Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls (22 page)

 
          
“Shit,”
said Spooky. “Are you cool? I need to fix.” He mimed jabbing something into the
vein of his arm.

 
          
“Oh,”
said Nothing, understanding. “Oh. Sure I’m cool.” He tried to look cool.

 
          
“Who
do you think I’d tell?”

 
          
“Just
gotta
be sure. You never know.” Spooky dug through
the pockets of his jacket and pulled out several objects. A tarnished silver
spoon, a dirty shred of cheesecloth, a cheap plastic lighter. From the
saddlebag of the bike he took a Thermos full of water. Last, he reached into
some inner compartment of his jacket and removed a flat lacquered box inlaid
with a bright scene of tropical birds. He opened it reverentially; Nothing
half-expected silver light to spill out, bathing
Spooky’s
face, engulfing him. But inside the box was only a plastic bag full of little
foil packets, seemingly hundreds of them. And them, as innocuous as a dull gray
viper, the syringe.

 
          
Nothing
watched closely, trying to look as if he had seen it all before. Spooky removed
his studded leather belt, shrugged off his jacket, and pulled the belt tight
around his upper arm.

 
          
His
skin was faintly damp, mottled. He poured a little water into the spoon and
shook a grainy white powder out of one of the foil packets. Then, as if
remembering his manners, he glanced up at Nothing. “Oh, hey, you want to fix?”

 
          
“Yes,”
said Nothing without thinking. If he thought, he might panic. Dead rock stars
flitted through his mind. William Burroughs chided him.

 
          
“I’ll
do you first. You’re just a kid, you don’t know how to do it. You might shoot
an air bubble.”

 
          
Nothing
closed his eyes as Spooky unbuckled the belt from his own arm and drew it snug
around Nothing’s. He stroked the inside of Nothing’s elbow, pressing down,
smoothing out the skin. His touch was very gentle, but had no sexual quality to
it. All of
Spooky’s
erotic energy seemed to go into
the handling of his drug.

 
          
“Okay,
here’s your vein. Keep your finger on it.” Spooky held the lighter under the
spoon until the mixture started to bubble. Then he laid the cheesecloth over
the surface and drew the solution into the syringe.
Spooky’s
hands were steady now.

 
          
“Still
got that vein? Okay, hold it …” He held up the syringe and flicked the needle’s
tip with his finger. “Don’t worry. I can smell you’re scared, but this is good
shit. There goes the bubble. Safe as milk, like Nick Drake used to say. Okay.
Okay …”

 
          
He
bent over Nothing’s arm and probed the soft flesh with the needle. “There you
go.”

 
          
Spooky
drew back the plunger. A diaphanous swirl of blood filled the syringe. Nothing
realized he had been holding his breath.

 
          
“My
turn.” Spooky mixed the solution again and injected himself with a cool eagerness.

 
          
He
shivered when the needle went in. A moment later Spooky just seemed to start
fading. His eyelids fluttered, and his voice began to drag like a m-cord played
at low speed. As Nothing watched, those luminous
bushbaby
eyes slipped shut.

 
          
Nothing
felt the junk spreading through him, tendrils venturing into his hands and his
legs, turning his blood as clear and pure as water. He didn’t feel sleepy at
all.

 
          
His
mind was sharp, cold. He felt as powerful as a god.

 
          
Spooky
was completely gone now. He slumped against the vault, his eyes closed, his
breathing shallow, harsh. His mouth was slightly open. Nothing saw the tip of
his tongue glistening.

 
          
Nothing
moved closer to Spooky, moved so close that he was almost on top of the biker.

 
          
He
encircled
Spooky’s
shoulders with his arm. At the
neck of
Spooky’s
dirty white T-shirt his skin was
chill, sweaty,
goosepimpled
. With the tip of his
finger Nothing stroked
Spooky’s
throat and found the
spot under the ear where the pulse beat. He left his finger there for a moment,
then shook his head. What was he thinking? If you bit somebody there, you might
kill him. Instead he picked up
Spooky’s
limp arm and
bit at the soft skin of the inner elbow, where Spooky had fixed.

 
          
The
vein was already open, and the blood began to flow easily. From somewhere deep
in his stupor, Spooky whimpered. A child’s sound. Nothing sucked harder,
trembling.

 
          
He’d
never really tasted anyone else’s blood before. No more than a drop here and
there, by accident, as when Laine had cut his finger in Jack’s car. That night
seemed long ago.

 
          
Now
Spooky’s
blood filled his mouth and ran down his chin
mixed with spit, and the coppery sweetness of it mingled with the sweat from
the biker’s skin, and Nothing pressed closer and licked the last of the blood
away. He couldn’t take too much; he didn’t know how much would be dangerous.
Never mind that he wanted to eat Spooky, to swallow him whole. The junk-laced
blood tasted so good, so pure.

 
          
It
hadn’t lasted long enough. He leaned against the vault looking at Spooky.

 
          
Spooky’s
hair drifted across his face, stirred by the wind.

 
          
It
might rain again. Nothing picked up the leather jacket and carefully covered
Spooky with it. He knew he couldn’t stay here until the biker came to. He might
notice the fresh wound.

