The Product Line (Book 1): Product

by Ian McCain

  --What the fuck was that?

  --Your treatment. It is a rush.

  --You ain’t kidding.

  Ernie’s body is buzzing. There is a whooshing sound in Ernie’s ears. His body feels clean somehow, perhaps for the first time in forever. Even if Gideon says he is dying, he has never felt so alive. So hearty and connected. With each breath Ernie’s senses become more and more acute, his muscles pumping with energy and heat. He can hear the distant whooshing sound transform into a more rhythmic pumping. At first he thinks it is some after-effect of the “treatment,” that this is a hallucination or some residual trip, but with each passing moment he becomes more and more aware of the world around him. The thumping, the rhythm becomes louder and louder, clearer and clearer until Ernie recognizes what it is. It’s not a pipe or nearby pump, it’s no outdoor construction equipment or acid flashback. No, it’s very clear. Very distinct. It’s the competing sound of Ernie’s and Gideon’s heartbeats.

  --Jesus. I can hear our hearts.

  Gideon nods.

  --Yes. There is a lot you will have to learn.

  There is a sharp sting in Ernie’s head as the sound of the two heartbeats begin to expand ever further, like the curtains being lifted on a symphony of beating hearts, a percussive distant pounding.

  --So, perhaps we should begin at the beginning. I should warn you it is going to be a long night of firsts for you, Ernie.

  Ernie lies back in the bed, certain that he should have listened more to the story Gideon told him, or at the very least certain that there is more going on than just some sort of flu or illness or whatever.

  --Ernie, I maintain a very simple business of treatment. I provide the treatment you just received to others with the same condition. Our… product. I use runners, people who are similarly afflicted, to get treatment to the people who need it.

  Gideon hovers over Ernie as he digests the truths of his circumstances.

  --Runner? Product? You’re a drug dealer. All this fancy talk and wild Bible stories and stuff and you’re just a drug dealer.

  Gideon leans back in his seat, presses on his thighs to stand up.

  --I am not a drug dealer. You and I are not the only ones in this city who are sick.

  --Look, no disrespect, but I don’t feel too sick. I feel pretty great, really, so I am not exactly buying this whole “I am sick” thing.

  --I imagined you might feel that way.

  Gideon puts his hand to his chin, contemplating his next words with great caution.

  --I was hoping to avoid using inaccurate vernacular, but here it is. Ernie, your illness requires that you consume human blood. It requires that you feed it regularly. Without a constant and steady supply of human blood, you will become a monster.

  --Ha, so… what? I’m a fucking vampire? Come on.

  As the questioning words leave his mouth, his mind has already betrayed them. Yes, of course he is a vampire. His clear and recently tuned-up mind begins to connect all the dots. He is sick. His face. The sun. His appearance. It makes perfect sense even though it is many-fold beyond the realm of the believable.

  Gideon continues to explain the circumstance to Ernie in much greater detail. He treads lightly around terms like “vampire” and “feeding.” He explains that there are two conflicting ideological views. Most realize that their condition is brought about by the Virus, and that it is not something holy or divine. They refer to each other as sick or infected—rarely using the stigmatic “vampire” moniker. However, there are some in the city who are much older and carry a torch for the religious and Gothic views. They consider themselves blessed, touched, divine. Fully embracing the “dark gift” aesthetic.

  Regardless of the conflicting ideologies, the basics of the condition are universal. The Virus makes you stronger in every way. Sight, hearing, smell, taste, everything is amped up to a frenzied level. Muscle fibers are reinforced and made stronger, bones denser and resistant to breakage. The Virus converts its host into the ideal delivery tool. You are faster, smarter, stronger and more capable than any single human could ever hope to be. It acts as a sort of super-charger for existing human potential. Already smart? The Virus makes you a genius. An athlete? You’re practically a superhero. Your ability to heal is unparalleled. There is very little that you can throw at the Virus that it won’t be able to break down and repair given enough time and enough product.

