The Product Line (Book 1): Product

by Ian McCain

  --That’s the little shithead who shot me!

  Gideon nods.

  --He shot us both.

  Ernie keeps looking. The rest of the group is young kids, no more than twenty-five. Tattoos covering their necks and arms. These are the gangbangers from the alleyway. They are in bad shape. The one who shot Ernie is missing an arm. The larger one, the voice of the gang members, looks like he is barely hanging on; Ernie can smell the decay.

  Their recent murder attempt on him aside, Ernie has always had issue with the gangs, their senseless violence and fear mongering.

  As Ernie takes a few steps toward them, Gideon puts his arm out to stop him.

  --These men are in what we call intake. They were injured when we brought them here and we have done our best to restore enough of their health for them to begin producing for us.

  --This isn’t a facility, it’s a farm.

  --Yes. It is.

  Ernie is no humanitarian, but surely this is not something that should exist in a civilized world. People sedated and hooked up to machines that skim blood from them. Human beings acting as the delightful soft-serve for vampires? This is crazy.

  --So there are more than just these few.

  --Yes. Quite a few more. Each one yielding about a pint a week. We keep them sedated. Keep them in twilight so that they are not aware of what is happening. Before you jump to some sort of judgment, I want you to understand that these are not good people. These are killers. These are men who have stolen and slaughtered and polluted the city for years. Their lives do nothing but harm and in the end, they will die by the sword.

  It makes sense in a perverse way. Gideon is having to explain less and less, and certainly only needs to give Ernie a slight nudge for him to accept the justification.

  --So in your mind, these are people who would kill others, and because of those actions they deserve to die? By doing this, you spare them immediate death, prevent them from killing and use their blood to keep the infected from going berserk and devouring the city. Am I about right?

  --Bravo. Yes. Exactly. It is not just a singular good, it is unilaterally good. Oh, I am excited to see where the Virus takes you.

  As the two men begin to agree on the logic behind the Farm Treece makes a slight, barely audible moan. A guttural gurgle of sorts.

  ***

  Through the opaque haze Treece is able to make out that the lights have been turned back on to the room he is in. He is no longer in pain, instead he is virtually numb from the neck down. He is aware of the tubes in his mouth and nose, but they do not gag him as before. Though he cannot hear, he is aware of some shadowed shapes near him. Two of them. He tries to ask for help. Only a gentle moan escapes.

  He wants to wake from this nightmare, or at least return to the dreamless slumber that he was roused from.

  ***

  --This one, I will admit, is being treated a little differently. I am not above being a little cruel to those I find especially detestable. I have him on a dose that is just low enough for him to come in and out of consciousness. To be painfully aware that his choices in life have been… unwise.

  Ernie recalls the pain in his leg, the certainty of his death, how this punk was going to simply take his life from him.

  --Fuck ’em.

  --Yes.

  Gideon escorts Ernie from the room, back out to hallway. The heavy doors close behind them.

  --Come. There is more to discuss.

  Chapter 10

  Ernie leans casually against the railing of a glistening mirrored elevator. Not a smudge or streak to be seen. Gold trim runs along the seam of each piece of mirror. The light behind the PH button is illuminated. In his left hand Ernie holds a silver case. A thick chain runs from it to his arm where it is attached with a silver handcuff. He lets out a sigh. It’s been a long “day.”

  It’s been more than a year since Ernie last closed his eyes for longer than a well-deserved sigh. There were a great many details provided during his first night with Gideon, but even more that had been left out of the conversation. Important points like ”you don’t sleep anymore.” Sure, some try out of habit, but there is no real use to it; you don’t feel rested, you don’t dream. Basically it’s several conscious hours lying still with your eyes closed. Maybe if he were good at meditation or something it would be nice.

  Without sleep the everyday cycle of night and day, the sense that anything has a “conclusion,” goes away. There is no respite, no exhale or pause where you can think, Glad that’s over with, or I’ll start fresh tomorrow. No. It is just one long, unending day.