 
          
And
Spooky would probably beat the shit out of him. Nothing looked at the slack
face one more time and touched his fingertip to
Spooky’s
tired lips. Then he walked away from the graveyard and headed for the road
again.

 
          
Maybe
it was the effect of the heroin, but what he had done did not seem strange to
him.

 
          
Erotic,
yes; sneaky and a little mean, yes—but not strange. He had wanted the blood. He
had even been hungry for it. And it had made him feel better, had settled his
stomach, just as the albino’s sperm had.

 
          
The
first spatters of rain started coming down ten minutes later. The cars still
went implacably by. Nothing’s wet hair fell in his face. The rain came down
harder, colder. He was almost ready to turn around and go back to Spooky—the motorcycle
wouldn’t offer any shelter, but maybe they could hole up in the vault—when the
black van came thundering down the road.

 
          
It
was dingy and dusty, black going gray. The back window was covered with sackers
and decals. As the van passed him, Nothing caught a glimpse of several legends
half-obscured by mud and dirt: PHOTUS/FETUS/VATOS, in dripping red letters;
PARTY TILL

 
          
YOU
PUKE; BAUHAUS, with the sketchy face that was the band’s logo. And he thought
he saw one that said JESUS SAVES and another that read IF YOU DON’T LIKE MY

 
          
DRIVING,
DIAL

 
          
1-800-EAT-SHIT.

 
          
Then
the van jolted into reverse and pulled up next to him. Three heads
swivelled
to look at Nothing, three clumps of hair, three
faces defined in blots of dark makeup.

 
          
Their
hands clawed at the windows, and their mouths opened, laughing, and for a
moment Nothing thought they would drive away and leave him staring after the
van, his foot already on the asphalt, his skin ready for warmth. But then the
passenger door opened and one of the figures swayed toward him, spat hair out
of its mouth, and said, “Hi. Want a ride?”

 
          
The
air inside the van was as hot and wet as a kiss, and the sweet scent of cheap
wine was so strong he could taste it. “I’m Twig,” said the driver. His voice
was low and amused, and his sidelong smile was as quick and sharp as a blade.
“The bum here is Molochai. And the pretty one in the back, that’s Zillah.”

 
          
As
the van started up again with a jolt, Nothing crouched next to the gearshift
and studied his new companions. Twig was fox-faced, with eyes like chips of
night.

 
          
Molochai’s
features were more blunt, his smile more babyish. But them seemed to be some
invisible bond between them. They laughed at the same time; their gestures
mirrored each other.

 
          
Right
now they were involved in some long meaningless argument about a drink they had
invented—strawberry wine and chocolate milk, Nothing gathered after a moment.
Twig steered the van with one hand and swatted at Molochai with the other.
Molochai swiped back at Twig with grubby fists, then passed him a bottle of
wine. Twig sucked at the bottle. Wine ran down his chin, and they giggled
wildly as the van swerved across the center line.

 
          
Nothing
crawled into the back of the van. The ceiling and walls were decorated with
more stickers and decals and Magic Marker graffiti. Overlying it all was a
pattern of large dark stains like some kind of cancer.

 
          
The
third occupant of the van—Zillah—lay stretched out on a mattress where the dark
stains were even more profuse. Zillah had an androgynous, perfect face and a
ponytail tied back by a purple silk scarf. Wisps of hair escaped the ponytail,
framing that astonishing face, those stunning eyes green as limes. From the
sleeves of an oversized black jacket emerged strong graceful hands with long
nails, nails filed sharp and painted glossy black. Nothing twined his own
fingers together, trying to hide his chipped polish job.

 
          
Beneath
the skin of Zillah’s hands was a delicate purple tracery of veins.

 
          
Nothing
thought again of the heroin he had shot up, the drug still coursing through
him.

 
          
Then
he looked away from the strong veined hands, up into Zillah’s eyes. And Nothing
felt himself falling into a green sea.

 
          
“Hello,”
said Zillah. The voice was soft, a little husky, razor-edged with amusement.

 
          
Surely
Zillah was used to being stared at, used to taking strangers’ breath away.

 
          
“Hello,”
said Nothing. His voice wasn’t working very well.

 
          
Zillah
lit a tiny pipe carved in the shape of an ebony rose and passed it to Nothing.
The substance in the bowl was dark, sticky.

 
          
When
Nothing sucked at the pipe, a sweet strange taste came into his mouth. It was
like smoking incense. “What is it?” he gasped, trying to hold the smoke in.

 
          
Zillah
gave him an evil,
heartstopping
smile. “Opium.”

 
          
Two
new drugs in two hours. Nothing thought he could get to like hitchhiking. He
lit the pipe again. With the next drag he became aware of Zillah’s eyes still
on him, felt that green light blazing along the lines of his body. But when he
looked up, what he saw was Zillah’s mouth: lips parted, the pink tip of a
tongue caught between sharp teeth.

 
          
And
then Zillah’s hands were on him, drawing him toward that mouth. He wondered
whether he might fall in and lie on Zillah’s tongue until Zillah swallowed him
down.

 
          
“You
are delicious,” Zillah told him after they had kissed.

 
          
“So
are you,” Nothing answered, and his heart contracted. He had never felt so far
away from home, or so glad to be there.

 
          
“You’re
bewitching.”