  This brings Gideon to a point that does not sit particularly well with Ernie. There are no addicts or drunks with the Virus. Their body is too good at breaking down the toxins, so like it or not, Ernie is destined to live the rest of his life in sobriety. What gives Ernie some comfort is that he still has a methodology for supporting his inner addict. He still has a way to reach that brief and intense high, a dependable condition to blame his life and its associated shortcomings on. But gone are the blurred and bleary-eyed days of a complete booze or drug-induced stupor. For some reason Ernie feels it is the equivalent of saying goodbye to an old friend.

  Gideon explains that from what they have been able to learn about the Virus, it accesses the original programming from our genetic code, the blueprint of who we are, and it uses that primer to remake us into our ideal self at the age just before our bodies begin to decline, where genetic telomeres become too short for perfect replication. For most, it is the mid-twenties; however, for those individuals who have been blessed with good genes, where their individual blueprint was designed to last a little longer before declining, they will look older.

  After Gideon outlines some of the basics, Ernie begins to see how the legends and lore of the past could be concocted: the appearance of youth, the need for blood, the ability to recover from injury. All these elements could easily become perceived by less enlightened men as being witchcraft of evil.

  Ernie’s mind is awash with all this information. Even with his amped-up thinking ability, it is still a lot to take in. He begins to question whether or not he really is dead or just in a coma or something. Gideon finally finishes describing what the Virus will do to help his body when Ernie asks a major question which has been brewing in his mind.

  --Sunlight? It can kill?

  --Yes… and no. There is a reason I left the blinds to the room open, a reason there was a mirror across from you. As you can tell, the rays of the sun do not outright kill you, if that is what you are asking. And you certainly won’t sparkle like some sort of rare shimmering diamond. No, as best as we can tell, the Virus is neutralized by sunlight. So if you are forty years old and have only been infected for a few years, your appearance will return to your pre-infected state.

  Ernie nods. He can’t escape the images of black and white vampire films, where sun causes the undead to burst into flames.

  --Having witnessed what your pre-infected state is, I would sincerely suggest that you keep to the shade.

  --The treatment… it’s blood, isn’t it?

  --Yes, it is. I am afraid there are no options on this point. There is no way to avoid the need to consume blood. No measure of willpower and no alternative sources of nutrients will stave off this truth. We must consume human blood. Animal blood is sewage in your veins and belly. There is no alternative.

  --But you don’t drink it?

  --It is wasteful and indulgent. Some do still drink it, and certainly you will be strangely enticed by its flavor, but it is the least effective way to feed the Virus. It requires several pints a night to satisfy your thirst, if you are a “drinker”. I find it easier for the mind to palate when you are using but a few ccs of “treatment”, as opposed to several pints of blood. You need less and it accomplishes more when you tap a vein directly.

  --If you don’t?

  --The Virus is already in every organ and system in your body. It must be fed. If you deprive yourself of it, it will fight back, it will push you to feed and twist your will and your mind until your thirst is sated. We call it a Rage. It is the death rattle of the Virus as it surges all of your systems to find blood. Your condi
tion, the Virus, is only communicable when you are in a Rage. When it believes its host to be dying, the Virus will seek out any viable new one.

  Gideon continues, explaining that this is partly why numbers have remained so low within the infected community. Those who have gone into a Rage generally find themselves at the losing end of a shootout with other infected, armed citizens or police tactical intervention. Gunned down as if they are just another crazed junkie on PCP or some other designer drug. Because of the nature of the violence when in a Rage, most exposed to the Virus are simply too badly wounded to give the Virus time to heal them and become a new host.

  --The Rage is very serious, and not something to be taken lightly. Go a few days and you will feel it scratching at your insides. Go a week and that itch will become something dark, clawing to get out. If you do not feed the beast, you will become it. You will leave nothing but suffering and pain in your wake. Once you have gone into a Rage, you cannot come back from it. Not to mention it brings a visibility to us that cannot be tolerated.

