Every Last Drop (27 page)

Vyrus messiah.

He shakes his head. —I don't know for sure. Have to meditate on that shit some more. Anyhoo.

He snaps his fingers.

—Some others, a few, they don't believe in a need for speed, they think were going too fast. They think Daniel would disapprove. And that, that just causes all kinds of fucking problems. So having a guy like you, with Daniel-cred behind him, that's always a help. In this case, you can help big-time with a particular problem. But there's more to it. Like that's a surprise in our world, yeah?

He strokes his bald scalp, watching as one of the sparring Enclave below has his jaw shattered.

—These guys, when they go out as a force, once they start smelling the blood out there, they could go a little over the top. And that's not the point. We don't want a bunch of random spastics launching themselves into crowds and going off like bombs, rending folks limb from limb till the SWAT bullets take them down. The whole point is, this is a crusade; when Enclave kill, it's not like a retribution thing, it's a cleansing. And not just cleansing the world, but cleansing the people who get killed. So it needs to have some order to it. So to keep the warriors that go out in line, Joe.

He sidles very close. —I'm gonna need a field general.

I poke the barrel of my gun into his ribs.

He looks at it.

I look at him.

And I ask the only thing that matters. —Is she alive?

He looks up, rolls his eyes. —is she alive? Dude, have you been listening to me at all?

The hand of one of his bodyguards whisks between us and takes the gun from me.

The Count bugs his eyes. —Whoops! Whered that go?

He laughs.

—Yeah, so anyway, dude, is she alive? Like, that's the whole point here. The tension I'm talking about. Old-school attitudes versus new-school attitudes.

He looks at me.

I look back.

He sighs. —No comprehension at all, huh?

He takes my arm. —Come here.

He pulls me to the corridor that runs the length of the loft, between rows of cubicles.

—The rest of this shit, the field-general gig and all that, well sort that out later. For now.

He points at the end of the corridor where four Enclave stand outside a closed door. —For now, you go have your reunion.

He gives me a shove in the back.

—Do me a favor while you're at it and try and talk some sense into fucking Joan of Arc for me, will ya?

He turns, heads down the stairs to the floor below.

I look at the door.

Legs like stilts, holding me wobbly ten feet above the ground, I walk to the

end of the hall.

These Enclave are a little on the beefy side. Looking like maybe they've only been in a concentration camp one year instead of five. They stand back from the door, one of them knocking before pushing it open.

I go in.

She's sitting on the floor, holding a little cup in her left hand, eyes gliding over the handwritten pages of a book lying open in her lap.

Her eyes stop moving.

Her finger marks a spot on the page.

And she looks up.

She's sitting on the floor, like the last time I saw her, but everything else is different. Then shed just got over being about to die. Withered and hollowed out by AIDS and the chemo they'd pumped into her, red hair falling out in fistfuls. A fading ghost.

And look at her now.

All bones and alabaster skin, freckles bleached away, hairless.

Vibrant.

She looks back down at her book.

—Hey, Joe. Come to try and kill me again?

—It was hard. Of course. And I thought I was crazy. I thought they were all my hallucinations. This whole place. Like it was the pain medication. Then I thought, and it was probably all the white clothes they wear, I thought that maybe I was dead. And this was like a test or something. It took a long time.

She flips a couple pages in her book.

—That was why they started paying attention to me. Because I went so long before I tried it.

She shakes her head. —Blood.

She bites her lower lip.

—Its funny to think how long I waited. Cause I was never religious. But I thought, What if the second I try the blood I get sent to hell? It was too weird to be real. But whatever I was thinking, they thought I was special, for fasting so long right after infection. And then I couldn’t hold off anymore. I'd smell it when they all broke fast. And it smelled so damn good. And then I thought, This is bullshit. This isn’t real. I'm on a morphine drip and I'm never waking up and I'm gonna try some of that. I'm not going to hell. And I tried it.

She shakes her head. —And after that, I didn't care if I went to hell.

She looks into the cup in her left hand, the few tablespoonfuls of blood it bears. —Do you think were going to hell, Joe?

I take a drag, think about Queens. —Yeah, seems that way to me.

She sighs. —Yeah. I think maybe we are too.

She looks up.

—He thought about you. Daniel did. —I doubt that. —No, he did, a lot.

She flips a couple pages in the book, reads.

—Simon. Again. An endless distraction, that young man. Adding up the time I've wasted trying to drill some kind of sense into his head. Pointless. No. Its not pointless. Simply tiring. My own shortcomings again. Impatient. Who was it that said it was my greatest weakness? Someone dead now. It could be the reason I

keep trying with Simon is that it gives me an excuse to talk occasionally with someone different than the ones I've been talking to for so long. The Vyrus may be endlessly fascinating in and of itself, but talking about it all the time is boring as hell. Something interesting today. I feel hungry. Odd.

She flips more pages. —That's toward the end of this one. The last one. But there's lots more.

She points at the bracket-mounted shelves that cover two walls of the cubicle, every inch of every shelf lined with journals, notebooks, diaries. —Lots more. I started just pulling them at random. Then I pulled one from toward the end and saw your name. Simon.

She nods at the door.