  Having spent more than the last decade of his life on the verge of a blackout, or actually blacked out, it’s one of the things he often finds himself missing—being tired. The feeling of heavy eyelids and a need to organize the day. He misses dreaming. He misses booze more. Misses the sting of a stiff drink. The feeling as the burn runs down the back of his throat, numbing him to the pain of reality.

  In the passing year his mind has definitely become more tuned, sharper. It’s as Gideon said, but also not. The Virus’ effect on him appears to be a cumulative process. Each passing month he can feel himself becoming more than just a man. He can read and understand anything that he commits effort to. His memory is photographic. He can access all the memories of his childhood, a sort of savant-like recall.

  Although Gideon glossed over it that first night and is reluctant to indulge Ernie’s curiosity, Ernie knows that this Virus—this infection or curse or whatever it is—is doing more to him than simply making a better version of himself. He’s changing, there’s no way around it, and his metamorphosis is working toward a definite conclusion. There is a finish line for the Virus, an endgame. Ernie understands that there is subtext to Gideon’s comment that Ernie will not live forever, or Gideon’s offhand remark that the ancients are all dead and gone.

  These are perhaps the most telling components of Ernie’s new condition: that his mind never stops, it never slows, it is constantly evaluating a situation and envisioning the components leading up to it. He can size people up pretty quickly. Gideon was the first to notice it. Ernie can see through people’s deceptions, he can evaluate a situation and know how it might play out.

  Gideon explained to Ernie that the Virus affects everyone a little differently. It enhances the strengths, eliminates the weaknesses, but builds on the foundation that is already there. It uses existing aptitudes to accelerate your ability. He also explained the Regula, the rules of survival as an infected and what was required of him in Gideon’s service. His previous life was no more. Ernie was instructed that he could never associate with anyone from his past again.

  The elevator begins to slow as it approaches the top of the building. It makes two final dinging sounds and opens into the great room of the penthouse. Ernie always makes this the last stop on his route. The room itself is stunning, giant tiled pieces of Italian marble covering every surface from the floor to the ceiling, each massive tile showcasing intricate pillowing clouds of pearlescent veins in the stone. Footsteps always echo through the neatly appointed space. The room is a marriage of opulence and minimalism, with notes of modernism. Or so the matriarch of the apartment has told him in the past.

  Truly it is beautiful. But more than the art and the architecture he loves the view over Central Park. It reminds him of his simpler days. Of his uncomplicated life before he was infected. He always takes a moment to look out at the park from this manmade perch as the last bastion of nature below reaches ambitiously toward the north of the island, toward his beloved daughter, and imagine that everything is OK. That she is OK.

  He knows she isn’t. But for the briefest of moments he feels at peace. He knows that as long as he is alive, she is in danger.

  With Ernie gone for the last year, Marie has finally let herself worry more about herself. A few months after he started working more closely with Gideon and his assigned team, doing runs and recruiting for the Farms, he started checking in on Marie in the e
venings, watching from a distance. He has been able to see a great deal from a distance—that she is still looking for him, that she is as beautiful as he remembers and that she is as generous and thoughtful with strangers as she always was with him.

  Ernie agreed to take on more of the shit jobs in the organization in exchange for Gideon freeing Marie from her emotional shackles to Ernie. It was the right move, but still stung.

  Yes, he loves the view, but he hates the people. He hates all the people on his “route.” He has spent many hours over the last few months trying to figure it out, but never understood why Gideon put him on the route with all the Gothics in exchange for their deal over Marie. It just doesn’t make sense why he thinks a recovered indigent is the ideal runner for the super-rich and privileged. None look a day over thirty and their “old souls take on the world” bullshit is too much to handle.

  Ernie has still not gotten used to the fact that he looks like a kid himself and that these other kids are probably fifty or a hundred years older than him. Still, he hates the pomp. He can tell by their British affectations that they are transplants to the city, which for some bigoted reason makes him dislike them even more.

