Joe Pitt 2 - No Dominion (9 page)

She's crying. She talks through the tears. It's all very matter of fact. By now she has
plenty of experience talking while she's crying.

I listen to her blow her nose.

--I got to go somewhere for a couple days. Take care of. Something. I don't know if I'll be
able to call. When I get back.

I feel for my smokes again. Still not in my pocket.

--When I get back, I'll be there.

--Yeah?

--Yeah, baby. Don't worry, I'm practically there already.

--OK.

--OK.

--And. Joe. A couple days, that's Saturday night.

--Uh-huh.

--I'm taking the night off. I'm doing a reading. Reading some of my stuff at Housing Works.
A benefit kind of thing.

--Uh-huh.

--You go with me?

--You know I will, babe.

--It's important.

--I'll be there.

--OK. Thanks, Joe.

We stay on the phone awhile longer. Until she's not crying anymore.

Just before sundown I'm looking at the fridge. Two pints. This low, I shouldn't even be
thinking about drinking one of those after I had one yesterday. But I could get stuck
Uptown. Could take them with me, just in case. Then again, drink one now, it'll give me a
little extra edge for the trip, give me an extra day maybe if I get stuck. That's the
ticket: drink one, leave one in the fridge. Last thing I want is to come home late and not
have any food in the house. I pop the fridge, guzzle a pint and stuff the empty in the
biohazard bag.

OK, good to go. Now, where to?

I need a name. I need a name and a ride. I can't roll up there and just start walking the
streets sniffing the air for the Vyrus. What am I gonna do, grab some slob from the Hood
and start pummeling him until he gives me something I can use? Besides, just being white
up there is gonna make me stand out. I need a name, someone to start with.

Christian might know someone up there. He doesn't go much above Houston, but back before
he got infected he used to ride the whole city. He could also give me a lift up there. But
crossing Coalition turf on the sissy seat of his Harley with a dozen top-hatted,
howling-mad Dusters on hogback isn't the subtle play I'm looking for. When a renegade Clan
of Vampyre bikers crosses onto your turf, you're bound to notice. Scratch Christian.

Chubby Freeze might have a name. He's also about the only brother I'm tight with. That
could mean something when you're talking about dealing in the Hood. But it'll be someone
on the fringe. Chubby's porn business keeps him in touch with the kind of people who are
in touch with my life. But he's not of the world. Any names he gives me will be a couple
steps removed from what I need. And he won't be able to help me with transport. Chubby's
not in the know enough to see the dangers involved with getting from 14th to 110th.

There's really only one name. I'm running circles around it, but there's really only one
guy who might be able to help me here. One guy who doesn't have any skin in the game, who
won't be looking for a payday for giving me some information, who won't be looking for
ways to stick it in my back if he sees an angle. But he'll sure as hell find a way to make
me pay. And whatever he wants, I'll have to come across with it.

So I stuff the final remains of my emergency fund in my pocket, tuck my switchblade into
my boot and the .32 into my waistband, lock up tight, and head west to see Daniel.

--Simon.

--Daniel here?

--Naturally. Where else would he be?

--Can I talk to him?

--Certainly. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you, Simon.

--Don't call me that.

--You would prefer?

--Joe.

The bony Enclave runs his eyes over me.

--Joe. It doesn't suit you.

--Just use it.

--Of course, Joe.

He gives me one of those oh-so-meaningful smiles these fucks are always giving and leads
me inside. The door rolls closed behind us and we cross the warehouse's concrete floor. My
eyes adjust to the near pitch black and the Enclave emerge from the darkness. Two rows of
about fifty emaciated sickly pale men and women in white sit on the floor facing one
another. In front of each is a vessel of some sort; anything from a thimble to a cracked
coffee cup to a pewter wine goblet. Two Enclave, one for each row, work their way down the
lines pouring blood into the vessels. One of the servers carries a Pyrex measuring cup,
the other an iced tea pitcher with a much-chipped smiling sun enameled on its side. The
Enclave accept a tiny amount of the blood, some no more than a teaspoon, some as much as a
quarter pint. Several hold up their hand, refusing any at all. Whatever they take, it's
all they'll have for a week, maybe longer. Feeding time at the asylum.

