Already Dead

by Charlie Huston

  But it doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything for me, just fills in a couple gaps. It doesn't make my job any easier. It doesn't make me any less hungry. It doesn't help me forget the little girl lying on her side next to me taking a nap. It doesn't make my cold hand feel less of the warmth of her body as she curls tighter, pulling my chained arm close to her. It doesn't make me any less aware of the cardboard sheet on the other side of the room where I smelled the rank sweat of Horde fucking a still-breathing dead girl.

  It makes no difference to me at all. I still have to get her home. I still have to find the carrier. I still have to do the job.

  I tell myself this.

  But all the while I see pictures of Horde's neck in my hands, my thumbs digging a hole through his skin and ripping open the throbbing artery. And I feel the hot blood splash against my lips and chin as I fit my mouth over the hole. As if that will make the world a better place.

  Fool.

  I am such a fool.

  —You really allergic to the sun?

  —It's called solar urticaria.

  —Sounds like VD.

  —It's not.

  —So what happens if you go to the beach or something?

  —What happens if you stick your hand under the broiler?

  —No shirt

  —No shit.

  —That's so wrong.

  —Yep.

  —Were you born with it?

  —Not really.

  —So when was the last time you were out in the sun?

  —Long time ago. You got any change?

  We're on the corner of 10th and A, standing in front of a pay phone. I wiped most of the gore from my face and hands before we came up and have my jacket buttoned to hide the blood on my shirt. The holes in my hands have scabbed, but aren't healing nearly as quickly as they would if I was straight. They ache and throb like my face and ankle. But the needles keep me too occupied to worry about things like that. All my hurts will be healed when I get some blood, but I'm running out of time.

  —Here.

  She's holding out her hand, change pooled in her tiny palm. I pluck out two quarters.

  —What's your mom's number?

  —The apartment or her cell?

  —Cell.

  She rattles off the number and I dial. She stands on one side of the phone, trying to make it look like she's not with me. Pretty hard to do with the cuffs, even when they're covered by an extra T-shirt from her bag.

  —Hello.

  —Ms. Horde, it's me.

  Amanda looks at me.

  —Joseph. I.

  —I have her.

  —Oh, I. Thank you, Joseph.

  Amanda raises her eyebrows.

  —She's just so relieved, isn't she?

  I ignore her.

  —Do you want to come and get her?

  —Yes I. No. No, you should. Can you bring her here?

  Amanda is making little kissy faces.

  —Is she just so grateful to you? Can she just not wait to see me?

  —Sure. What's the address?

  She gives me an address on 81st off Park Avenue. Amanda is just looking bored now, watching everything but me, and listening to every word I say.

  —We'll grab a cab and be there in twenty minutes.

  —Good. Good. Joseph?

  —Yeah.

  —Can I?

  —What?

  She doesn't say anything.

  —You want to talk to her?

  Amanda turns her head to look at me again.

  —No. No. That's. Just. You better just bring her home.

  —OK.

  I hang up and grab Amanda's backpack from the ground.

  —Let's go.

  —Didn't want to talk to her darling daughter?

  —Guess not.

  —Don't be shocked.

  —I'm not.

  I wave the backpack at a passing cab. It stops. I open the door and wait while Amanda thinks about it. She looks inside the cab, looks at me. I gesture at the open door. She shrugs and climbs

  in. I get in after her and give the cabbie the address and we roll. She's looking out the window. I'm gritting my teeth and a little gasp squeezes out between them.

  She turns from the window and looks at my face, looks at my swollen and scabbed lips stretched tight over my teeth.

  —What's eating you?

  —Nothing. Just shut up for awhile.

  —And I was looking forward to another chat. As if.

  And she goes back to the window. And I go back to feeling the pain that's building inside me. My veins have started to burn.

  The hours spent in the school basement hiding from the sun have brought me closer to the next phase of Vyral starvation. The stage where my body will simply shut down as the Vyrus makes adjustments deep within my brain. I'm at the border now, this is as far as I've gone. I know I can take the pain right here in this moment, but I don't know if I can take what will come in the next minute or the minute after that or all the very few minutes remaining to me.

  So I grind my teeth and clench my right fist, my fingernails digging into the scabbed palm of my hand. And I tell myself that she is not the answer. Tell myself that having the cabbie pull over and dragging her into a dark alley is not the answer. But the Vyrus is telling me a different story. That's OK, I can ignore it. I can ignore it just as easily as I ignore our hands sitting on the seat between us, the chain joining them beneath a retro Joan Jett T-shirt she picked up somewhere on St. Marks because she thought it was cool.

  —Moooom, I'm hoooome.

  The elevator from the lobby opens directly onto the foyer. It's no more or less than you'd expect: large, but not too large; expensively appointed, but not too expensively appointed; tasteful, but

  not too tasteful; boldly decorated, but not too boldly decorated. All in all, the kind of place I would expect to find a fabulously wealthy and dysfunctional family with ties to the Coalition. But not too much like that. I wait for the inevitable housekeeper to arrive, but none does. Nor does anyone answer Amanda's call. I look at her. She looks back and shrugs. What did you expect, a victory parade? I smear my forehead against my shoulder, wiping some of the cold sweat away.