  Also, they call him Arnold. He corrected them once, although they know his name; anyone with the Virus needs to make a conscious effort to make a mistake like that. They are actually working harder at making it seem like they don’t remember. Perhaps this is their way of feigning normalcy? Who can know for sure? The fucking jerkoffs.

  He stopped correcting them after the second time they said Arnold. Instead he’s started calling Julia Jules and Charles Chucky. It’s a stupid standoff, but something that amuses Ernie.

  --Jules? Chucky?

  --Arnold, my dear. We were getting worried, weren’t we, love?

  Ernie cringes. It just doesn’t make sense the way they talk. It’s like watching some sort of play written in the 1920s.

  --Yes, yes, love. Terribly worried.

  --Well, I am here now. I have your product.

  Ernie walks through the great room and turns left into the formal dining room. Ernie continues.

  --I’m sure you were all aflutter.

  The space is just magnificent. Jules, as much of a cunt as she can be, truly is gifted at design. Two and a half lifetimes can do that to a person, Ernie imagines to himself. She and Charles are perhaps the most unique of his deliveries, not just because of their mannerisms but their physicality. They are strikingly attractive, yet their eyes are hollow, irises lightly rimmed in reddish black, as if a deep magenta pen has been used to draw in their perimeter. Also, the way they interact with each other is creepy. He doesn’t know if they are a romantic couple, or brother and sister.

  Out of nowhere, Jules sweeps in for a kiss on Ernie’s cheek.

  --Oh, Arnold, thank you.

  Ernie sets the briefcase on the impossibly large dining room table. Charles withdraws a card from the breast pocket of his silk smoker’s jacket. He turns the dials on the combination lock to match this order’s combination. The tumblers move into place and unlock with a gentle click. Ernie turns the case toward them and opens it, exposing the bags of liquid crimson—their treatment.

  --Here you are. Twenty-six pints of O-negative.

  --O-negative? Oh yummy, truly a treat. My favorite of all the menu’s offerings.

  --Arnold, which is your favorite?

  Ernie shrugs. He has been put on a rationed amount after his only time drinking the product. He had put a drop on his finger just to see if the taste was enticing. He didn’t feel the same warm loving rush that he had heard came with tapping a vein, but something else awakened in him, a hunger that scared him to his core and filled his head with a long-lasting bliss. His mouth watered and quivered in search of more. Before he was aware that he had done it, Ernie had consumed his entire week’s supply. He came back from his bliss to find his tongue cut to pieces and probing the shattered vials of precious treatment.

  When he approached Gideon about getting more, Gideon knew what had happened. He had apparently been expecting it for a while. The solution was to keep Ernie with enough product to keep him healthy and happy, but not enough for indulgences like drinking. Just one more fucking injustice—it was like a forced methadone treatment, just enough to keep him from getting sick, never enough to let him go on a bender. Sure, it was a good idea on Gideon’s part, but a shit deal for Ernie.

  --It’s all the same to me.

  --Oh, for shame, how can you be so glib? Certainly you must have a favorite.

  Ernie empties the bags onto the table. The bags always go to the drinkers, vials go to the needlers. Most folks on his route are drinkers. Even within the infected communities there is this unspoken hierarchy, a class system. Drinkers are the oldest, generally speaking. They have been around the longest and like any junkies are set in their ways. Gideon still caters to them, in the interest of keeping them from killing half the city in some Rage. They in turn supply him and the rest of the Organization with the money needed to run the Farm.

  Jules and Chucky are treated differently though. They receive more than twice as many deliveries as the other drinkers, as if Gideon is working especially hard to keep them happy. Also the weight of their envelopes leads Ernie to believe that they pay a bargain basement price as well.

  --I’m not really a drinker, Jules. Gideon’s got me on a special diet.

  --Yes, can’t feed the dogs from the table, I imagine.

  Jules smiles a knowing and evil smile.

  --Something like that. We all set?

  Jules places an envelope into the now empty case. Ernie closes the case, and locks it.

