Suckers

by Z. Rider

  He tumbled the last bit, landing folded between a desk chair and a trashcan. He picked himself up and headed for the door as Buddy’s boots scrabbled against the side of the building. The door came open easier than he was expecting, banging him in the shoulder. He took off through the hall, footfalls echoing the length of it.

  If Ray didn’t open the heavy wood door for him when he got to it, this whole plan was fucked.

  He grabbed the handle to stop his momentum, and to verify that, yeah, it was fucking locked. He slapped the door with the palm of his hand. “Ray! Open up. It’s me.”

  In the corner of his eye, he caught Buddy coming up the hall.

  He pounded the door with the side of his fist. As Buddy neared, Dan put his mouth right up to it. “If you don’t open up, I’m going to bang on it till my fucking knuckles break.”

  “Ray,” Buddy called, “stop playing around. Open the fucking door.”

  Please don’t be dead in there already. A tight, hot sensation pulled through him, making his eyes squeeze shut. Please do not be fucking dead already. “You can’t leave us like this,” he said, his voice thick in his throat.

  Buddy jerked a look toward him.

  “You didn’t even fucking say goodbye!” He grasped the handle and tried to force the lock.

  “Ray, open the fuck up,” Buddy said. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

  “Open the fucking door, Ray. It’s me and Buddy. We’re the only ones out here. Open the goddamned door.” He smelled cigarette smoke. Fresh, or not? “I know you’re in there, you asshole. Don’t tell me you’re gonna off yourself with me standing right here.”

  “Don’t even fucking talk like that,” Buddy said lowly—and louder: “Ray, goddamnit!”

  Dan pushed his forehead against it. “What if you fuck it up? How’m I gonna finish it for you if I’m locked out here?”

  “Jesus,” Buddy said. “You fucking talk about that shit? You talk about killing yourselves after what happened to our mom?”

  The knob shifted. Dan let go like it was on fire. The door opened inward. A cigarette jutted from Ray’s mouth. His tired eyes squinted through smoke.

  “I know you’ve been bit,” Dan said.

  “Can’t put nothin’ over on you.”

  “Yeah, well, stealing my car keys was a pretty big clue.”

  Ray gave a forced smile as he turned away. “Shoulda known better than to think that’d stop you.”

  “What I want to know,” Buddy said, “is why the fuck you’re here, when we have everything we need to take care of you back there.”

  Ray dragged a hand through his hair. Surreal. They’d been here—Dan didn’t know how many times they’d been here, under these fluorescent lights, this shitty drop ceiling, even at this same time of the morning. They’d stagger into the daylight, blinking, debating whether they wanted eggs or burgers. Damn him.

  Ray’s fingers were like sticks, pinching the cigarette. His hair stayed stuck up where his hand had run through it.

  Dan dropped beside him on the couch, the cushions giving under his weight, hard springs underneath jarring him to a stop. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “So what was he doing when he wasn’t where he was supposed to be? Looking for one last fix?”

  With a sigh, Ray said, “Probably.”

  Anger pounded in him. This was Jamie’s fucking fault. He made a call, he said he’d be somewhere, and fucking lives depended on his fucking being there. One. Simple. Fucking. Thing. “You never should have fucking went after him.”

  “If it’d been me that called, you’d have come got me.”

  “If it’d been you, I wouldn’t have had to, and if you were him, no I fucking wouldn’t have. I’d have told you to find a fucking ride. Or at least I’d have turned around and come back when it started getting late.”

  “Yeah, that’s on me,” Ray said.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” Dan said.

  “Believe me, I’ve been telling myself that all night.” His hand trembled as he tapped off an ash.

  “You can’t save your mom, you know,” Dan said.

  Ray jolted, leaned forward to crush his cigarette in the ashtray to cover it. Buddy braced a hand against a wall, rubbed his forehead against his outstretched arm as he muttered, “Fuck.”

  Ray’d never had closure on his mom, just twenty years of what-ifs. What if he’d stayed home sick that day? What if he’d acted like he’d needed her more? What if he’d done a better job taking care of her?