  --But I wasn’t attacked by anything, so how did I get infected?

  Gideon places his hands on his chin.

  --It is a curiosity.

  --Where do you get it? The product? You’re not telling me you have volunteers, right? Fake blood bank or something?

  --Fake blood bank… hmm… clever. No, I am afraid we need a more consistent and reliable source. The city has a larger community of infected than most, and we cannot ride out the ebb and flow of a blood donor’s generosity. If we do not keep the community fed, we will not keep the killing off the streets.

  Gideon walks over to Ernie’s cuffs and undoes them one at a time. Ernie’s wrists are slightly bruised where the cuffs have pinched. As he rubs the marks they fade, sinking deep into his skin as if they were never there to begin with.

  --Well, ain’t that a thing?

  Gideon indicates that Ernie should follow him. Ernie places his weight on his leg, expecting the pain to be excruciating, but there is no pain. His bum knee bends like a fifteen-year-old ballerina. His body feels a hundred pounds lighter and his skin is tickled by the shifting air around him.

  --One last thing before I show you anything more.

  Gideon reaches toward Ernie’s left hand and grasps it delicately with his own. Without any warning Gideon squeezes and crunches Ernie’s fingers in a half-dozen different places. Ernie screams in pain as the bones splinter. It is a gut-wrenching, horrifying pain, more potent than anything else he has ever felt. It is pain amplified by a thousand. Enough to make him want to curl up and huddle over his crushed digits.

  --What the fuck, man?

  Ernie slumps to the floor cradling his left hand. Gideon stands closely by, and the two stare intently at the mangled fingers as they start to twist and turn until they resemble their previous shape. Ernie continues to shriek through this process.

  --It takes decades to learn how to fight through the pain. The volume on how you experience your life has been turned up. Pleasure, pain, at their limits they are one and the same, but it will all heal eventually, given that you have your treatment. Part of your job will require pain. It is unavoidable.

  Gideon slides his hand under Ernie’s armpit and helps him to his feet.

  --I have told you more than I am comfortable discussing. I want to be clear that this information is meant for your ears only. I am not a foolish man, nor am I one to simply share such a great deal of information with a youngling. You are an oddity, one who should not be in our unique… group, yet here you stand. Do not cross me, do not let me down. Do not falter in our agreement. Should your allegiance to me be questioned, or should my rules and warnings go unheeded, I can make every moment of your existence feel unbearable. As I said before, you will live quite a long time now, and if for some reason the idea of your own suffering is not enough, I am sure that…

  Gideon withdraws the missing person flyer from his pocket and hands it to Ernie.

  --I am sure that the idea of losing your beautiful Marie would be a strong motivation.

  Ernie curls up, ready to lunge at Gideon. Gideon’s face harbors no ill will, just the matter-of-fact expression of an emotionally detached master manipulator.

  --Ernie, that was not to be taken as a threat, simply as a warning. I cannot expect you to adhere to all the rules if you do not understand that there are consequences. I am not a bad man, or an evil man. I am simply a person who has lived a very long life and does not wish to waste time building an air of suspense. Do as I say and the rewards will be great, challenge me and the consequences will be immeasurably harsh.

  Ernie nods, the pain from his hands subsiding as the dark purplish-black pooling blood under the skin of his fingers is reabsorbed into his body.

  --There you are. Good as new.

  Gideon signals to the door.

  --This way.

  Ernie obliges, realizing with each step that his choice to remain alive, to receive this “treatment” has just put his daughter at more risk than any other selfish, reckless thing he has ever done in his life. He walks through the door, not certain what to make of Gideon but concrete on one point: Gideon is not a man he intends to challenge.

  As he walks with Gideon, he can feel the insides of his skull flutter, like a swarm of flies trying to make their way out of his brain. Based on what Gideon has told him, he assumes this is the Virus working to repair the years of damage done by the sauce and who knows what else. An uncomfortable electrified tickle eating away at lesions and decay. The Virus is gonna be pretty tired.

