The Product Line (Book 1): Product (12 page)

She stops at Antonios.

--Antonios?

--Yes.

--No. No. You are not Antonios.

Alesh retreats from his bedside, dropping the clay pot, which shatters on the ground, spilling the water into the earthen floor.

--Diavol! Diavol!

She shrieks at the top of her lungs, running out from the hut and into the night. Some of the more lucid dying people crane toward Antonios, their faces hollow with fear. The cries within the tent start first as whimpers and grow into a chorus of hysterics.

--Diavol! Diavol! The demon, it lives!

Fearful of the return of the demon, Antonios uses what remains of his strength to hoist himself up from the straw mattress. His balance is off, everything feels different, he feels taller. He is taller. His thighs have split the fabric of his pants, and his shirt is tattered and shredded, hanging just barely over his belly button.

His body is entirely unfamiliar to him.

--What is this?

He has awoken in the body of a man.

--Please help. Please help me. I don’t understand.

His pleas are met with the cowering terror of the others in the room. Antonios hears the sound of approaching feet on the ground outside. Not knowing what else to do, and certain that those coming for him are not coming to help, he runs from the hut as fast as his now long legs will carry him.

With each frantic step towards the woods, tears pump from the corners of his eyes. What is happening to him, why are the others calling him a demon, a devil? He moves quickly and gracefully, more so than he ever has in his life. The burning embers of the town’s outer buildings provide enough smoke cover for him to reach the tree line undetected, leaving only whirling wisps of smoke behind his path.

As he settles to the ground, shouts from the town curse him.

--Do not return, demon!

--May your soul be cast into everlasting damnation.

The voices of once-friendly neighbors and relatives call out the most horrible and vile of curses and threats. They paint a tapestry of heartache in the air around him. Antonios drops his head into his hands and weeps large tears from this unfamiliar body.

He has lost everything. His mother, his friends, his home. All that remains now is hatred from those he has spent his entire life living with. It is a heavy burden for the heart of a child, despite his now man-like frame.

***

The night begins to give way to the dawn. Antonios has not moved from the ground. He has spent the last few hours taking notice of all the changes to his body, the hair now located under his arms and running down from his navel to his nethers. In his solemn sadness he begins to see that more than just his body has changed—the world around him has seemingly changed as well. Everything is brighter and more vivid, sounds are louder and richer. The air, though filled with smoke, also carries the sweet smell of blossoming pheasant’s eye and peppers and the sting of death and sickness from those in the hut and recently buried. Thick luminous bands of light fill the air above him. The night sky is alive with the glow of stars, thousands more than he was ever able to see before.

Antonios hears the beginnings of dissent from the remaining villagers. It starts as harsh words thrown towards one another. Then the accusations. They could all be touched by the demon. The few healthy men and women who have not lost a spouse or a child are the most vocal to express their fear and concern for the others, that the others will change and take in the demon. What starts as fearful clamors grows in intensity very quickly until the group’s fear is made manifest.

Antonios watches from afar as the healthy villagers gather the remaining survivors of the attack and drag their limp and dying bodies to a downed tree just outside the hut. The men lay the survivors, who struggle desperately against them, across a tree stump and hack at their throats until their heads drop to the ground. Shrieking women and family members dare not challenge them. Instead they grieve near the slaughter, pleading for mercy, pleading that the attacked be given the chance to live.

With each chop the fear in Antonios’ belly begins to change. Starts to morph into something darker. A hatred begins brewing in him, a dark rage.

The sun presses into the morning sky. As it does, it throws rays of warm yellow light through the smoke and into the edge of the woods. The light lands on Antonios like a swarm of bees. It stings at his arms and legs and face. He moves deeper into the woods to hide, to avoid this new pain. In his hurried search he sees that nowhere in the woods is there a space untouched by this light. Finally he settles on a more shaded area and begins to dig into the ground, his larger man hands scooping big piles of loose soil out with each motion.