—A couple of them had used it when they were talking about you. So I knew who he meant. Also, the way he described you. Sullen. Childish. Temperamental. Funny. That all rang a bell. So I found the first one I could with your name.

She points at a red-spine notebook on the shelf. —That one. From the late seventies.

She looks at me. —How old are you?

I scuff the floor. —Closing on fifty.

She nods. —Funny. Id never have picked you for the type to lie about your age.

I glance at the door.

—Look, baby, I want to get all caught up and all, but we should really think about getting out of this place as soon as possible.

She presses the tip of her index finger into the middle of her forehead and closes her eyes. —You know what I hate?

She opens her eyes.

—What I hate is that I feel so stupid sometimes. I think about it. I think about you telling me you couldn't go out in the sun because of solar urticaria. That the blood bags and biohazard coolers were because you were an organ courier. That secret room in your basement.

She closes her eyes again.

—I think how it was so easy to convince you that I wouldn't fuck you because I didn't want to give you HIV. How you never argued with me about it. Never

said it was a risk you would take.

She knuckles her eyes, pressing away a couple stray tears. —Fuck.

She wipes her fingers on her white skirt.

—I think about all that, and think about all I know now, and I think, How could I have been so stupid? How didn't I see that he was a fucking vampire?

She makes a fist and hits the floor.

—And I hate that. Like I should have figured this shit out. Like somehow I should have put all the pieces of your weirdness and our fucked-up relationship together, mixed them up, and spilled them out and they should have come up vampire. Like that isn't utterly insane.

I lower myself to one knee. —Baby.

She jabs a finger at me. —Don't! Don't you call me baby.

I reach, put a finger on the sole of her bare foot. —Baby.

She presses her lips together.

—Damn it! Damn you. You fucker!

I squeeze her foot. —Baby.

She slaps the floor. —You absolute fucking fucker!

I squeeze her foot a little tighter.

—Baby, listen, I know I got a lot to answer for. I know I. I know. But this isn't the time. We need to go now. Because in case you hadn't noticed, you're living in a madhouse.

She's on her feet, standing over me.

—in case i hadn't noticed? I noticed, you son of a bitch, I noticed that you fucking left me in this madhouse!

I look up at her. —I'm back for you now.

She claps her hands together three times, slowly. —Hail the hero, returned to rescue the damsel.

I stare at her foot. Beyond pale. Nails covered in chipped red polish.

—Look. I know. I know this is. Hard. I. I never told you. I thought. You'd think I was crazy. And you'd run. Or. I'd do something to prove it. And you d be more scared. And you'd run. And I'd never see you again. And.

I paw the floor, looking for some kind of traction for my words. —And so I didn't tell you. And. But there's no time now because all hell is going to hit the streets and we need to get gone before it does. We need to.

I look at her, lift my shoulders, drop them.

She puts her hands on her hips. —Does it bother you the Count was the one infected me?

I look around the room, anyplace where she isn't. —Yeah. —Yeah. Me too.

I let myself look at her, see the anger, look away.

—My blood probably would have killed you. It's special, the way it works. Only some can infect some others. I don t know.

—Yeah. I read some stuff like that in Daniels diary. But I didn't say I wish you'd been the one to infect me. I just said I wished it wasn't that prick.

I pull the smokes from my pocket, stare at the package.

—I know. I know this isn't what you wanted. To live like this. To be infected at

all. I know. I tried to protect you from. I. I'm. Shit.

—You.

Half of an ugly laugh escapes her. —You fucking idiot.

Her fist hits the side of my neck and I go down and my skull bounces off the floor. —You think this bothers me?

She picks up the cup of blood. —You actually think this bothers me?

She puts the cup to her lips and drains it.

—I was dying, Joe. I was really dying. It hurt so bad. And I was so scared. And I wanted to live. I prayed. I swore that if I could live I'd do anything. If I could just fucking live. If the pain would go away and I could not be scared and I could live. Anything. I swore I'd do anything.

She squats in front of me, grabs my chin. —And I'm alive.

She forces my face up, my eyes to hers.

—And I don't ever want to die. I want to live forever, Joe. And I never want to be scared like that again.

She holds the cup in front of my face. —And if this is what it takes, well, I swore I'd do anything.

She lets go of my face and rises.

I look at the pack of smokes I've crushed in my hand. I tear it open and pick a broken Lucky from the shreds. I put it between my lips. Take it out. Put it back. And take it out again. —I didn't know.

She leans into the wall of books, presses her face into them. —Joe. Why would you? How could you? If It's crazy for me to feel stupid for not knowing what you are, it's just as crazy for you to feel shitty for not knowing I'd want to be the same thing if it could save me. Its stupid. It's all crazy and stupid.

She looks at me. —And it could get worse.

She splays her hands over several of the books. —He had doubts, you know. He had doubts about what the Vyrus is. He had

doubts about it all. And he was starting to think, toward the end, he was starting to think that the world didn't need to be remade in the image of the Vyrus, made so there are only Enclave. He had doubts. But that asshole. He's taking what Daniel believed, what was passed down for so long, and he's making it ugly and mean and dangerous.

I shake my head. —You never met Daniel. You don't know what dangerous is.