  “The Jamie Martins and the Cassandra Fords of the world either get serious about saving themselves, or they self-destruct,” Dan said. “We’ve had this fucking conversation. The key fucking word there is ‘self.’ It’s all on them. You couldn’t save her, and you didn’t do Jamie any fucking favors getting yourself bitten. Give him two, three days, maybe a whole fucking week before he runs out of whatever stash he’s got, then he’s gonna find someone to come out to Mom’s and take him somewhere the fuck else.” The stiffness of Ray’s shoulders said he wasn’t helping matters, but his mouth didn’t want to shut up. He was pissed off. Not at Ray, though Ray’s never being able to say no to helping Jamie did piss him off, but mostly he was pissed off at Jamie.

  Only Jamie wasn’t around to punch in the face.

  “How’d you get bit?” Buddy asked quietly.

  Ray rubbed his lighter with his thumb, then clutched it. “When I couldn’t get hold of Jamie, I thought maybe he’d come here. He’d moved in before, right? And this place’s got no windows, good locks on the doors… So I pulled up just as it was starting to get dark, and I went inside. The place was dead, empty. I probably took too long making sure of that. When I came out, it was darker, and my car was right fucking there at the front door—but not close enough. I fought two of those fucking things off, got in the car, and beat the shit out of the steering wheel for a few minutes. Then, fuck.” He dropped his lighter on the table. “I figured I had nothing to fucking lose, right? Might as well find his ass.” He closed his eyes and rubbed them. “I should have given up before it got late.”

  Dan tipped his head back. “So what was your plan now?”

  “I was gonna fuck around here for a bit, one last time.” Enough of their gear was there for that. He could turn the speakers all the way up, not bother a soul.

  “And then?” Dan asked.

  “And then go home.”

  “Home my mom’s place, or home—”

  “Home-home.”

  Buddy stepped away from the wall, crossing his arms. “And then?”

  “And then wait. I’m gonna wait this shit out.”

  “Wait?” Dan said.

  “The fuck are you gonna wait for?”

  “Either those things it put in me will kill me or they won’t,” Ray said. “No matter which way it goes, though, it’s gonna kill them.”

  “Okay, while that’s noble and all…” Dan said.

  “Yeah,” Buddy cut in. “Whatever. We need you both back home, and we’ll fucking take care of it like we’re doing for Rich, so stop fucking around and come on.”

  “No.” Ray shook a fresh smoke out of his pack. Dan wondered how long till he ran out entirely.

  “Yes.” Buddy grabbed him by the elbow. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve gotta get to work.” He hauled Ray off the couch, and Ray jerked free.

  “So go to work. No one’s stopping you.”

  “Get in the truck. I want to make sure your ass is settled at Faye’s first.”

  “No.” He jerked out of Buddy’s grip again.

  Buddy bent and grabbed him around the waist, shoulder to stomach, like he planned to haul Ray out like a sack of potatoes.

  Ray’s heel knocked the coffee table over. He lost his cigarette. Buddy’s work boot flattened it. Ray flung his elbow sharply, knocking Buddy’s chin aside, giving himself the chance to squirm free. Buddy came at him again, and Ray took a swing, his eyes wide. His knuckles connected with Buddy’s lip.

 
He stepped back, his chest heaving, his eyes pinned to the shine of blood seeping from Buddy’s mouth.

  Buddy touched it. “Fuckhead.” His fingers came away with blood. He tongued the split and said, “Stubborn fucking asshole.” He ran at Ray again, grappling him before he could get away. Ray’s breaths came short and quick, from high in his chest. Buddy’s blood smeared along Ray’s hand as he tried to push his brother away. Buddy snagged his shirt from the back, rucking it up as Ray’s boots slipped and slid on the floor.

  Blood stained the corner of Buddy’s mouth like the Joker’s smile, Buddy gritting his teeth, peeling his lips back, dodging Ray’s elbow as it flew again.

