Blood Day (3 page)

    
He gave 1.72 pints of blood, which was all they could get before he blacked out. When he woke he heard someone slur, “This is no way to live.” He was on the bus before he realized the voice had been his. He reached up and touched his temples, his head pounding.

    
“This is no way to live,” he said again under his breath. He made up his mind then. It would be the story of a lifetime. Philadelphia could burn for all he cared. What had it ever done for him? He pulled the cable to stop the bus and got off at the next stop. He wasn't far from his office. He weaved from time to time, but for the most part stayed on his feet. He felt a giddy thrill run through him.

    
“The truth,” he said. It felt odd just to say the word. And he was surprised by a thrill that he hadn't felt since long before Kyra died. Mike smiled. Kyra would have wanted this.

Mike pulled a beer from the fridge, popping the cap on the edge of the counter. His head throbbed. He needed water and food and sleep, but those things were not going to happen in the near future. He walked the four steps to the living room and slumped on the couch. There was a half-empty bowl of stale popcorn from the night before, and he stuffed a handful into his mouth, littering kernels around him. He left them. He took a swig of beer and let his head fall back on the cushions. There was a knock at the door. Mike sighed.

    
“Go away,” he called. “Nobody's home.”

    
“Come on, man,” came the muffled voice on the other side of the door. “Let me in. I've got to talk to you.” Desmond Paine. Just what he needed.

    
Mike hefted himself up from the couch and hurried to the door, opening it roughly. “What the hell?” he growled. He pulled Dez into the apartment and closed the door quickly. The bastard just grinned at him. “Do you not understand the point of being a secret informant? It means you inform and it's a secret.”

    
Dez nodded at the beer in Mike's hand. “Got one of those for me?” he said.
 

    
Mike looked at him for a moment before shrugging. “In the fridge,” he said.

    
“Thanks, mate,” said Dez, patting him on the arm. “Got an opener?”

    
Mike slumped back down on the couch. “Just bang it on the counter.” Dez did and came to sit beside him.

    
“So what do you want, Paine?”

    
He shrugged, the leather of his jacket creaking. “Can't I come see a friend?”

    
“We're not friends,” said Mike. “We're business associates.”

    
“If that's what you want to call it. But I don't have any other business associates willing to have a beer with me at six in the morning.”

    
“Been a long night,” said Mike, rubbing his forehead.
 

    
“Yeah, tell me 'bout it,” said Dez. “Had to pick up this junkie tonight. Cute as hell, even under all the mess. Had to take her in. Might have let her go if Rita hadn't been breathing down my neck, but that's the way of things these days. Least she won't come to no harm now, what with the new legislation.”

    
“No harm,” said Mike. He barked a harsh laugh. “She's probably better off dead than what they're going to do to her.” Mike shifted to look at Dez. “Why are you here, Paine?”

    
The man shrugged. “Thought you might have some more questions. Plus I need a place to sleep.”

    
“Don't you have a place?” said Mike.

    
“Too much weirdness going on,” said Dez. “Saw this Rev creeping around outside my building. Made me all twitchy. Especially because of all the shit I told you.”

    
“Right, fine,” said Mike. He drained the last of the beer. “I'll get you a blanket. One night.”

    
“Yeah, cool,” said Dez. “Thanks, Mike.” He grinned again. “You're going to blow them out of the water with this story, you know that?”

    
“Hope so,” said Mike. “Speaking of, I've got some work to do. I'm going in to work in a few hours. Don't break anything.”

    
Dez looked around. “You got anything breakable?”

    
“And lock up if you leave before I get back,” Mike said. He went into the bedroom and brought back a moth eaten wool blanket and a flat pillow. “This is all I have.”

    
“You should get some sleep, too, Mike,” said Dez, lying back and pulling the blanket over him. He stretched out contentedly. “You look like shit, man.”

    
“Thanks,” said Mike. “I have to get some work done. I'll sleep later. Bathroom's over there, next to my room,” he said pointing to two doors on the left side of the small kitchen.
 

    
“Thanks again, Mike,” said Dez, closing his eyes. “Real lifesaver, you are.”

    
“Just don't tell anyone,” said Mike.
 

    
“You have my word,” said Dez. Mike plucked the near-empty bottle out of his hand and put it by the sink. Paine was snoring by the time Mike closed his bedroom door behind him. He dug some clean, rumpled clothes out of a laundry basket and dressed. He found himself smiling as he caught the bus to the office.

    
The real news. He could get used to this.

He sat down in his cubicle, feeling like a carcass the dog dragged in, but started typing anyway, a fire in his belly. Clacking away on his old Remington, just like the old days. Telling the truth, just like the old days. Not giving a damn about the consequences, just like the old days. He didn’t even miss the computers that disappeared during the Blackout. He didn't pine for the days when he could fact check over the internet. This was real news and called for old school journalism. At that moment, he loved the typewriter.

    
And yet, his hands shook every time he took them off the keys, and his whole body vibrated, making his teeth chatter. He told himself it was the blood loss and swigged coffee. People poked their heads curiously over the partition to talk to him.

    
“Sorry, can't talk. Got a wicked story here.”

    
They walked away looking confused and worried. No one was enthusiastic about working at the Post. They were typists for the press releases the Revs sent them. There was no real reporting anymore, just congratulatory puff pieces about how the Revs were improving the world.
 

    
Mike finished and tapped the edges of the papers on the desk to straighten them. Fifteen pages, triple-spaced for the copy editors. All it took was fifteen pages to end a career. To end a life, maybe. They might just jab a tube into his arm and make him sit still for the rest of his life. That would be real torture. Mike re-read his story, barely recognizing what he'd just typed. He'd been in a fugue state during the writing, pounding it out all at once in a flurry of keys. He read it again.