  Ernie smiles to himself.

  Chapter 9

  Ernie and Gideon proceed through the interior of the large warehouse-like building. The innards look like a recently abandoned hospital, or a very well-kept public school. No lockers though. If not for the occasional person making their way through the building, and the subtle sounds of heartbeats in the background, he’d believe they were the only ones here.

  The once overwhelming sound of the heartbeats is becoming fainter over time. Perhaps it has something to do with the treatment, somehow amping up his system shortly after receiving it, or perhaps he’s getting used to blocking the noise out. Whatever the reason, it’s odd nonetheless. The electrified flies in his skull stop their buzzing.

  It takes several minutes of walking before Ernie realizes that there is only one light on in the hallway. Considering the length of the hallway, it is surely not enough to light the entire corridor, but still Ernie is able to see as clear as day. The walls and corners of the room all seem to have an odd pixelated glow to them. He reasons that all the people he has seen walk by are infected. That they work for or with Gideon. They would have to be in order to see in this darkness.

  Also, there is a scent. He has been becoming more aware of it with each step. A sort of bittersweet essence that seems to be coming from Gideon and the others, like vanilla flowers and decay. At first he thinks it’s some sort of cologne, a fancy French name with multiple apostrophes in the title, but he can smell it on himself as well, but his is fittingly filled with more foul notes. It is coming out of his pores in almost visible puffs of translucent vapor.

  Finally they reach their destination. Two large double doors located centrally to the inside wall, with a thumbprint scanner and keycard access panel. Whatever is behind these doors is important. Another door at the end of the hallway has additional security measures, alarms and keycard access panels.

  Gideon holds an access card to the terminal, and then places his thumb on the scanner. A large magnetic deadbolt clunks open and Gideon reaches for the handle of the door.

  --I suspect that what you are about to see will be difficult to palate. I ask that you suspend your judgment until you better understand the circumstances under which we are operating.

  --Mmm. OK.

  Gideon turns the large handle to the door and pushes the door open. The lights inside the room automatically come on. The security scanners buzz and a red light at the top of the entry
way flashes accompanied by a beeping alarm.

  As they cross the threshold, the first thing that Ernie takes in is the redundant security placed at the door, for those who would be exiting from this room back into the hallway. The next thing that hits him is the smell. The hideous smell. It hits him in the face like a baseball bat. Before he can even try to choke down the reflex he empties his stomach at the door.

  --That is horrible. What is that?

  As the scent molecules rattle around his nose like lightning bolts of smell, Ernie is able to pick out the individual notes of horror: excrement, bile, bleach, infection, dying flesh, rot, mildew, mold, vomit.

  --No matter how hard we try to hide the odor, we will be able to smell through the barrier. I would say it is something you get used to, but that would be a lie. At best it is something that you learn to tolerate. It will… take time.

  Ernie knows that this is the way others feel when they encounter him in the street. They cover their mouths as they throw money on the floor to get past him. Ironic that something like bad odor would be the thing to tip his guts.

  After Ernie has collected himself and begun a rigorous mouth-breathing process, he is able to continue the nightmarish tour. Still, he hovers on the edge of losing it again.

  --This is the intake facility.

  A half-dozen people lie on flat tables. Their arms are stretched out on small mobile tables with IVs connected to them. Tubes and catheters run in and out of every possible opening. Each IV lead that runs from the arm of an individual is piped back up into a dialysis machine of sorts. He remembers seeing some of the guys at the VA hooked up to them, the guys waiting to sit down, eating salt and vinegar chips and cookies just before having their kidney-free systems washed. Getting the toxins pulled from their blood and then having it spat back into their other arm. These look different though.

  Most faces are obscured by breathing apparatus or tubing, but he is able to make out one of the “residents.” He’d only seen his face briefly, but it is burned into his memory.