Parasite

by Patrick Logan

  Besides, there was a more pressing matter at hand.

  When Walter reached down to pick up his case of drugs—good Lord, how long has it been since I got high?—he felt a strange taste in his mouth. Or, more appropriately, he felt less strangeness in his mouth.

  In fact, it almost felt normal.

  He clucked his tongue, and this felt normal, too. Sure, his tongue felt a little numb, but when he reached up to grab it between two grimy fingers, it was all there; the tip that he had bitten off seemed to have been regrown.

  A small smile crossed his lips.

  Healed. The thing is healing me somehow.

  His hand, now wet with saliva and blood, went to his cheek next. The pockmarks from the glass that had been embedded there after being thrown from his car after the explosion at the gas station were gone—smoothed over. In fact, he realized as he further probed his face, several of the lesions that had seemed ubiquitous following his foray into intravenous drug use were gone too.

  His skin seemed soft and smooth; it felt so completely normal that he was taken aback. It was all normal, except for the patches of white skin that had healed over after the crackers had been born.

  A strange expression crossed his face.

  With the hand not gripping the leather case, Walter undid his pants and slid a hand down his leg. He could still feel dried blood around mid-thigh, but the hole he’d expected to find simply wasn’t there.

  “What the fuck?”

  He could feel a protrusion, something hard deep beneath his skin, but there was no ragged bullet hole. Although the healed wound prevented him from digging deep enough to actually feel it, he knew what this hard object was: the bullet.

  It was the pain; it had to have been the pain. Whatever had happened when he had been shot and then bitten off a piece of his tongue had fucked with his brain.

  Or maybe he had imagined this, all of it—maybe he was still lying in the back of the stolen car, a needle hanging out of his arm, and this was all just a nasty trip.

  It was also possible that he had suffered a severe head injury when he had been thrown from car after the gas station exploded, and that he was in some sort of dream-like coma.

  Or maybe he was dead already.

  Walter squeezed the fake leather case in his hand.

  “Well, only one way to find out.”

  The cracker buried in the skin on his right shoulder twitched.

  12.

  It was nearly dark outside, yet Walter Wandry hadn’t moved in many hours. He was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV without actually watching it. The black leather case was spread out in front of him on the rotting coffee table, several used syringes resting beside it. The small plastic baggie was open, and it was empty. His lighter, a cheap yellow BIC, was also spent, and the spoon that he had used to boil the heroin was marked by a dry brown smudge.

  He had injected all of his heroin, more than he usually consumed over an entire weekend, let alone one afternoon, and he still felt nothing.

  His tongue darted from his mouth and skipped across chapped lips. He was thirsty again.

  Well, maybe not exactly nothing; his shoulder, the one with the embedded cracker that he had since pulled the flannel shirt back over to cover the hideous sight of, and the network of purple vessels that marred his pale, inverted chest, had stopped hurting.

  It was as if the cracker had been as hungry for drugs as he was, and now that he had obliged, the greedy fucker had taken it all from him, somehow redirecting the flow to it rather than to his brain.

  Walter had first injected into his right arm, then his left, but it made no difference; the moment before the surge that he expected as the opioid hit his brainstem, the feeling passed. Just like that, it fucking passed, as if his tolerance was suddenly so high that it would take a truckload of the stuff to get the feeling he so relished.

  But, paradoxically, at the same time, the rest of him felt pretty good; in fact, he felt more alive than he had for a long, long time. His thigh where he had been shot now felt as if nothing had happened, and his tongue and cheek—both inside and out—had completely healed over. In his elongated reflection in the television screen, he had several times poked his tongue out and had noticed that, like the skin on his shoulder and above his collarbone, it too was a strange milky white.

  But this didn’t matter.

  Walter balled his hands into fists. The strength that flowed in him was so odd, so foreign, that he had a hard time comprehending what he was feeling.

  He was going on at least an entire day now without getting high—from precisely the moment before he’d burst through the Askergan County police station until now, despite his best efforts.

  This was his longest sober streak in more years than he could remember.

  Walter felt his eyes drifting upward for some strange reason, drawn to the photograph of a much younger version of his son, the one that the two hitmen lying dead on the floor had proposed to use as leverage to get what they wanted.

  But Tyler was no pawn.

  Walter felt a slight quiver in his shoulder, and he pulled his flannel shirt away from his body to look at the cracker. It had shifted a little, a sensation that Walter was having a hard time getting used to. It reminded him of the time as a young boy when a small larva had burrowed into his ear when he was sleeping. It was almost a month before he had been able to convince his father that there was actually something in there, and a few more weeks before it had grown large enough for his father to grab it with a rusty set of needle-nose pliers. And during this time he had had to live with it inside his ear, it had become a part of him—something, as uncomfortable as the idea was, that he just had to endure. But while the sensations were similar, he was not naïve enough to think that the end result would be the same; needle-nose pliers wouldn’t help him this time, and besides, his father was locked away for life.

