The Product Line (Book 1): Product (22 page)

Cincinnati shakes his head.

--Well, your boy. He’s the one that killed Chubbs. Them other boys in the car. Probably killed his whole crew too.

The smacking murmurs of people in disbelief spread around the room.

--Man. That dude don’t got it in him. Nigga’s crazy, but that boy woulda done anything for them. They his family.

Dit-Low continues.

--If I ain’t seen it with my own eyes. He came here last night covered in blood talking all kinds of crazy about how they got hit by something. Two white boys. Says they shot ’em. Said they got back up after two clips went through them and then killed the rest of the crew. He takes us up there to show us what went down.

Dit-Low thinks on how to proceed, deciding to omit the part where he and Endo had him thrown in the back of the car with Chubbs to be questioned later after a pistol whip to the temple.

--After he walks us through it, he leaves with Chubbs and the other two in the car. Few seconds later, blam. A round goes off from in the car. We can hear all kind’sa noises, like the nigga is rabid or something. Watched the car drive into a wall and then see him running out, bullet in his side and shit. When we looked in the car he had taken a bite out of Chubbs and fucked up the other two. They was all dead, man.

Cincinnati throws his hands up.

--You expect me to believe that shit? That some skinny-ass nigga ate three people, got shot and ran away?

Dit-Low nods. Endo adds his thoughts.

--Saw it happen, man. I’m telling you. Shit was straight out of a zombie movie or something. Thing is, one of them in the car shot him. So we figured he was dead, or on his way. Then we see all this news about some kinda animal going around eating muthafuckas in Morris Heights. He ain’t dead, and we down a whole crew.

Cincinnati still looks puzzled. Not believing a word being said.

--So you saying Tayvon is rabid or something? That he’s out eatin’ folk? Then why the police ain’t found him? How he take a shot to the gut and keep on going? Man, you called this meeting to tell us some kinda what? Monster story. Man, fuck this.

The whole group erupts into bickering.

***

Tayvon has always been a man living on impulse. Angry with the world and angrier still with his place in it. More often than not, his impulse has gotten him into trouble. He has never thought through his actions, just acted. Most people find it erratic, hard to deal with and uncomfortable, but not his boys. Not the Lobos. They think it’s funny or he’s just acting the fool. They don’t seem to care if he does something stupid or doesn’t think through the consequences of his actions. So he works hard at burying his anger. Hiding it deep inside, only making its appearance when he can’t keep the lid sealed shut, knowing full well that his brothers will get his back no matter what he does.

He never wanted to be a part of the NHP, his ties are to the Lobos, specifically his crew. They are his family, but when family decides to change, you go with it. You sack up and accept the change because you have to. But now all his boys, his family, they are dead as far as he knows. And the extended family, the folks from the NHP, they are ready to kill him over what? Telling the truth?

As he courses through the tunnels, Tayvon’s joy about the newfound abilities changes into rage. He starts to dig up some of that buried anger about everything. It nips at his mind and stabs at his heart: bile, frustration, sadness.

The tunnel twists and turns in front of him as he runs down the tracks, almost floating over obstacles, his mind wandering on the story that has been his life as his belly fills with pain and rage. Before he knows it he has made his way to the transfer station in Harlem just a few blocks from the NHP Chapel. As he approaches the loading area he starts to slow down, trying to make sure that the people on the station don’t see him pull himself up, which he does quickly and with no effort.

The rain from outside has been echoing in his head, creating a steady static. Others mill about the subway station around him and for a moment Tayvon stops focusing on his own anger to examine the world and how it has changed. His head is mixed with the sounds of rain pounding on the concrete above and the drumming of dozens of heartbeats. He can smell the scent of menses in the air. Some Puerto Rican girl in the station, no more than seventeen, collecting period blood on a pad below her gash. The scent entices him deeply but does not push him to where he loses control, it merely invites him to give in. A gentle offer, not the firm push he felt last night. He immediately knows that blood and feeding will be a part of his life now. That this thing is his fuel. It’s what keeps him supercharged.

