Every Last Drop (25 page)

I blow smoke.

—Not that big a deal. Get your buddy Predo on the phone. You guys move fast, you can contain it. Cure has no contacts in the life. Horde cant spread the word. You can cap that one.

His eyes are scanning side to side, reading the immediate future. —We'll need to. Yes. OK. I. OK. You should stay close, Joe. I may need you for something. And it goes without saying, you know, that this changes things, you stick here where you belong and well find a place for you again. A real place, not some corner to hide in. It'll take a few days to, you know, to contain this, but once that's done, once you've helped out with that effort, well have a spot for you down here.

I watch the smoke from my cigarette drift.

—Sure thing. Only you might want to wait on that until you talk it over with Lydia.

His eyes stop moving, draw a bead on my face.

I diffuse some smoke to his side of the room.

—I called her on my way over. Told her about the hole. Told her what I saw down there.

He doesn't move.

I shake my head. —She didn't really believe me.

He licks his lips.

I nod. —Yeah, funny, right?

I take a drag.

—But she started believing me more when I told her I found out while doing some special reconnaissance for you. Told her she was supposed to meet you over here. Told her how messed up you were when I told you. How you started immediately drafting a statement and an action plan. How you asked me to tell her to get together her bulls and come here so you can fill her in on the plans for dealing with this monstrosity.

I blow a smoke ring.

—Should be here soon. Her and her bulls. Fury and that bunch. Ready to hear how the Society is going to start changing the status quo. Today.

I flick some ash on the floor.

—No. No status quo this time around for any of us. The Horde girl, she was already talking about investing in some guns. Bright kid, that girl. She sees the writing on the wall. Everyone's gonna have to pick a side. Especially seeing all the bodies I left lying around Queens. Not that I was trying to make a point or sign my work or anything, but Predos gonna know I was there. Figure he's already got his people arming up and closing the gates.

I wave some smoke from between us.

—No filling that hole in, Terry. No sealing it up like it was never there. Its there. And whether I walk out of here or not, too many people know now. I got no idea if the truth wants to be free, but its out of the cage. And its gonna kill some people. Anyway. You told me once there was a war coming. Looks like it's here.

I scratch my chin.

—So. You want to call those tough boys and Hurley into the room and make a mess of me and try to get me to change my tune when Lydia gets here?

I point at the door.

—Or you want me to get lost so you can start making a plan to change the world?

He looks around the room, a man suddenly across a border, not sure how he got there. Then he nods. Claps his hands once. Stands. —Yeah. OK. You better take off.

He bounces his head up and down.

—Yeah, man. Brave new world. Brave new world. Change. Embrace it or get swept aside. That's the, you know, the deal. Like a wave, change is. This one, this one will be like a tsunami. And I think I need to have some alone time to get my balance for this.

He points at the door.

—Yeah, you do your thing, Joe. Probably better you're not here for this. I need to do some clear thinking. Look at myself in an unadorned light and come up with some truth.

I drop my smoke, grind it on the floor.

—Fine. You change your mind and want your boys to kill me, you got between here to the front door.

He reaches for me.

—You know, man, I'm just wondering. I'm just wondering if I shouldn't thank you for this. This is, you know, this is a unique opportunity for us all. And I'm not sure I shouldn't thank you for bringing it on.

He squeezes my shoulder. —But you're gonna die for it, Joe. Not tonight. But, you know, pretty soon.

He lets go of me. —As soon as someone has a second to spare, they're going to kill you.

I head out. —Your hand is shaking again, Terry.

—An1 how was it, Joe? All knitted up between the two a yas?

I stop on the stoop to light a fresh one.

—Well, you know how it is with old pals, Hurley. You have your fights and your disagreements, but in the end, you're too far under each other's skin to really hold a grudge. —Glad ta hear it, Joe, glad to hear it.

He takes my gun, knuckles and razor from a pocket. —An will ya be needin' dese?

I take them from his hands. —Thanks. Hate to need them and be caught without.

I go down the steps.

—Keep the welcome mat out. Sounds like Lydia and some of her girls are coming by.

He raises a thick finger.

—Dem ladies, ya know dey don't like ta be called girls. —So I hear. So I hear. —Take care den, Joe.

—Thanks. And a piece of advice for you, if you like. —Sure, an why not? —Think about rolling up your trouser. —An why would dat be?

I walk down the street, trailing smoke. —What I hear, there's high water on the way. And everyone's gonna get wet.

Jeo Pitt 4 - Every Last Drop

How you get what you want is, you make sure no one knows what it is you want.

Now, the world full of new hazards, everyone charting new courses to avoid collisions that are inevitable, I give in.

Pulled, I go west. To where forces draw me. I have time now. To take what I want.

But a new gravity catches me on Eighth Avenue. Catches me and smashes me down and drops me in an alley with my back to a wall and my ass in a pile of trash.

It bears down, rage distilled.

And stops, hovering over my head.