  The sweats got bad just as the cab pulled up to the Hordes' brownstone. I had to ask Amanda to pay the cab because Tom took the last of my cash. She looked at me like I was lame, but I've gotten used to that. She got a key out of her hip pocket and let us into an entryway that was similar in every way to this foyer. Then she led me into an elevator to take us the two flights to the floor her mother occupies. This accompanied by one of many sideways glances to see what I think of her folks keeping separate quarters. I notice the glances, but I'm not giving much back, focused as I am on the simmering fluid hissing through my organs, I'm starting to wish the cramps would return.

  —Mom!

  No reply.

  —Come on, she's probably passed out.

  , She storms ahead of me, dragging me by the cuffs as I stumble clumsily behind her. She looks back at me.

  —You want to try walking for a change?

  I don't say anything.

  —I knew it. You are a junkie, aren't you?

  I don't say anything.

  —Well come on, junkie. Get paid and then you can get rid of me and go fix.

  She hauls me down the central hallway that runs the length of the brownstone. I catch peripheral glimpses of a bathroom, a kitchenette, a large bedroom. All done up in the not too style. At

  the end of the hall we come up against a closed door. Amanda slaps her knuckles against it once, then shoves it open.

  —Hey, Mom, I'm hooome.

  She gives my arm a jerk and I take a lurching step into the room and she holds her cuffed hand up in the air.

  —And look what I found. Can I keep it?

  Marilee Horde looks up from the glass in her hands. She's sitting on a couch that matches everything in her little sitting room perfectly. Her red-rimmed eyes flick dully from
Amanda to me to Amanda.

  —Oh. Oh, Amanda. I'm. I am sorry.

  Amanda drops her arm.

  —You got that right, Mom.

  Marilee's head drops back down and she stares deep into her glass.

  —Sorry.

  Amanda takes a step into the room.

  —Mom?

  The guy who knocks me out doesn't hit me half as hard as Hurley did. Then again he doesn't have to, I'm already halfway there. I go down and out. Sorry thing is, the Vyrus doesn't seem to care whether I'm conscious or unconscious. It just keeps hurting me.

  Metal is rasping on metal.

  —How much longer?

  —Little while. Quicker if we go through his wrist.

  —Just the cuffs, please.

  I can hear them talking, but I can't see anything. My eyes must be closed, but rather than darkness, they peer into a pale gray abyss. Then something bobs up out of the abyss, something dark that suddenly resolves into a man's face.

  —He's awake.

  The rasping stops and another face appears looking down at me. Something waves in front of my face. A hand.

  —Uh-uh. His eyes are open, but he's not awake.

  Yes, he's right, my eyes are open. The gray abyss is the ceiling of Marilee Horde's sitting room. I try to shift my eyes to get a look around. They don't move. I try to blink. Nothing. I am frozen. The hand that was waving in front of my eyes slaps lightly at my cheeks.

  —He's out.

  A third face appears. I know this one, Dr. Dale Edward Horde.

  —Not to tell you how to do your jobs, but is he, perhaps, faking it? The hand flourishes and an instrument materializes between its fingers: a stiletto long and thin, a rainbow glittering along its well-honed edge. The blade dips close to my right eye and the point hovers there, eclipsing half of the world.

  —I'd say no.

  —I'd like a more conclusive test.

  The blade darts down and I hear the faint sound of steel entering flesh and feel the slightest tug in my cheek. No pain, but the taste of my own dead blood runs down the back of my tongue.

  —He's not home.

  —Very good.

  The stiletto reappears, blade now lacquered with crimson. A handkerchief flutters and wipes away the blood. Then handkerchief, blade, hand, and two of the faces exit from sight. Horde remains above me, gazing down, inspecting me. He purses his lips and pokes a finger at my cheek. It comes back into view with a smear of blood on its tip. He looks at the precious drop, rubs it between his thumb and finger, sniffs at it.

  —To think.

  Then he shrugs, wipes his fingers on me and he, too, disappears.

  I would like to have felt the blade pierce my cheek. It might have assured me that I am still alive, that the exterior world can still affect me. But I have no such evidence. Just a body that feels shot full of novocaine, immobilized and without sensation. On the outside, anyway. The inside is another matter. The inside is a cauldron of something bubbling and viscous, something that I think may be now burrowing into my bones, seeking out some last refuge of blood.

  Someone tugs at my arm and my head rolls slightly to the left. I can't make my eyes focus beyond a foot or two, but I see the two men. One of them has his knee planted on my wrist, pinning it to the floor. The other kneels across from him, crouched over a blurred range of small hills on the horizon of the carpet. The girl. His picks something up from the floor, applies it to the girl's arm. Metal rasps on metal again as he hacksaws the cuffs from her wrist.

  Horde stands over them, observing.

  —Don't cut her.

  —Like I said, be easier if we went through his wrist.

  —No.

  —He's not long for the world. Far gone as he is, he won't be coming back.

  —No. He has a role to play, and a severed appendage will not suit.