But with no family worth mentioning, no real remaining friends, the only thing that he has to drive him is the desire to get some revenge on Dit-Low and Endo and hope that his move to demonstrate his power could put him in place at the head of the NHP table. A sort of hostile takeover. Sure, he could take his time, make a plan, use tactics and foresight… but that isn’t Tayvon. Impulse. That’s what makes him tick.

***

Everyone is voicing their two cents, complaints and overall discontent. Shit that would never have happened when Gullah was holding the reins. Finally, Endo slams his hand on the table.

--Enough! We ain’t call you all here to tell some kinda fuckin’ campfire ghost story. This shit is for real. What we say is what we saw. And we tellin’ you that nigga is dangerous. You see his ass, you shoot him. Cincinnati, you feel? You see him, you put a fuckin’ bullet in his dome.

As the group once again starts up their bickering they don’t hear the sound of the door to the Chapel being slowly pried open. They don’t hear as Tayvon, who has braved the daylight diffused through the pouring rain, silently enters. His skin is still searing, but recovering quickly from the burning pain. He takes a quick breath as the strength pours back into his arms and legs and the heat flutters off of his skin, like the tingles of a slumbering limb rousing. After a momentary pause he runs into the Chapel, each foot landing with silent precision on the ground as he barrels straight into the room. Like some sort of damn fool.

Before anyone is even aware of what is happening Tayvon has gathered up Dit-Low and Endo. He has his forearm locked firmly around Endo’s throat, and as the rest of the NHP begins to unholster their guns he uses his bare hand to lift Dit-Low into the air by his windpipe, an impossible feat of strength that unsettles everyone in the room.

--You shouldn’t trust these fools anymore. They ain’t quite in the bess’ condition to be leadin’ us.

Tayvon squeezes his hand around Dit-Low’s windpipe, pushing his fingers deep into the skin and vital tubing of his airway. The weight of his struggling body and the holes formed in his neck cause Dit-Low to pull out his own trachea and explode blood into the room. He collapses on the floor with a steady stream of blood coursing out from the wound in his neck. He flails around trying to cover the hole but it is impossible. The scent of the blood pooling on the ground calls out to Tayvon like some sort of lover beckoning him to return to the bedroom.

Tayvon figures that with Endo held in his arm the others in the room will refrain from shooting. Using the remaining head of the gang as a human shield so that he can get some speaking time in. He tries to start. With more than twenty guns of varying caliber and type aimed at his head you’d think that he’d be working more quickly to get his point out, but it is hard for him to find words while there is all that blood coursing out on to the ground.

Endo tries futilely to free himself from the vice around his neck while Tayvon finally addresses the group.

--Ya’ll know I wish this conversation could be had under better circumstance. Didn’t expect to see so many of you here. I don’t got no beef with any of you, just these two. They are the only ones…

Cincinnati doesn’t wait for Tayvon to finish.

--Mothafucka, are you out of your goddamned mind? You know there is no way you’re getting outta this room. Why’d you bring your dumb ass here?

On that note Tayvon squeezes hard around Endo’s neck. The bones crunch and Endo drops to the ground a dead and lifeless husk. Then he lunges after Cincinnati.

As the first few bullets cut into him, the intensity of the pain is crippling. He is stopped quite literally in his tracks as holes are ripped into him all over: face, arms, lungs, and legs. Every part of him is torn into by a volley of gunfire. As he closes his eyes, he realizes that perhaps he should have put more thought into his tactics. The bittersweet scent of his own blood stirs his belly as he loses consciousness.

The rest of the NHP in the Chapel are a mix of perplexed hysterics and immediate claims for the head seat. A few go outside to make sure that the volley of gunfire hasn’t attracted any unwelcomed guests. The rest discuss what the next steps will be. Cincinnati suggests that they gather up the bodies and put them elsewhere so that they don’t start stinking up the clubhouse.

Chavelle, one of the other captains, agrees with him and the two start to relocate the bodies into the main showroom space of the abandoned Big and Tall. They first drag out Endo, followed by Dit-Low. Finally they get to Tayvon. Cincinnati grabs him by his feet and Chavelle by his hands. The two start to drag him into the room.

They are gone from the Chapel for only a few seconds before the rest of the crew hears the scream from Cincinnati.

--What the fuck? How the fuck?