I cough up some of my own blood and spit it at his polished shoes. —Christ, Predo, don't you have more to keep you busy right now?

The two enforcers make a move toward me, and something comes out of Predo s throat that makes them stand down and hang back at the mouth of the alley by the car that Predo burst out of to grab me and throw me into this pile of garbage.

I give him a look.

—Did you just growl?

He stands, rigid, sweep of bangs hanging over his lowered forehead, drops of my blood falling from the knuckles of one of his black leather-wrapped fists. —I have no end of things to keep me busy, Pitt. No end of worries and concerns.

He bares his teeth.

—On the best of nights, I have an endless list of tasks that must be accomplished. And with each following sunset, it is replenished. And now.

He draws a finger across his forehead, pushing his bangs aside, leaving a smear of my blood on his skin.

—That list will be torn to bits. Rendered irrelevant. Those concerns and details relating to the security of the Coalition must now be cast aside for a matter more pressing. Wartime policy.

His head snaps back and he looks at the night sky above the alley. —Do you know what concerns me most, Pitt?

I put a hand out and brace myself against a Dumpster and get myself to my feet, trying to figure what hurts me most. —Got me. The health of your portfolio?

He points at the sky. —Satellites. Antennae. Wireless signals.

He looks at the ground, points at the concrete. —Fiber optics.

He looks at me.

—The wealth of data and information around us, that is what concerns me. The ease with which it is collected and transmitted. But most of all, Pitt, I am thinking about cellphones. And their little cameras.

He takes a step toward me, oblivious to a bottle underfoot and the glass that scatters about when it explodes.

—I am thinking of war between the Clans. Now. In an age when children scamper about with digital cameras in hand to snap pictures of their nannies sneaking drinks from the liquor cabinet. I am thinking about how long it will take before there is a visible confrontation between opposing Clan members. I am thinking of photographs and video of such an encounter, of men and women fatally shot, but still fighting, uploaded to the Internet. Aired on cable news. Analyzed by law enforcement and the military.

He takes another step, the shards of glass ground to powder. —I am thinking of the brink. The final precipice I have used my influence and

resources to steer us away from time and again for decades. I am thinking of the abyss we can all now clearly see between our feet as we stand at that brink with only our heels on the final edge of land.

He stops taking steps.

—Yes. I do have more to keep me busy. I have thousands of people, a way of life that goes back centuries, a culture threatened with extinction by self-immolation, I have all that to tend to and attempt to preserve. But none of it, I assure you, is so pressing that I cannot spare the moment it will take to kill the childish mercenary covered in years of blood who has pushed us all here because he caught sight of where his food comes from and he doesn't like the way the ranchers treat the cattle.

His fingers flex.

Keeper of secrets. Master of spies and murder.

Fed on infants blood.

If he gets his hands on me, my bones will shatter like rotted wood. My flesh will tear. And my blood will wash across the alley like dirty water.

He's old and strong and fast and I cannot beat him.

But I don't care to die easily at his hands.

My hand flicks beneath the tail of my jacket and the gun appears in it like a

magic trick. I raise my arm, inhaling, and in the space between inhaling and exhaling, everyone and everything in the alley frozen in that instant, I pull the trigger, the gun aimed at his face.

A drop of blood hanging from my eyebrow falls into my eye.

I blink.

And when I open my eye he is in front of me, the bullet meant for him has put a hole in the brick of the alley wall. His hand slaps mine down and away, the gun flying.

But I'm OK with that. That's OK by me. Because I may not have the gun anymore, but I do have the straight razor in my other hand. And he's close enough now for me to use it.

I cut, the blade cleaving the space between us, flaring in the shifting light cast by a TV in one of the windows overhead, arcing at his throat.

And then the razor isn't in my hand.

I flinch, looking for it between Predo's fingers, expecting to feel it across my own neck.

Down the alley, the brief flash of light on the straight razor's blade is echoed in twin blurs of white passing in front of the enforcers, leaving behind matched headless corpses, wavering before the final fall.

—You're in the wrong place to be settling your disputes.

The skeleton wrapped in its white shroud is next to us.

It places the blade of the razor under my chin. —You should know that, Simon.

I don't move, not even to lodge my usual objection to being called by my real name.

Keeping the razor as close to the end of my life as possible, it turns its sunken eyes on Predo.

—You. Your Clan observes treaties and laws. Rules of behavior modeled on the ones those sheep out there follow. To humor you once, we looked at a line you drew on a map. We agreed it would be a very bad idea for any of you to cross that line. And here you are. On the wrong side of your line.

Predo licks his lips. —I am a representative of the Coalition.

The skeleton shakes its head. —You're a policeman outside his jurisdiction. You're where you don't belong.

The skeleton pushes his face close to Predo s. —You're not Enclave.

He lifts the blade, forcing my chin higher. —This one, what he is can be disputed.

The razor folds away from my skin.