After he has uncovered a small shallow pit he slides himself into it and pulls the dirt and leaves on top of him. He loosely piles leaves on his face, making sure that his breath is still able to escape. He tries to sleep, to drift off into a slumber, but finds that it doesn’t come. Instead of rest, he is faced with the grim reality that he is exceedingly aware of the world around him in his earthen hole. He can hear the movement of bugs in the loose dead foliage and feel as they take each ginger step on his body. He can sense the worms in the dirt trying futilely to navigate through his body. Their wriggling movements tickle at him as they work trying desperately to assess what exactly he is. Time seems to stop.

After an eternity of stillness and hyperawareness Antonios decides it is time to see if the sun has dropped down. Somehow while lying still, blocked from the sunlight, trapped inside his own thoughts, he is able to assess what time it is. As he slides back the leaves from his face he is aware of two things: the night is upon him, and there is a dark yearning inside him, an urge unlike anything he has ever felt before.

A need to feed.

He brushes the remaining dirt and plant matter from his body, and as if driven by something inside him, some hidden master, he makes his way back toward the village.

He approaches the downed tree where the villagers relieved the survivors of their heads. There are thick gobs of blood dried into the nooks and channels of the tree’s mangled bark. With each step closer he becomes more and more aware of the scent given off by the dried blood. It has a sweet enticing aroma that fills his mouth with saliva.

Without any thought or sense of impropriety he leans his face toward the tree and laps at the congealed blood, unleashing a flood of emotion into his body. This is what he hungers for; this is the water to quench his fire. After a few moments he turns toward the homes in the village with one certainty in his mind. He needs blood.

The smoldering embers of the once-vibrant village work only to highlight the few remaining buildings still standing. The orange glow of firelight pours out from only a handful of huts—the survivors. He licks at his lips, trying to contain his saliva and savor the flavor that remains in his mouth, and starts making his way through the central area of the village toward the subtle sound of drumming.

Before he is a hundred yards away he is able to see a man leaning against a pile of rubble, his head down, only occasionally raising his eyes to scan the horizon. Antonios sees him clear as day, maybe even clearer than during the day. The man’s thick beard hangs just below his shirt collar, and he has a flintlock rifle resting against the rubble. It is Dimitru’s father, and it is abundantly clear that he does not see Antonios.

Tears glint on his cheek as the moon is reflected from them. Antonios can hear his quiet sobs. He remembers seeing Dimitru’s mother in the tent when he awoke, a horrid wound to her neck and shoulder, but he did not remember seeing Dimitru or his final fate. Antonios moves closer to the man. He can hear the thumping, a dependable rhythm. The closer Antonios gets, the more his mouth begins to water, his mind moving to the darkest of thoughts and desires. When he is nearly thirty yards away it becomes clear that the drum sound is the beating of the man’s heart.

Liquor burns on the man’s breath. Perhaps he was asked to take guard, perhaps he was so filled with sorrow that he came outside to drink himself to death. Antonios takes another few steps. The man is crying over the remains of Dimitru, his little body burned and gnarled from the fire. What might have inspired devastating sadness only a few short hours ago has almost no impact on Antonios.

Antonios covers the remaining twenty-five yards in a few quick bounds and is upon the man in no time. Expecting him to reach for his rifle, Antonios grabs it and throws it away.

--Go ahead, demon. I will not contest. You have taken everything. There is nothing left of me.

Antonios crooks his head and without another thought tears into the man’s neck, drinking deeply from the fountain of blood erupting into his mouth. His mind explodes into waves of pleasure, a crippling joy, the world around him fades away into a sea of horrible fragmented images. He loses himself completely in this unfamiliar joy…

When he opens his eyes again, returned from his bliss, there is nothing but carnage around him. His hands and face are caked in dry flaking blood. The bodies around him are too numerous to count, but it is safe to say that Antonios is the sole survivor of his village.

