Kissing Carrion (7 page)

Dark river, suck me down
.

Now, if you ever read the paper for more than the Sports section, maybe you might understand
why
you're about to die. You might have seen the pictures of a woman's body, found naked and bloated in her apartment after a game that went too far. You might have heard the descriptions of her lover, garnered from friends and family. You might have remembered certain things Lisa used to tell you, before you stopped listening—those pseudo-Wiccan fatuities about how violent separation from the body sends what's left roaming aimlessly in pursuit of its most recent passion, of anyone who knows its name. How it confuses emotions: Pain for pleasure, rage for tenderness. How it forgets everything, except for the last person who touched it as though it was still a human being. You might, however briefly, even have time to pity the man she thought you were, for the horror he's going to feel once she finally finds him, and moves back in with him—moves
into
him, completely, never to vacate his heart again.

But you don't, so you don't. And so you die like she did, not knowing how or why things have gotten so far out of hand—in that most terrible of states, having expected only bliss.

* * *

Love, love. The worm in every heart. That little speck that keeps on burning after everything else is gone, right down to the bone, and the dust of bones.

Because you were right, after all—the world is full of thieves, baby. And so many of them have somehow gotten hold of your name, your walk, the same tactile net of warmth that used to hover between your hands, binding me to you.

But they all have the same face under their masks, once they're off: Slack, and white, and hollow.

I only want to be yours again: Only that. And with such a righteous goal to drive me, I think I can be forgiven for making a few errors in judgement.

They say the moment just before you die is the loneliest moment in the world. Well, I'm pretty lonely now. I'm full. I'm empty. I'm nothing but what I want, nothing but my own need. And when that's all gone, there won't be a part of me left to hurt.

So find me, baby, before I forget why I wanted you to, in the first place. Find me, and hold me.

Hold me—hard. Hold me . . . tight.

DEPTH DRUNKENNESS BRINGS
strange thoughts—stranger than usual, at least. Right at the moment, it's like I'm seeing my deaf paternal grandmother's hands hover in this darkening air, signing the scenes of my life away syllable by syllable: Old, new, in and out of order.

These slippery reminiscences, repetitive and elusive—squid-ink images written on oil, squirming from close examination. A memory flip-book, curling at the corners: Nanny Book's crepe-paper skin, laced with pale blue veins; the vestigial webs between her arthritic fingers, spread to catch the light.

My unit bracing to take their turn—pulses shallow, impatient with dismay, most of them more terrified to gauge the true limits of their shameful, mounting fear than consider the circumstances prompting it—as Captain Kiley lies propped up against his bunk, making rabbit-shadows on the holding cell wall.

The sky over Pittsburgh when I was five years old, dirty as a bed of nails.

A map I saw once of the twin moons of Mars.

Hit, flash: Popped bulb, clicked lens—image, then absence. Whispers in my skull, like the roar inside an empty shell: Blood echoes. Music to—in—my ears.

And just what the hell is that word for the fear of fear, anyway?

Fear: Phobos. Fear of: Phobia.

Phobophobia?

. . . must be it.

I press my eyes closed, momentarily forgetting to remember just how deep we must already be. HPNS regulations at least breached, for certain—sure, if not exceeded—more than deep enough to check my hands for tremors, and count off the rest of those prospective High Pressure Nervous Syndrome symptoms our mission literature listed:

Increased excitability, motor reflex decay; aphasia. Mental glitches.

. . . under the deep black sea, who loves to die with me . . .

—glitches. Psychosis. Cyanosis.

And eventually . . .

I slam my head back, skull on wall, hard enough to ring myself true—short, sharp shock, broken left incisor into lip, tweak of clarifying pain. Instant coherence. Kiley's rules, channeling themselves: Keep alert. Tell it through. No opinion without research. No solution without . . .

. . . with—out . . .

“Book,” the Doctor whispers, beside me. I shift a bit towards him, deliberately trying to find the floor's sharpest angle, to bend my hip in such a way as to make the pain flare just so, girdling my pelvis. Making myself uncomfortable.

“Doctor,” I answer.

“Book, Regis. American. No . . . registered rank.”

“Specialist.”

He coughs. “I . . . didn't know that.”

“No reason you would.”

The Doctor gives a snuffling gasp, a liquid retch. Something catches in his throat, rattles there briefly—then flicks out again, splattering the floor between us with wet, red bile. I glance back at the wall I just used for a memory aid, which could frankly use a few shadow animals right about now. And as though he's read my mind—

—which may, I suspect, no longer be quite as hard to do as it once was—

“Black . . . Ops . . . operative. ‘Wet . . . boy.' Yes? C . . . I . . . A—puppet.”