  Still, this realization offered him negligible solace; the small mouth with the oscillating teeth that was fused to the opening in his skin and the dark purple lines radiating outward from that spot was something that Walter knew he would never get used to.

  He might have to live with it, but he would never get used to it.

  Did something like this happen to you, Tyler? Is that why Griddle was called in? Something to do with Kent?

  He had heard the police officers—especially the big black fucker, the sheriff—talking in hushed voices about Tyler’s disappearance. But at the time he had just been trying to get out of there, to get back to his car and get high, and he hadn’t really paid attention to their words. Besides, any comments that they’d made had been overshadowed by his desire to get paid—to get the insurance money before his fucking drunk of an ex-wife did.

  But that was before.

  Things were different now. One glance down at his body in the torn flannel shirt that he had stolen from one car or another indicated as much.

  Walter clenched his fists, enjoying the way that his knuckles turned white.

  So much strength; so much power.

  At the time, insurance money had been all that he’d needed or wanted.

  “Fuck,” he swore, looking away from the picture of his son’s face.

  The scar on his son’s cheek was a reminder of what he had become—of what he had done.

  His shoulder twitched, which he now recognized as a pang similar to what every junkie felt, regardless of the source.

  “Fuck,” he swore again. “I need to get high.”

  But it would take more than his few ounces of heroin that he had already injected to take him to that place—if it was indeed possible to get there with the greedy cracker sucking up all of his pleasure.

  Walter slowly rose to his feet, a surprisingly fluid act considering that he had been sitting for so long.

  The first thing Walter did was pick up the knife. Then he reached down and grabbed the blond man’s pistol and tucked it into the back of his pants, flipping the torn flannel shirt over to concea
l it.

  He would need a truckload of drugs to get high.

  And he knew exactly where to get it from.

  “Okay, Sabra, you fat fuck. I’m coming for you,” he said through gritted teeth. Then he reared back and kicked the man that had shot him. The man’s body rocked with the impact, and several of the dead, white crackers on his chest fell to the floor, their limp bodies quivering until they became still again, their six multi-jointed legs aimed upward.

  The blood that had pooled in the hitman’s body cavity leaked out of one side in a thick stream.

  “We are coming for you,” he corrected. His eyes flashed over to the photograph of his son.

  And then for you, Tyler—if you’re still alive, I’ll find you.

  13.

  Walter noticed the casino chip even in the darkness, the cheap yellow bulb in the heavily frosted light fixture outside the entrance of his apartment complex reflecting off of it like a beacon.

  He picked it up and rolled it between thumb and forefinger, enjoying the way that the pads of his fingers moved across the slick surface.

  “Maybe you are lucky after all,” he grumbled.

  The car that he had stolen earlier that day—or perhaps it was the day before; time had since melded together—was still parked where he had left it, perpendicular to the entrance, blocking the passage of at least a half dozen other rust buckets in the lot.

  There was a note on the windshield, and Walter leaned in close to read it.

  Move your car, you fucking douchebag—parasites are taking over the world.

  Walter smiled and left the note where it was.

  It would be a long drive to Sabra’s place, which was good, as it would offer him some time to figure out what the fuck he was going to do once he got there.

  * * *

  Walter parked the car a block and a half away from the long, winding drive leading up to Sabra’s mansion. Located at the top of a small hill, the mansion was isolated, with all of the neighbors occupying houses below it separated by both a grass-covered embankment and a wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property.

  Strategically located, no doubt, but knowing Sabra the way he did, Walter also assumed that it was part of his strategy to impose some sort of psychological superiority.

  Probably also why the man is pushing three-fifty… bigger, badder, better.

  His thoughts turned to the hitmen Sabra had sent to his place, who were now lying dead.

  I bet they thought they were bigger and badder, too.

  Before parking, Walter had quickly cruised by when he had first arrived, taking note of two guards, one sleeping in the booth out front, the other standing by the gate, the chest of his black blazer jutting out unnaturally from the gun that was buried inside.

  From his previous visit, he knew that there was more protection in the form of bikers and ex-military that now served as security guards than he could see—many more men like the ones by the gate, hidden in and around the house, ready to come to the fat prick’s aid should he mumble an order.

  If there was one saving grace, it was the fact that at nearly three in the morning, the rest of the street was quiet.

  Walter’s shoulder twinged, prompting him to action. With a deep breath, he shut off the car and stepped out into the night.

  * * *

  It took less than five minutes.

  Five minutes for Walter to abandon the car at the end of the street, to walk to the fence that lined the property, to peek through the bars of painted steel. It took only a few seconds more until he felt a gun barrel press up against the side of his head.

  Unlike his earlier encounter with the hitmen, this probing with the gun wasn’t violent, or even particularly aggressive. In fact, it was almost sensual the way it first brushed the lobe of his ear before nuzzling against the base of his skull.

  “I knew we would be seeing you today,” a voice said. “I just didn’t think you would come alone.”

  Walter, hands still grasping the bars, didn’t respond at first.