These crazy fuckers, sitting here in the dark, fasting, meditating, and practicing their
crazy martial arts. And Daniel, lord of the crazy fuckers, thinks I'm one of them. He says
that's my
true nature.
But this ain't me. Depriving myself, throttling the Vyrus to the edge of starvation,
that's not my idea of fun. Even if I have been there. Even if I have stood at the very
limit and felt what the Vyrus does to you, the jolt it sends through your system as it
spurs you to feed before it dies. Even if I've felt it and know why they cultivate it,
it's not for me. You
have
to be a crazy fucker to try to live like that all the time. And that's what they're
doing: trying to live like that all the time, searching for the perfect balance, letting
the Vyrus consume them in the slowest increments possible, teasing death out in the hopes
that one of them will defeat it, one of them will be annihilated but left whole at the
same time. One of them converted by the Vyrus they believe to be a spiritual force,
converted and made able to teach the others, able to lead them onto the streets, where
they can convert everyone else. Or kill them, whichever seems best.

It's weird shit. Far weirder than I'm willing to believe myself. Or it was anyway. Before
Daniel showed me some weirder shit. Before he told me about that thing. The Wraith. Now
I'm not sure what to believe. But it's still not for me. No matter how many times Daniel
says it is.

--Simon. Look at you. So healthy and well fed. You're just about glowing.

--Daniel. You're looking fit yourself.

He laughs, unbending his skeletal frame from the floor of his little cubicle in the loft
above the warehouse floor. He takes my hand. I feel the heat that pulses from his fingers
and palm. I run hot, anyone with the Vyrus runs a little hot; Daniel scorches.

He holds my hand and looks me over.

--Yes. Just about glowing.

--Thanks.

He releases my hand.

--It wasn't meant as a compliment. I was trying to express displeasure.

--Sorry, missed it.

--Oh well, passive aggression was never my strength. With my own children. Did you know I
had kids?

--Nope.

--I did. Long time ago.

His eyes drift.

--Two girls. Twins. And a wife. I wanted boys. A clichŽ. She gave me the girls. And several
miscarriages. She died of one in the end. Girls. I could never get them to do as I said. A
poor father.

His eyes come back to me, refocus, and he shakes his head.

--Odd. I don't think of them much. That other life, I hardly think of it at all. The sleep
before waking. Before I discovered my true nature.

He shrugs.

--Senility at last. Sit.

He points at the floor and I take a seat. He takes a place across from me and rests his
back against the wall.

--What's on your mind, Simon? I assume you're not here to reconsider joining us.

--Nope.

--Something else then. Information I suppose.

--Yep.

He waits. I wait. He waits longer and I give in.

--I need a name.

He rolls his eyes.

--A name. You already have two. The one you were born with and the one you gave yourself.

--Someone else's name.

--Whose?

--I don't know. I need an Uptown name. I have to go above One-ten and I need a contact,
someone to help me with the territory.

He scratches the ribs that protrude from beneath his skin, his fingers all but
disappearing into the gaps between them.

--Above One-ten. The Hood. Luther X's turf.

--X is dead.

--Is he?

I watch his eyes, trying to see if he's playing me. They're unreadable; black stones sunk
deep in dark wells.

--He got taken out over two years ago. Coalition assassins. They say. His warlord runs it
now: DJ Grave Digga.

--
They say.
Well, I would say the Vyrus was simply done with him, consumed him and passed him into
the other world. The real world.

--Tell that to the guy stuck the daggers in X's eyes.

--The instrument is immaterial. The Vyrus has him now.

--Yeah. Right. Daniel, I'm not telling you anything you don't know. You know the X is gone.
You know everything. What I need to know is if you have a name, and if you'll share it
with me.

He stretches his legs out, crosses them at the ankles and tucks his hands behind his head.