I smile, thinly. “Whatever.”

But at least you know my first name.

“You . . . are a—coward, Book,” the Doctor tells me. Then lets all his breath out in one big rush, ragged with the effort, like he expects me to pause, to take note—to congratulate him on his sudden insight, his startling perspicacity.

As though this were really some big revelation.

* * *

Okay: Step back. Start over. To call the situation bleak would be an understatement. Down to our last few hours of oxygen, high on our own fumes and drifting blind: Trapped inside a lost, crewless, experimental submarine—make and model strictly classified, even if it mattered—trolling rudderless, black and silent, along a smoking ridge of volcanic fissures at the bottom of the Subeja Trench. Engines blown, no fuel reserves, interior lights dimmed down to a thread or two of emergency luminance along the hallways. With nobody left to tell the whole tale but me and the Doctor, enemies in an undeclared Lukewarm War, huddled across from each other behind the blackout blinds, the two-way mirrored walls, of what we used to call the Waiting Room.

Me sitting quiet, chin on knees, cradled by a weak but quenchless glow that emanates from somewhere deep inside me—quivering, almost imperceptibly, against the back corner of my former prison. Watching him, on the floor, slumped in on himself—curled, fetal. Broken. Moving just enough, every once in a while, to give up the occasional cough—weak and wet, greased with pinkish phlegm; visible fallout from a buried haematoma, a crushed rib, a punctured lung.

Blood whispering in my inner ear, static between stations: Radio Tinnitus, the voice of the virus. Of that indefinite thing to whom I owe my freedom, my breath and life itself, but whose true nature remains as much a mystery to me now as when they finally threw me into this same room, head-first, to sweat and scream out my appointment with its presence behind a triple-mag-locked door.

The barely-there voice of my master, my soon-to-be savior.

It cajoles, flatters. It says:
My love.
It says:
You know I will honour my promises.
It says:
Time means nothing
. And in the same non-breath, self-contradictory, it says:
Soon
.

Soon, soon.

And I sit here, still, not answering. My whole body nothing but a thin skin suit, stretched tight over an endless scream.

* * *

When three of the Doctor's largest “orderlies” finally dragged me down to the Waiting Room, they had to break two fingers just to get me through the door. I lurched, tripped, came down face-down and felt my bottom lip split open on impact against the floor, left eyetooth cracking right in half like a piece of candy-corn.

Mouth full, head tolling, I spat, swallowed, screamed back at them—and him, for all I couldn't see him through the two-way's glare—every invective phrase I could form in their wonderfully poetic native language: “May goats rut on your grave! May nuns use your bones for dildos! May God fill your heart with shit and drown your grandchildren in blood!”

And then, reverting under the stress of the moment to pure all-American: “Fuck you! Motherfuckers! Fuck, fuck, FUCK
ALL
Y'ALL!”

Unlike the rest of my former unit, you see, I knew exactly what to expect—because I'd already been there behind the mirror myself, helping the Doctor record what happened to each and every one.

I felt like I'd broken the rest of my fingers on that fucking door, before the pain calmed me far enough down to get me thinking straight again.

So: Slowly, I turned. Made myself look back.

And there it was, in the Waiting Room's far corner—almost close enough to touch.

The thing.

They found it at the bottom of the sea somewhere, in relatively shallow water. Took it out real deep to test it, just in case—a fairly good idea, in my personal opinion. Given what I've seen it do.

White coil of unknown—metal? Bone?

Silence. Compressed dust.

What
ever
, Doctor.

A funneled, calcified glass shell, an empty tube-worm knot, utterly alien. Shedding icy light the way we shed blood, and looking somehow slick while doing it. Somehow . . . unclean.

But that might just have been the fear talking.

Blink-flash fast, I conjured a mental image of the Doctor comfortably ensconced behind that mirror, taking his notes, making his calculations, running his useless experiments; the same fucking data, over and over:

You go in. And it sits there. And you sit with it.

And then—the glow begins to change. To grow.

And then—

—you die.

Five times out of five. Granted, I'm a traitor, not a scientist—but to me, those odds do suggest a certain pattern.

I felt myself freeze, then, settling instinctively into much the same position I hold now, except with my back up against the door instead of the corner. Freeze and listen, straining for a hidden warning, some cold whisper beating up through the rush and gasp of my own hot blood—a hum
beneath
the hum.

Beneath the
human
.

The flutter of my pulse, quick and light with morbid anticipation. The—

(Phobo)

—inescapable fear—

(phobia)

—of my own fear.

. . . and why do I keep forgetting that
fucking
word?

Oh yeah, right; brain melting. Memory—drowning.