  —OK.

  —I'll kill you if they hurt her, Dale.

  Horde turns toward the other end of the room, where his wife was sitting when we came in.

  —Something, dear?

  —I'll kill you.

  —I think it's safe to say that these gentlemen won't be harming our daughter in the least.

  —Kill you.

  Her words badly slurred.

  —Have another drink, wife.

  I watch the man with the hacksaw, the same one who had the stiletto. His movements are sharp and strong and he works the saw with an unnatural swiftness. My sense of smell has been dulled to near uselessness. I can't smell the man with the saw, but his movements give him away. He has the Vyrus. He could be a Rogue that Horde has somehow dug up, but he has a look I know. The expensive black suit, the conservative haircut, the carefully knotted tie, all say Coalition. One of Predo's enforcers on loan to Horde. The other has the beefy look of a stock bodyguard. One of Horde's own company men.

  There's a little ping as the hacksaw parts the steel of the cuffs. The enforcer puts the saw aside, frees Amanda's wrist and starts to lift her from the floor. Horde puts a hand on his shoulder.

  —I'll do that.

  The enforcer and the goon stand and step out of the way, out of my view, as Horde kneels and tucks his arms under his daughter's back and legs and lifts her from the floor. Only his lower body is in focus for me now, but I can see the obscure shade of his head as he cradles the girl and puts his face close to hers.

  —Home again, home again, my dear.

  A glass shatters over by the couch. The smudge of Horde turns.

  —Be careful, wife, you'll hurt yourself.

  —What did you do to her?

  —Gave her something to make her sleep, love. She was hysterical. She needs sleep after her ordeal. Imagine the trauma of being abducted by this filth.

  —She wasn't.

  He rocks the girl from side to side.

  —Yes, love, she was. She was plucked from the streets by this man. This man who you then hired to find her.

  —I?

  —Strange coincidence that. Except that it was no coincidence.

  Was it, love?

  —Dale, what are you?

  —Very clever of you. Hire the same man you paid to abduct your daughter to then find her.

  —No.

  He's putting on a show for her now, rehearsing a story for more official recitations at later dates. I'm happy for the distraction. Anything is better than the thing with teeth inside me.

  —Yes, I assure you that is exactly how it happened. How naive of me not to have seen it when I met with him to discuss the case.

  —Kill you.

  Something crashes.

  —Gentlemen, if you would please keep my wife from hurting herself.

  There is a rush of movement and the slightest of scuffles.

  —Don't harm her, please.

  —Fuck you, Dale, fucking fuck you!

  —If one of you could simply inject her with a half cc from the vial I used to calm my daughter? You'll find a clean syringe in the case there. Intramuscular will suffice.

  —No! Fucking no!

  She shrieks. Horde passes the time cooing at his daughter. I pass the time dying in horrible agony. Then Marilee is quiet.

  —Better, yes? In any case, the humorous part of the whole tale is that I simply suspected you of cuckolding me with your hired hand. It was only when the men I had following you witnessed your visit to Chester Dobbs's office that I suspected the truth. I can only assume that you originally paid him off the case to make room for your own man. But as to what happened next? Did Dobbs threaten blackmail or some such?

  A slight moan from the couch.

  —No, do not answer, just relax. I will assume blackmail. Why else would you feel so compelled to kill him?

  I'm listening to the frame Horde is building around us, around his wife and me, trying to stay a step ahead of it, trying to figure out what picture the frame will surround. His wife and I in cahoots in the kidnapping of the girl, his wife as Dobbs's murderer. I'm trying to imagine the picture such a frame w
ould suit. It's a good problem, complex and detailed. It distracts me. But not enough.

  Pain is becoming.

  —The tragedy. The real tragedy of it all is that I couldn't save you from yourself. The tragedy is that, despite what you had done, trying to take my daughter from me, I still loved you and wished to save you from your own weakness. But I was too late. Too late to save you from a brutal murder at the hands of your hired thug turned lover.

  Pain is eclipsing.

  —How fortunate that I should remember Amanda's little hiding place from last summer. And how clever of your partner to have used the site of a recent massacre as his hideaway. Who would ever have thought to look there? Too bad, though.

  Pain is not what I thought it was.

  —Too bad we were not in time to spare you from your fate. But thank God.

  I have never before felt pain.

  —Thank God we were in time to save Amanda. Save her before he could abuse her, more than he already had. Was that it?

  Pain is a new thing.

  —Was that why you quarreled? Because you saw how he had misused her? I like to think so. I like to think that at the very end, your mother's instincts took over and you tried desperately to save

  our little girl. How brave you were to fight him. How awful it must have been when he slid the needle into your skin and left you helpless. Pain lives.

  —Helpless to do anything for your daughter as he touched her again, right in front of your eyes. Helpless as he turned his attentions to you. What a terrible end you had. If only we had arrived a few moments earlier, we might have been able to do more than to simply avenge your demise.

  Pain breathes.

  —But it's all over now. All over. Perhaps you'll have peace knowing that your daughter is safe now. Safe at home in her father's loving arms.