toward me from around the door.

  —Sorry.

  —Yeah you're sorry. And stop being so quiet, I told you to say something.

  —Like what?

  —Anything. Tell me who busted up your face. Not that I don't think there's like a line of people waiting to bust it up.

  —Guy doesn't like it.

  —Your face?

  —Yeah.

  —Well. Can you blame him? Are you going to kick his ass?

  —Hadn't thought about it.

  —Maaan.

  —What?

  —For a big guy.

  —Yeah?

  —For a big guy, you're kind of a pussy.

  —You pee yet?

  __Damn it. I was almost there. Why'd you have to say that? Now talk about something else.

  —How'd you get in here?

  —There's like an alley around back, off of Tenth? The gate's not locked. Whitney showed me last summer. Go through the gate and there's the basement door. Squatters busted the lock off that

  couple years back, I guess.

  My legs hurt from squatting. I'm pretty sure I fractured something in my right ankle when I came down the stairs. I shift to keep it from aching and I lose my balance for a second. Our wrists tug-a-war before I steady myself. I grab the edge of the door and accidentally touch her fingers. —Don't touch me.

  A moment's silence.

  —Talk.

  Jesus fucking.

  —Why'd you run away?

  Now it's her turn to get all silent.

  —If it's like you say and your dad isn't messing with you?

  —None of your business.

  —OK.

  More silence.

  —Are you jerking off back there?

  —No.

  —Then stop getting all quiet, it's creepy.

  —OK. Why'd you run away?

  —I told you, none of your business.

  —Fine.

  Silence.

  —Fuck do you care?

  —I don't. I just want you to piss so I can stretch my legs.

  She laughs.

  —Stretch your legs, I just went.

  She digs through her little backpack looking for something. She's holding her flashlight in her cuffed right hand as she searches with her left. She jerks my left hand this way and that as she rummages.

  —Why'd you have to cuff my right hand?

  —If I'd cuffed your left you would have to walk around backward.

  She stares at me.

  —Yeah, right. Like I would have done that.

  Our hands bump.

  —Your hand is all cold and sweaty.

  She gives me a fish-eye.

  —Are you sick? 'Cause if I catch something from you I am going to be so pissed.

  —Just clammy by nature.

  —Gross.

  I am cold and sweaty. The Vyrus is downshifting, trying to save energy, storing up for its last big push. But sick is not a big enough word for what I am.

  She pulls a few things out of the pack; some extra clothes, an MP3 player, batteries, a bottle of water, and finally comes up with what she's looking for: a handful of diet bars. She holds one in her left hand and tears the wrapper open with her teeth. She catches me watching her.

  —You want one?

  I do want one. I haven't eaten for awhile and I usually eat like a pig. You have to, just to keep up with the high revs the Vyrus usually runs your metabolism at.

  —Sure.

  —There's peanut butter or chocolate and coconut.

  —Peanut butter.

  She hands me the bar and we eat by the dim light cast by her flashlight. She finishes hers, throws the empty wrapper on the floor, and picks out another.

  —So my mom was the one who called you?

  I chew for a couple seconds. The peanut butter was a mistake, it's hard and sticky and hurts my sore jaw as I chew.

  —Yeah.

  —What'd she say?

  -Said you were missing, said she wanted to find you.

  She's picking at her second bar, pinching tiny pieces of the chocolate coating between her fingernails and nibbling them.

  —What about my dad, you talk to him?

  —Yeah.

  She huffs.

  —Aaand?

  I think about my meeting with Dr. Dale Horde, the way he casually put me in my place like it's something he does ten times a day. The way he mickeyed me so Predo's spook could rob my stash.

  —Said he wanted me to find you.

  —Yeah, right.

  She's peeled about half the chocolate off her second bar, leaving the coconut underneath untouched.

  —Mom says he wants to fuck me. Least that'd be something.

  Looks at me all the time like he can't figure out where I came from. Only time he pays any attention is when one of my girlfriends comes over. Then he tries to be all supercooldad so he can impress them. Lame.

  —That why you split?

  Knowing I'm a fool for asking, knowing I don't need to know any of this stuff, knowing this stuff just makes the job harder.

  —I don't know. Maybe because my mom gets drunk all the time. Maybe because she told me my dad wants to fuck me. Maybe because I think that makes her jealous. Maybe because my dad is creepy with my girlfriends. Maybe because I stole a pair of my mom's earrings and to punish me she took my computer away and I snuck in my dad's office to use his computer and I found all this porn on it that Whitney did and that grossed me out. Not that she did it, because I knew about that, but because my dad was looking at it. Maybe because I looked in his drawers and found pictures of him fucking Whitney. Maybe because I was pissed at Whitney and came down here to kick her ass. I don't know. I just ran away.

  She folds the torn ends of the wrapper around the mutilated bar and shoves it back in her bag.

  —God. Hate it when I do that. Just eating 'cause I'm bored. Whitney says that's how you get fat.

  She pulls up the bottom of her Che Guevara T-shirt, looks at her flat stomach and pinches a quarter inch of skin.

  —Fat.

  I look the other way, not wanting to see her healthy tanned skin and the flush of blood that rises as she pinches herself.

  —So she call you after Whitney got. . . whatever? That freak her out?

  —If it did, she didn't say anything.

  —She wouldn't. Was she drunk when you saw her?

  —Couldn't say.

  —Yeah, most people can't. I can. If she's awake, she's drunk. She make a pass at you?

  —No.

  She looks at me.

  —Uh-huh. As if. So'd you fuck her?

  —No.

  She looks at me some more.

  —You'd be the first, then.

  —Not according to your mom.

  She laughs. But not like anything is funny.

  —So.

  —Yeah?

  —You know what happened to Whitney?

  —I heard.

  —That for real? That Satanist guy did it?

  —That's what they say.

  —Yeah. Right.

  She reaches in
her bag and pulls out the partially eaten diet bar and starts picking at the chocolate again. I watch her. I try not to ask. I fail.

  —What?

  Fool.

  —Nothing.

  —You think different?

  You fool.

  —No.

  She picks a piece of chocolate, eats it, picks another and drops it on the floor; then goes on like that, alternating a bite for a drop.

  -Just.

  -Yeah?

  -I got the idea that, maybe. I don't know. That maybe she was blackmailing my dad.

  She scrapes off a last bit of chocolate with her front teeth, looks the bar over to see if she missed any, then tosses the coconut remnant into a corner.

  It doesn't make any difference.

  Say she was. Say Whitney took those pictures of them fucking and threatened him; threatened to show them to his wife, who was looking for some kind of leverage to get Amanda away from him; threatened to take them to the papers and smear his rep. Hell, she might have threatened to just post them for anyone who wanted to gape at Dr. Dale Edward Horde, founder, president, chairman and CEO of Horde Bio Tech, as he fucked an Internet porn star. So say she was blackmailing him. So what?

  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.