Terror-struck, I held my breath, tried to slow it down. Closed my eyes and prayed to simply disappear, before the sheer, dull, palpable horror of it all ate me alive.

But I didn't piss my actual pants until the first time I heard that noise in my blood begin to talk.

* * *

Two weeks, ten days and five other men ago . . . five men I knew well—my trusting comrades, my trusted co-operatives . . . five men plus dear, dead Captain Kiley, that old Cold War-horse, who once let slip (in strictest confidence) how he considered me his second son . . .

The call came straight from the top, wherever that is: A need-to-know mission with an unstated goal, just a set of coordinates and a schedule on a sheet of flammable fax-paper.

Search and destroy, no questions asked. So we smuggled ourselves into the area, clinging barnacle-fast to the hull of a rented ship—dropped blind, docked ourselves at the base of volcano 037, got equalized with the pressure, and spent the rest of the day marking off time. And when the sub's shadow fell over us, we swum to meet it in perfect formation, convinced—like the brave little hardbodied boy scouts our training had made us—that the computerized codes we'd been issued with would be enough to trick our way inside. Which they were, of course; when you're working for folks who routinely drop $50 million or so on new toilet paper dispensers, a string of numbers probably comes comparatively cheap.

No, it wasn't the codes that betrayed us, or got us captured within an insulting half-hour. The codes didn't give us up to the Doctor, to serve as cannon-fodder in his continuing quest to find out what that thing in the Waiting Room was—aside from almost-instant death for anybody he threw in with it.

'Cause codes, you see, don't really come equipped for treason—hold no political opinions, weigh no options, covet no raise in monetary reward. Risk nothing and nobody on the simple hope of gettin' pee-ay-ei-dee-paid.

So who?

Well . . .

* * *

Like participants in any arranged marriage, The Doctor and I agreed to consummate our vows only after an exhaustively negotiated ritual of long-distance courtship. Acting under Kiley's orders, I used my satellite access as the unit's translator and intelligence liaison to track the sub's location and eavesdrop on its internal mutterings—and when his back was turned, I used the same good ol' U.S. technology to slip inside the Doctor's laptop, read his notes. Send him e-mail. Tell him he could protect his precious project, and gain a core group of experimental subjects, for the one-time-only price of a hefty Swiss bank-account deposit, a trip back to the surface and an artfully-faked sole survivor scenario: Me cast momentarily adrift in the unit's life-pod, beacon on, with an enemy bullet lodged in some suitably fleshy body-part (exact location to be determined later on, at both our conveniences.)

“You tellin' me all this's about money?” Kiley demanded. And I just shrugged, snapping back: “What
else
?”

Thinking, all the while:
Disappointed? Well, fuck you, dead man. You can yap all you want about honor, and duty, and the idiot joy of the holy patriotic Cause—but from where I stand, you're nothing but worm-food with an attitude. So go ahead, strike that pose. When you're being buried with full military honors, I'll be cutting myself a slice of apple pie and negotiating a thousand-dollar blow-job.

“You know when the Old Ma'am and the rest of those REMFs back at HQ find out, they're gonna cancel your sorry ass.”

I smirked. “Find out from who?”

“Ain't you got no pride at all, boy?”

“Well. I guess
not
.”

Behind me, somebody spit on the floor. All of them glaring through me, turned back first: If looks could eviscerate. Even fey little Ed LoCaso, the training camp's token cocksucker, suddenly pumped full of indifferent hauteur and undying contempt—if the situation hadn't been just a little too butch to bear it, he looked like he might have given me the finger-snap, or maybe just the finger.

“You just better be ready to live with yourself, Book,” Kiley told me, finally, right before they hauled his kneecapped ass onto that medical stretcher and took him down the hall to meet our mystery guest. Last words, and he knew it, so he thought he had to make them count—make his point before it was too late for me to repent, and come to an impressive eleventh-hour understanding of the error of my ways.

“Is that meant to be some kind of challenge?”

A frown—a wince, almost. Like:
Jesus
, Regis!

“History—”

“Yeah, right. Now, let's see: Who is it writes history, again, exactly?”

We both knew the answer, and so did everybody else—it'd been one of Kiley's favorite saws, back up top. So no one bothered to reply.

Not even him.

* * *

Distant echoes, as the dim lights fade further: Roils and rumblings, metal gamelan trills. The odd hollow clang, barely audible, as the Waiting Room floor's dip slowly steepens. Behind the two-way, I hear the Doctor's autopsy equipment start to skitter down the counter, catch and clatter on the fixtures—all those poor lonely clamps and scalpels, laid out in eager anticipation of my corpse.

And cheated instead: Cheated, cheated.

For now.

The voice seems to smile, seems to agree. And tells me:

Soon
.