    
“Hot damn,” said Mike. “Now that's a goddamn story.” Somewhere, he thought, Kyra was smiling at him. Mike slid it under the locked door to the office of his editor, Tess, and plopped down on the smelly couch in the break room. The clock above the door ticked loudly. Any second Tess would come back from lunch smelling like martinis. Any second, she would find his story – maybe the best story of his career – on the other side of her door. Any second...
 

    
But Mike was asleep and snoring loudly before Tess came through the elevator doors. It took five minutes for Vince Nakayama to shake him awake.
 

    
“Dude. Tess wants to see you.”

    
“Wha?”

    
“What did you do?” Vince wore red Converse sneakers and a tie.
 

    
“Nothing,” said Mike, sitting up and rubbing his face. He looked at his own cracked and faded loafers. “Just my job.”

    
“Tess sounded pretty pissed. You gonna be okay?”

    
“I'm a survivor, baby.”

    
“Dude. Don't ever call me baby.”

    
The lights in the hall were out when he headed toward Tess's office. Mike squinted in the darkness. All he could see was the frosted glass door at the end of the hall, bursting with light. Don't go toward the light. Mike smiled. Tess was decent, though. She'd been his colleague and a damn good journalist right beside him back in the day. They'd even had a fling once, back before he met Kyra. Tess was the only reason he still had a job after the murder accusation. They were friends. Weren't they?

    
“Hell,” Mike muttered. Should he have written that story? He was having second thoughts. He made his feet carry him down the hall. There was a strange smell in the air. Like the musty smell of a museum. What was done was done, though. He'd given her the story. Either she would print it or she wouldn't. If she wouldn't, he had other options. Groups that would chomp at the bit to get his information.
 

    
Another step, then another. He was halfway down the hall. The odd smell was growing stronger. Mike looked up, checking for leaks, mildew in the ceiling. He saw nothing. Figures moved in Tess's office, visible through the frosted glass. More than one person, then. Had she called someone?
 

    
Tess was raising her voice, which was nothing new. But Mike could hear a second voice, deep and increasingly urgent. He took a step back.

    
“You should go,” said a voice right behind him. Mike jumped, whirling around. A man stood there, towering over him, impossibly tall.
 

    
“Jesus,” said Mike, his heart pounding. “Where the hell did you come from?”

    
The man was looking at Tess's door, his pale face expressionless. He had dark eyes and lips that were red, the color of cherries, the color of blood. He looked down at Mike. His hair was dark as well and fell rakishly over his forehead. He wore a suit and tie and from a distance could be mistaken for a businessman.

    
“You are the one called Mike Novak?”

    
“Depends who's asking.”

    
“You must go,” said the man. “I will have need of you soon.” He started loosening his tie. Mike stared as he unbuttoned his jacket.

    
“I'm supposed to talk to Tess,” said Mike, finally finding his voice. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

    
The man's face stayed expressionless, but he shifted his weight and breathed out his nose noisily, as though annoyed by the effort of talking to Mike. “My name is not important,” he said. “But if you must address me, address me as Joshua Flynn.”

    
“How do you know my name, Joshua Flynn?”

    
Flynn arched an eyebrow, the first movement he had shown on his face. “You are with The Post. The whole city knows your name.”

    
“Right,” said Mike. “Who's in there?”

    
“Government officials,” said Flynn. “Three of them. Your superior called them.”

    
“Tess? Why?” said Mike, but knowing the answer already. Tess was driven, career-minded, but surely she wasn't heartless. Reporting someone to the Revs was a death sentence. Or worse, if the stories were true.
 

    
“I think you know,” said Flynn.

    
“My story,” said Mike. “About the junkies.”

    
He nodded. “You must leave.”

    
“Why should I trust you? I don't know you.”

    
Joshua Flynn looked at him for a long moment, his dark eyes unmoving. It made Mike uncomfortable to look at him; there was something about the man that he couldn't quite place. Then Flynn hunched his shoulders and opened his mouth and his features shifted. High cheekbones smoothed flat. Red lips darkened, sharp gray teeth emerged and covered the straight white ones in his mouth, stopping as razor-sharp points. His spine crackled and buttons on his shirt popped as he stretched and hunched. Flynn's almond-shaped eyes widened and flattened as he let out a hiss.

    
Mike felt his bowels turn liquid. “Jesus,” he whispered, stumbling backwards and falling on the carpet, without taking his eyes off the monster in front of him. “You're one of them,” he said, his voice hoarse and high. He struggled to stand. He was shaking and his legs seemed to be made of rubber. “How? They can't change. Not anymore.”

    
“I'm not one of them,” Flynn said, his voice guttural.
 

    
Mike could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He tried to make his feet move, but he was frozen. He was afraid he might piss himself.

    
“Go,” hissed Flynn. Mike heard the scrape of Tess's chair behind the door and footsteps. Several soft muffled voices. Flynn's nightmare-face stared back at him, the eyes reptilian, the nose flat and slitted. “The Revenants are here. Run.”
 

    
Mike didn't ask any more questions. He ran.

Three

Genevieve White woke up with a sob still on her lips, just as she did every morning. She had been dreaming of Hunter again. But there had been a woman there. She played the violin and Hunter laughed and laughed and laughed with blood soaking his tiny tee shirt…

    
She made a pot of watered-down coffee and sat on the small, ratty couch in the living room to drink it. As she sipped she stared at The Book.
 

    
She thought of The Book more and more these days. She could no longer fool herself into thinking it was simply a book like any other. Ever since she opened it— looking for that poem Griff would recite at the strangest moments—it had become The Book. The poem still thundered through her mind, even now.