The skeleton shows it to Predo. —But you are meat. Ignorant and unclean and in need of purging.

Predo sweats. —Killing me will be considered an act of utmost aggression.

The skeleton coughs laughter. —Yes. And then? Will your Coalition send more of those to threaten us?

It waves a hand at the two headless corpses being loaded into the trunk of the car by another skeleton.

It shakes its head. —Killing you would be a mercy. But there will be none of that for you tonight.

It points at the car. —Go on.

Predo backs away, watching my eye. —A final word, Pitt.

He smooths the length of his tie. —Do you know you've tipped your hand?

I don't move.

Predo stops, hand on the open door of his car. —I still don't know what it is you're after.

He waves an arm, taking in the neighborhood. —But I know where it is.

He drops the arm. —You'll be dead soon.

He gets into the car. —But I'll be certain to find what it is you value so much. Before you die.

The door closes, the engine hums to life, and the car rolls away onto Eighth, not at all burdened by the dead it carries.

I look at the skeleton. —Do I know you?

He offers me the razor. —We've met, Simon.

I take the blade from his desiccated hand. —Yeah, I wasn't sure, you guys all look alike to me.

I drop the razor in my pocket and take out a smoke. —But seeing as you've met me, you maybe know my name's Joe.

The other skeleton joins us. This one, he's less of a skeleton than his boss, but he's on his way. All of them, all Enclave, they're all a bunch of withered tendon and bone held together by bleached skin. No surprise, that's what happens when you spend all your time starving yourself.

The first one shakes his head, looking like the gesture might snap his twig neck. —Your name is what Daniel said your name is. Simon.

I walk a few steps, kick some garbage aside and find my gun. —Daniels dead.

He coughs that laugh of his. —So you say, Simon. So you say.

He points at the mouth of the alley. —You're wanted.

He starts to walk, I follow.

What's the point of running? If they want to, these guys can just pull my legs off and carry me.

Besides, they'll be taking me where I was headed in the first place.

It's not easy, but if you close your eyes, you can remember a time before the Meatpacking District became a vomitorium for clubbers and people with too much fucking money to spend on dinner for two anyplace that doesn't have a six-month waiting list for a reservation. A time when the cobbles here weren't quaint, when they were walked by tranny hookers and teenage hustlers, and cruised by limos looking for rough trade. Course the Enclave settled in their warehouse over here even before that scene. They settled here when those cobbles drained the blood of livestock, and white coats and meat hooks were the only fashion statements being made.

Still, the crowds waiting in line to get into the after-hours joints that are just now opening their doors are full of enough clowned posers that the all-white look the Enclave sport doesn't raise an eyebrow as we cut down Little West Twelfth to the final block before the water. Maybe a few club kids watch as we climb the steps to the loading dock and the door slides open to let us in, but none of them scurry over to find out what the scene inside is like. They know it's not for them. They can read it. The total lack of graffiti on the place, the

silence, that chill that rises from it, the scraps of street rumor that adhere to it.

Bad shit goes down in there.

They know it. They feel it. So they stay in line like good little robots and wait their turn to flash a fake ID at the doorman so they can go inside some carefully padded pleasure dome and pretend they're living on the edge for a few hours.

Inside the Enclave warehouse, it's all edge.

A hundred-odd fanatics, weaning themselves from the blood the Vyrus demands, pushing their metabolisms to the crazed point Amanda Horde described, when memory T cells will stop reminding their own immune systems what not to attack.

The Vyrus, pushed to starvation, jacks their nervous systems. Desperate, it hammers on them to feed. At the edge of death, it empties its hosts of all resources, strengthening them for the kill.

Strong, fast, impervious to pain; blow a limb off one and they'll pick it up to beat you to death with it.

They vibrate with insanity.

That's what the kids on the street feel.

I feel it too. It goes to my guts, the madness in this place. The clattering of

their bones striking one another as they endlessly spar, honing killing skills. The numb and complete silence that falls when they meditate on the Vyrus, focusing their wills to resist its hunger. The whisper of dry lips and tongues when they break their fasts and sip spoonfuls of blood to appease the Vyrus.

The fasting, its not a rejection of the Vyrus1 hunger, its a supplication.

They are not its enemy. They are its acolytes.

Suggest to one of them that the Vyrus is a virus, an earthly thing, and they'll laugh in your face. Or chew it off.

Heresy is something they take pretty seriously around here. And rejecting the Vyrus as a supernatural agency of redemption is about as heretical as it gets for these guys.

All they want, all they starve for, is to be like the Vyrus, to let it gradually feed on them, creep into their bones and tissue, and transform them into something other, something that will stay in this world, while being entirely of another.

Fanatics to the ground, when they've found one who can complete that transformation, and he's taught the others to do the same, they think they'll become immune to sun and all the weapons of this world. And then, like all true believers, they II go out and kill everyone not just like them.

It's weird shit.

I don't follow it.

And I don't like coming here.