--Long trip to the Hood.

--Yep. That's why I should be getting started.

--What do you need up there?

I could lie. But he'd know.

--I'm looking into something for Terry Bird. His new fish are into something.

He raises his eyebrows.

--Terry's new fish are into something he doesn't know about. How unlike him. What is it?

--They have a new high.

--A
new
high?

I lick my lips.

--They're shooting the Vyrus. Someone found a way to, I don't know, preserve it outside a
body, and the new fish are shooting it.

--Oh.

He closes his eyes.

--That again.

I blink.

--Excuse me?

He opens his eyes.

--Nevermind, Simon.

--Did you say,
again?

He takes his hands from behind his head, draws his knees up and rests his forearms on
them.

--There is nothing new under the sun, Simon. It's all as it has always been. There is only
one change, and the world is still waiting for it. The world is an egg, waiting to be
born, waiting for Enclave to usher it across. Until then, it's all the same old shit.

I lean forward.

--Sure, sure, you'll transmute yourself into ectoplasm and lead your crusade and we'll all
be turned into pixie dust and join the cosmos. But you said,
again.

--Did I? Funny. Well, as I also said before,
senility at last.

--Daniel.

--Simon. Enough. I'm tired. You said you wanted a name.

--I do.

--The Enclave who brought you up, did you recognize him?

--Man, you all look the same to me. All just a bunch of cadavers waiting to happen. You're
the only one I can tell apart. And that's just because you look more dead than the rest.

He laughs, lips peeling up over gray gums, mouth open wide, barking laughter.

--
More dead.
You know better, Simon. I'm more alive than you, more alive than anyone else with the
Vyrus. Certainly more alive than the sleepwalkers out there on the streets with no idea of
the universe's true nature.

I shift, unfolding my legs.

--A name?

He nods.

--A name. Yes. The Enclave who brought you up, he used to be with the Hood. He'll give you
a name.

--Good enough.

I push myself up off the floor.

--Simon.

--Yeah?

--I will want something in return.

So much for a clean getaway.

--What's that?

--We talked the last time you were here.

--Uh-huh.

--I told you something.

--You told me you thought you were failing.

He looks at the floor, running his fingers over a nail head that sticks up from the
floorboards.

--That's true, I am. But I told you something else.

Fuck.

--I don't remember.

--Don't be like that, girls.

--What?

He looks up.

--Did I?

He taps his forehead.

--What did I say?

--Nothing.

He watches me out of those holes in his face.

--Senility. Strange. Well.

He stands.

--You should go.

--What about?

--Hm?

--You said you'd want something for the name.

--Yes. Yes. Come see me, Simon. Come see me more often.

--Daniel, I'll try, but. I'm pretty busy most of the time.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. The heat radiates through my jacket.

--Come see me, Simon. It's what I want.

Like I said, it'll cost more than blood or money.

--OK. I'll come.

--Good. Good. Now go downstairs and get your name.

I start for the stairs.

--Names. Simon, that reminds me.

--Uh-huh?

--You had a perfectly good one: Simon. It suits you. It says something about you. Why did
you change it?

--Lots of infecteds change their names.

--I know. But why did you?

--I don't know. Terry said a new name was a good idea.

--And why the name you chose?

--Shit. I was seventeen. I was just turned into a Vampyre. Joe Pitt. I thought it sounded
cool.

He laughs again.

--You're right. It does. It does. Well. Careful in the Hood. And come see me when you get
back.
Joe.

--Yeah.

The Enclave who showed me in is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, sitting on the
last step.

--Daniel said you know the Hood turf, said you'd have a name of someone I could talk to up
there.

--He means Percy.

--OK. Where do I find him?

He leads me to a work area under the loft. Some benches with tools for doing basic repairs
on the warehouse, a sink, a stove with a huge boiling pot on top. He finds a pencil and
paper and writes down an address on 150th, near Jackie Robinson Park. I look at the scrap
of paper.

--What do I tell him?