  His plan—if his ill-formed idea of traipsing up to the bars and squeezing through, sneaking in through an open window like some sort of ninja, could be called a ‘plan’—was ridiculous.

  And it had taken five minutes for someone to spot him and predictably put a gun to his head.

  Fuck.

  What made his thought processes even more insane was the fact that he had been here less than two weeks ago, desperate, sweating, shaking, begging for some product. Which Sabra had eventually given him, after making him dance, of course—and not without explicitly stating the consequences should Walter not sell the product and repay what he owed. And during this time at the mansion, he had seen at least forty well-armed bikers in and around the place.

  Fuck.

  For some reason, his thoughts turned to the fake casino chip in his pocket—the one that had been hanging from the keyring of the abandoned car. So strange, having a fob like that in Askergan where he had stolen the car. After all, there was no casino for miles.

  Not so lucky after all.

  He felt the gun press into the back of his head.

  “All right, I can see that you are in a bit of a zone, Walt. Why don’t you slowly take your grubby paws off the fence and come with me? Don’t make this a thing.” The man cleared his throat. “Sabra’s waiting.”

  Walter obliged without hesitation. He did, however, shrug his shoulders slightly, making sure that the flannel shirt with the torn buttons fell over and covered his shoulders.

  The man with the gun looked very different than the two hitmen that had visited him at his apartment. While they had obviously been professionals, perhaps of Serbian or Eastern bloc descent, this man was clearly a biker. He had long gray hair tucked up into a ponytail, and a rather predictable handlebar mustache, the color of which matched his hair.

  It was strange, Walter surmised, that the man’s voice, so oddly polite given the circumstances, was in such contrast to that of the ‘professionals’. Wearing a cutoff jean vest exposing wiry forearms adorned with multiple tattoos, this man was a biker through and through.

  And left-handed, Walter noted. But as his gaze went to the man’s other hand, he realized why the man was holding the gun in his left hand.

  The first three fingers of his right hand ended just shy of the first knuckle.

  “You got a little blood there on your forehead,” the man informed him. He took a step backward and Walter hopped off the ledge.

  Walter said nothing, but a grin started to form on his pale face.

  Why do I need a plan? he thought, again remembering the two dead men back in his apartment. Even if there are forty men here, my little cracker friend will take care of them.

  Maybe.

  The man wagged the gun, indicating that Walter should turn and walk ahead of him, down the flagstones that led to the entrance of the palatial estate.

  “Did Sherk or Barney rough you up a bit?”

  Barney. The guy with the square head and blond hair was named fucking Barney of all things—like a big purple dinosaur.

  It was a ridiculous name for a hitman or debt collector.

  The image of the man lying on his back, his face frozen mid-scream, his chest blown open, his heart twitching then stopping, came to mind.

  A big, fucking dead dinosaur.

  “Where are they, anyway?”

  Walter shuffled forward on the dimly lit walk, fighting the sudden urge to answer, to yell at this biker that both Sherk and Barney were fucking dead, and that Sabra and him were about to meet the same fate shortly.

  Instead, he said nothing.

  “You know, Walter, I think you better start answering questions—or at least get used to the idea of answering them. ‘Cuz Sabra has a way of making people talk.”

  The man hesitated.

  “Turn right here,” he instructed, and Walter obliged.

  He was suddenly awash in bright lights that marked the top of huge metal gates with ornate, ro
unded tops. He tried to get an idea of how high they reached into the night sky—twelve? Fifteen feet high?—but the light was so bright, and in such stark contrast to the dark surrounding sky, that it was impossible to tell. Off to one side was a plain square structure that was an eyesore compared to the wrought-iron gates. Walter peeked inside and noticed another biker in there, but he was slumped back in his chair, arms crossed over his burly chest, and was dead asleep.

  “Keep moving,” the man behind him instructed, but this time Walter hesitated.

  Go where? Through the gates?

  For a moment he thought that maybe the man behind him had the same plan that he had formulated on his drive from Askergan: to slide through the gates.

  But that was ridiculous.

  The gun prodded his skull again, and Walter had no choice but to take a small step forward. As he did, like the doors of heaven, the tall wrought-iron gates opened. Just looking at their massive size, Walter thought that they might have creaked and groaned when opened, but that wasn’t the case. They slid silently through the night.

  Expecting me, are you?

  A quick glance around, first at the sleeping guard, then at the corners of the building, revealed several video cameras aimed in his general direction.

  Yeah, Walter. Just sneak right on through the gates of Fort Knox.

  The driveway on the other side of the gate was much better lit compared to outside. The pavement expanded from a simple single lane to a large, flat parking lot. There were at least a dozen bikes parked on the lot; their chrome reflected the lights like stars.

  And there were four bikers all hanging out by them, their eyes trained on the Walter.

  None of them were smiling.

  “What’d you find there, Dirk? Got yourself a good ol’ junkie to give to Sabra?” one of them asked, flicking a cigarette to the pavement.

  The man behind Walter answered.

  “Came on his own accord, it seems.”

  The man who had asked the question raised an eyebrow.