Chapter 13

Even though Endo and Dit-Low had helped Gullah to found the New Harlem Players, they don’t have quite the same vision with regard to expansion and recruitment. Gullah is a born leader; they, on the other hand, are born sidekicks. They may be tough as nails but they are certainly not the brains in the brain trust. Regardless, they do their best to keep the gang moving forward and making money with the absence of its founder.

Like any well-planned business, they have their own disaster and operational continuity plans that go into effect shortly after Gullah goes missing. Cash reserves to ease the concerns of their heroin connection and enough violent acts to keep members from vying for the presidency. Their growth slows even with all these planned actions and membership is actually declining. People are skipping out all over the Organization, small groups here and there gone missing or left town together in the middle of the night.

The NHP is suspicious after the disappearance of Gullah that he has turned on them, gone to the police or done some other “pussy shit,” but after there are no more arrests than usual and no one sniffing around the Chapel, they figure it is more likely that he was just killed by the other dealers they went to rip off with Treece.

The rumors of Gullah flipping have died down over the last year, but even so the Organization is hurting. All the gangs are experiencing a lack of new talent. So much so that the NHP have recently worked a deal to absorb members from the Lobos. Since there is strength in numbers it makes sense. They are a crew in Morris Heights that will allow the NHP to start establishing a presence inside of the Bronx. The beat-ins are harsher on the ones changing colors, but that is to be expected.

Gullah’s shoes are quite big to fill and even between the two of them Dit-Low and Endo are not equipped to run things properly. Where Gullah might have taken time to evaluate a situation, or thought before acting, they are far more inclined to simply use force. They have gotten sloppier in the last few months. More comfortable than they should be considering the profession they are in.

As they gather together to once again discuss how they are going to expand the NHP, Tronix yells to them from the back door to the Chapel.

--Yo, Tayvon is here. He’s all fucked up.

--Well, tell that nigga to go away.

Tayvon pulls the door back and pushes through Tronix. He sidles past the mess to the Chapel.

--We got hit… by… something.

Dit-Low and Endo see that he is covered in blood and bruises.

--What, someone hit the stash house? They best not have left with our money or product.

--What? Man. Nah… It killed them all. Some fucking… White… Nah, it wasn’t even a person, it was… some… some kinda fucking monster.

--Man what the fuck you talking about? You supposed to sell your product, not use it. ’Sides, you may have changed colors but that don’t give you free access to the Chapel.

--I’m telling you. They all dead. The whole crew. We shot him… Musta shot him twenty times, man… Muthafuckas was dead… and then… and then they just wasn’t.

Tayvon walks around, pacing, losing his grip on his own thoughts. How he has made it from the Bronx to the NHP Chapel in Harlem, covered in blood, in obvious hysterics, will be a longstanding mystery for all those in the NHP, but the people in the Lobos would have known right away. Tayvon grew up in Morris Heights and spent a lot of his childhood living on the streets. His mother was a known addict and paid for most her needs with sex. Folks used to call her the “Morris Heights bicycle, cause everyone done rode that.” Before Tayvon found his way into the Lobos and started into a life of crime, he was known to be one of the Ants, the half-crazy, half-suicidal people in the city foolish enough to traverse the city by walking the tracks of the subway system. It is his way of finding solace. It doesn’t make sense to anybody else, and it doesn’t need to. It makes sense to Tayvon.

--So like, what the fuck we gonna do?

--OK, Tayvon. Back up, take a breath. Let’s wipe all that shit off you. Hey yo, get the man a towel or something.

Dit-Low nods to Tronix, who steps into the backroom. The sounds of odds and ends toppling on to the floor echo into the Chapel as he rummages through a room already picked over for its contents.

--All right, so let’s slow your roll. Gimmie the bit by bit. What happened?

Tronix stumbles back into the room. He has what appears to be a bright blue scarf, or wintery hat, or something. Tayvon starts using it to wipe off some of the caked-on blood and dirt, noting the blackish-purple bruise in his arm where that thing stuck him and drained him of his blood. Next to that are dried scabs where its nails must have dug into his skin. He takes a deep breath and starts to explain the unbelievable events of the night.