  Shit. Dan got himself moving, his shin knocking the coffee table out. He grabbed Buddy’s jacket at the arm, shoved a hand between the two of them, pushed his body between them, backing up, moving Ray back, against the wall.

  Buddy came with them, his chest to Dan’s. His finger pointing past Dan’s shoulder. “This isn’t fucking over.”

  “Not now.” Dan held him back.

  “You’re not fucking staying here,” Buddy said to his brother.

  “The blood,” Dan said. “You’ve got blood on you.”

  Buddy swiped at his mouth. His eyes had too much white around them, the way the Fords’ eyes got when they were fighting to get their way.

  “We can argue about this tonight,” Buddy said. “It won’t kill you to wait a little fucking while.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Dan said. Ray’s frantic breaths came right behind him. The tip of Buddy’s tongue touched where his lip was swelling. And Dan said, “Wait outside for a few, okay? Let him calm down.”

  Buddy gave his brother one last stare before turning away. On the way to the door, he looked at the red on his hand, brought his fingers to his lip again. “Shit.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Dan followed, closing the door behind Buddy. Finally he turned.

  By the far wall, Ray opened his fingers. His hand shook as he looked at Buddy’s blood. He twitched his head to the side, gaze searching, stopping on a ragged towel lying over a guitar stand. He snatched it free and clutched it over his knuckles. Without lifting his head, he said, “I don’t want them to get any.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to fucking feed them. They don’t get any.” He scrubbed his knuckles with the towel before wadding it, searching the room for someplace to put it. He strode back to the couch, toed a cushion up, and shoved it underneath, kicking it back in place with the heel of his boot.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” Dan said.

  “We’re fucked.”

  “We’re not. We have five—”

  “I’ve gotta get out of here. All I can smell is the fucking blood.” His shoulder banged Dan’s, half turning him around. He yanked open the door.

  Dan followed him into the hallway.

  Buddy pushed off a wall. “Are you going back?”

  Ray put a hand up, heading for the front door, for the sunshine and the parking lot, the fresh air.

  Buddy cocked his head at Dan, mouth open, wanting answers.

  “Just give me some time,” Dan said.

  Outside, Ray dropped into a crouch on the pavement, head bent, fingers tented against the ground.

  “Go on,” Dan said to Buddy. “I’ll get it straightened out.”

  “I’m sorry,” Buddy said. “I fucking—”

  Dan shook his head. Shit happened.

  He dug his keys out of his pocket. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call me if anything happens.” On his way by Ray, he said, “If you’re not fucking home tonight, I’m coming to fucking get you, if I have to bring a straitjacket to do it.”

  As the truck pulled out, Dan said to Ray, “All right. Thanks to you, I don’t have a car, so you’re my ride.”

  Ray didn’t move.

  Dan rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. After a moment of staring at their rehearsal building, he said, “I’m surprised no one’s moved in. It’s got almost no windows, lots of locks…”

  Ray still didn’t answer, giving him time to think of the ways it might not be such a good place to hide out—lots of people with keys, lots of dead ends with no way out. And now one of the windows was smashed in.

  “Let’s go to my place,” Ray said, looking at the pavement, like he was thinking of getting up but wasn’t ready to do it yet. “You can take my car home from there.”

  Dan opened his mouth—then shut it. No point in arguing out in the cold. Best to give Ray time to think things over. “I need the keys,” he said.

  “Shyeah.” Ray took another glance at the faded stain of blood on his hand before getting up. “I’ll drive to my place.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  They argued up the back steps—not over Ray going back to Deerfield, but over Dan’s not going to Deerfield immediately. Plenty of daylight left, he insisted.

  “I’m showering.” Ray dropped the keys on the kitchen table. “I can still smell that blood.”

  “Okay.” Dan grabbed a guitar on his way into the living room, made himself comfortable on the couch. It was in every way pandering when he started playing some of Ray’s favorite stuff—delta blues, Blind Willie Johnson’s “Dark Was the Night.” Ray sang it better than he could, but he gave it his best. A weight lodged in his chest as he worked the strings. He had to push it aside to get the words out, closing his eyes under the heft of it between verses.