  --Jules, Chucky, you two have a great night.

  --Oh, you as well, Arnold. We will see you in a few days, yes?

  --You know you will.

  Ernie turns and walks back toward the elevator. He takes in the view as much as he can without slowing his pace.

  --Give a wave to your Marie as you go.

  Why would Gideon tell these assholes about my kid?

  --Thanks Jules, you’re nothing if not thoughtful.

  I’m gonna have to bring this up with Gideon later.

  After a few steps, he smiles to himself. He’s finally figured it out: why he is the man on the Gothic route. It isn’t just a means to keep Ernie in check, it is a way to reduce the visibility of these assholes. He is low man on the totem pole, and this is the shit job no one wants, dealing with these spoiled jerkoffs. Dealing with the Gothics is akin to cleaning the toilets.

  The trip down the elevator always seems to take longer than the ride up. Perhaps because it means he is closer to the few hours that belong to him, the final moments before sunup. When he is left to himself.

  Ernie exits the building and makes his way to Nathan and Claude. They were the youngest in the Organization before Ernie was discovered. They have thirty years on Ernie, but their strengths are more of the physical nature, with insight and intuition a very distant second.

  Ernie approaches, his arm outstretched with the handcuff’s lock facing the two men. They unlock the cuff and take the case from Ernie. Claude, the taller of the two, shakes it to ensure that the envelope is in it.

  --It’s in there.

  Claude nods.

  --We all set then?

  Claude responds, his accent highlighting his age and foreign roots even more.

  --Why the rush always to leave?

  --I am an important man, gentlemen. Time to rub elbows with all my influential friends and sculpt the course of human history from the sidelines.

  They all smile.

  --Have a good night, Ernie. Good luck with all that. Tomorrow we collect volunteers.

  --Isn’t it already tomorrow?

  --Ha, yes, I guess it is. OK, tonight is collections, Gideon wants us in the Bronx.

  Claude tosses a small four-dram glass vial filled with product to him. Ernie snatches the vial from the air with the reflexes of a professional baseball player.

&
nbsp; --Ernie, make sure you are ready.

  --Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. G’night, boys.

  Ernie turns, offering the back of his hand as a wave, and walks across the street and toward Columbus Circle. He turns at the southeast corner of the park and continues his trek south toward Midtown. A few blocks in, he tucks into a bodega and buys a pack of cigarettes. He doesn’t much care for smoking, he’s sure as hell never gotten a buzz, but it’s something to do to keep his hands busy. Plus it gives him an excuse to step out of the streets and get a bead on the people around him. Also, deep down he loves that everyone else hates it so much. Fuck ’em.

  He lights up, taking deep lung-filling breaths. He exhales, sending clouds of foul smoke into the air. He is an expert huntsman, trying to hide his tracks and shake his own scent. Even as night starts bleeding into the early morning, the streets of Manhattan stay busy.

  As he walks further south a gust of cold wind blows from behind him through the Seventh Avenue corridor. He can smell the bittersweet notes of the Virus in the air. It’s strong. He’s being followed.

  He figures that maybe Nathan and Claude were behind him for a few blocks. Though they rarely actually follow him anymore, he knows that they are still being encouraged to keep an eye on him. He knows it like he knows most things. Strategy and espionage within the infected community are a complicated thing. It’s a network of paranoid people with the brain power to think one step ahead of each other. Not much room for tactics. Still, the three of them have developed a good working relationship and they are friends, or at least friendly. So he doubts very much that they would be tracking him back to his house. In fact it would make more sense for them to keep an eye on him if they walk with him and not behind. This thought gives him pause.

  Ernie tucks into the alleyway just past a halal lamb skewer stand. He is able to quickly identify the source of the scent. It is not Nathan and Claude, it’s a pair he has never seen before in the Organization. Transplants? Newcomers to the city? A couple of infected passing through? Maybe they caught his scent and are trying to get an inroad into the people who run the city, find out what the Regula are, see if there even is a community, an order?