Then a second later—more gunfire.

The whole group of arguing bangers runs into the dilapidated showroom and sees that Tayvon is in fact still alive and has jumped on Chavelle. His mouth is latched like a leech on to his shredded throat. Other than the blood on his clothes and the three holes put into him from what remained in Cincinnati’s clip there is no evidence that he has been even remotely hurt only moments prior.

Most of the NHP boys had spent all the rounds in their clips trying to put him down earlier and as a whole only have a few rounds left. The ones who have no more bullets simply run, back through the Chapel and out the employee entrance into the afternoon rainstorm. The few who are arguing about claims to the presidency stay to try to put him down.

***

The high-pitched pops of guns discharging are easy to recognize, even without enhancements. Considering that Ernie grew up in the city and has been on the front lines of a war, the sound is incredibly familiar. Certainly though it is harder to hear the sound of distant gunfire from within an underground subway tunnel.

Ernie has been following the scent of the Virus from the Bronx all the way through the tunnel until he makes it to the Harlem transfer station. The scent trail travels up onto the station platform and toward the gloomily lit exit currently being hammered by a torrential downpour. Then it dissipates, no doubt the result of the rain washing the scent trails out of the air. He breathes in deeply and then makes his way up the stairs into a flood of terrified gangbangers rushing out from what appears to be an abandoned Big and Tall storefront.

To a common bystander they may appear to be just some regular citizens running from gunfire, but Ernie can see the bulges of handguns and assorted semi-automatic weapons tucked into loose-fitting pants—that confirms for Ernie that he has found the right place. They are only about a block up and over from the transfer station.

He slips past the chaos of people scattering into the city, the rain and clouds shielding some of the sun’s rays but ultimately doing little to stop the burn. He is fine with the pain, just concerned that he has enough product in his system to keep him healthy. It’s more an issue of how others see him, and with the rain coming down in sheets it’s unlikely that anyone will see him starting to age or will even care. Rain this heavy is so rare that other than the automobile traffic on the street there is seldom a soul to be seen on foot who isn’t cowering under the protection of storefront awnings.

***

The NHP fire what remains in their guns at Tayvon, but the effort is futile. Certainly each impact is painful, but after a few seconds he returns to normal, as if he is healing almost as quickly as they are hurting him.

One of the bullets catches him in the face, shearing off a huge chunk of Tayvon’s jaw, exposing bone and inner cheek and gums. Tayvon lets out a scream, and the NHP boys feel a swelling of hope, only to have that feeling crushed when they watch wide-eyed as his face starts to heal itself. His jawbone starts to reform and tissue spills out over it until his face is brand new.

What they are fighting is still Tayvon, but some enraged rabid version of him. Some sort of bloodthirsty unkillable monster. As each one expends the bullets left in their clip they turn to run, only to be quickly snatched up by Tayvon. He has corralled them into the far corner of the showroom and is now standing between them and the only way out. Tayvon pulls up each fleeing member as they try to get past him and tears into their necks, cracking apart their limbs and sucking out the juices before effortlessly heaving their bodies to the side. The holes in his body are filling in quickly, and what fragments of metal remain embedded squeeze out from the wound and drop to the floor.

Tayvon can feel the Virus steering him, feel it compelling him to kill all that he sees so that he can enjoy more of the bliss, more of that loving warmth, but unlike the first night he still has some small amount of control of his faculties. He isn’t completely lost to the hunger, just drunk on the blood and the bliss.

--You think that you can stop me?

Very quickly only Peppers remains in the room. He is one of the only funny and happy members of the NHP that Tayvon has ever met. In fact for someone who could engage in some pretty reprehensible shit, he is downright chipper most of the time. Somehow Pep has expected the remaining NHP to advocate that he run the show now ’cause he is “solid” and “cause folk trust him.”

The reality of the situation is that his idea is “fucking retarded” as half the captains in the conversation moments ago have expressed. He will never convince anyone that he can or should be running the show, and certainly his ability to be likable is not much good when up against some sort of monster. The truth of this is setting in quickly and he is paralyzed with fear and bracing himself for the inevitability of Tayvon. There is no way around him and no exit nearby that he can run toward without running into Tayvon.