  He was working his way through Robert Johnson’s “Cross Road Blues” when Ray came into the room, wet hair dripping on a clean t-shirt.

  He dropped into his usual chair, a bottle of Jack in hand. Dan finished the song and let the last notes fade. “What are you going to do? Really?”

  Ray unscrewed the cap. “Wait it out.”

  “You can’t… People die not getting blood.”

  “Those people did get blood. At least once.”

  “What?”

  “As far as we know, everyone who’s been bitten has either reported to the hospital, where they’re given blood, or attacked someone and got blood. Or hell, maybe some of them did what you did: cut themselves and got a taste of their own. Whatever way, as far as I can tell, no one’s not had blood.”

  “And your theory is what?”

  “That these things are weak if they don’t get any blood. That they can be beat.”

  Dan dropped back. He stared at Ray. “We don’t even know if it’s true, that everyone who’s died from these things tasted blood first. It’s a pretty big assumption.”

  “We don’t know it’s false either. I’m not feeding these fuckers.” He tipped the whiskey up, swallowing hard and long. When he finished, he held it out. And that was an idea: get drunk, have an excuse not to leave. He leaned across and took it. At least he could drink to the fact that Ray wasn’t planning on shooting himself in the head. So far.

  The liquor’s heat worked its way down his throat. He closed his eyes to savor it. “So that’s your plan?”

  “Yep.”

  Dan put a foot against the coffee table, nudging a book on metaphysics out of the way. It kept going. He leaned forward to catch it and caught sight of another. “Parasite Rex?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  Ray stuck out his arm, wanting the bottle back. “I had to start researching somewhere.”

  “What are you thinking?” Dan asked. “Seriously.”

  “I’m thinking I haven’t given them any blood, won’t give them any blood, and we’ll see who outlasts who. At any rate, you need to get out of here before it gets dark. They need you back there, and I don’t need you here when the blood urge starts up.”

  “Are you feeling it yet?”

  “No. I’m just freaked the fuck out about it.”

  “Okay then.” Dan pulled the guitar back into his lap.

  † † †

  Shadows stretched along the floor. The toilet flushed. Dan studied the ceiling, waiting.

  Ray ste
pped into the doorway with a beer. “You need to book if you’re gonna get there tonight.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Fuck you aren’t.”

  “I’m not.” He pulled off his boots while Ray watched, dropped his feet on the table. Bare, because he’d never gotten around to socks before leaving that morning.

  The whiskey bottle was a lot lighter than it had been.

  “Fine,” Ray sighed, turning away from the doorway. “Help me pull the shades and get some blankets over the windows.”

  † † †

  When it got dark out—when the city was unsettlingly silent—Ray came out of his bedroom, pulling on his jacket.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “Out not here.”

  Dan shoved his feet in his boots. The door shuddered closed when he was two steps away. He grabbed the handle and yanked it open. The latch on the storm door was cold against his hand. His breath fogged the glass. Night lay on the other side—night and those things.

  Ray swung around the landing, starting down the steps.

  Dan pushed the door open and stepped out.

  The cold hit him full-on. No time to get a jacket. “Wait up.”

  The footfalls stopped, started coming back up. Dan crossed the landing, giving a nervous glance to the sky beyond the porch’s overhang.

  “Get the fuck back inside,” Ray said.

  “Where you go, I go.”

  Ray looked up and ducked a little. “Shit.” He came pounding back up the last few steps, grabbing Dan.

  Wings flapped. Dan ducked, bringing a hand over his head. This could have been a really stupid idea.

  Ray dragged him—“Come on”—and kept going, right back into the warm apartment. Once Dan was in, he slammed the door behind them.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Ray asked.

  Dan rubbed his arms. It must have been fifteen degrees out there. “Sticking with you.”

  “Don’t make this harder than it is.”

  “You’re the one making it fucking harder than it is. We have everything back in Deerfield. Tubes, needles. We can fucking take care of this.”

  “And then what?” Ray said.