No Dominion

by Charlie Huston

  I finish the blood. Set the empty bag aside.

  —Sure.

  The Count hands me the syringe. I look at the careful measure of anathema inside. Pigtails is watching me, panting.

  —C’mon, Joe.

  I slip the needle into her arm. Push the plunger. She sighs, shivers, goes under. I go back to my seat, open the Jack, pour a shot down my throat. It mixes sweet with the blood.

  The Count starts to fill the last syringe.

  —You won’t regret staying, Joe. She is wicked crazy. Start in on her when she’s still half on the nod, she’ll do things no girl would ever think of doing.

  I take another drink.

  —Where’d you get them, anyway?

  He looks up.

  —The girls?

  —Yeah.

  He looks back down, focused on filling the syringe with the proper measure.

  —Hell, man, I infected them. Wasn’t easy. Had to take a couple shots at it. But I followed the old lady’s plan. Made a profile. You know, looked for chicks like me. Couple of them couldn’t take the Vyrus at all, rejected it outright. Couple others just freaked out. But I had to have me the three brides. You were right about that, man. Totally cliché, but I had to have it. Like the ultimate Vampyre status symbol and all. I know it’s weak, but, like I said, spoiled rotten. That’s me.

  I point at his syringe.

  —Why don’t you put a little more in there?

  He looks at it.

  —Oh no, man. You don’t mess with this shit. Too much and you are fucked for life in the worst way.

  —Yeah, that’s what Vandewater said.

  He grins.

  —Hey, is it true what Terry told me?

  —What’s that?

  —Said you dosed her. Gave her a hot shot. Said she’s hooked on the bad dose now.

  —Got me. I didn’t even know she lived through it.

  —That’s what he said.

  —Must be true.

  —Oh, man, that is the worst. She is so messed up! Bitch’s gonna be jonesin’ for the bad dose the rest of her life. That’s sooo F-ed in the A.

  —That Spaz at Doc Holiday’s. That was you hooked him up, right?

  He’s swabbing his arm.

  —Yeah. Had to get the ball rolling. He was just a fish lost in the woods. Needed friends. Gave him a little of the needle and he was gone. I’d been haunting your background a little, looking for a good spot to open your eyes. Terry said he needed an inciting, like, agent. Whatever. I met The Spaz out back, by that take-out window they got. Gave him the needle good to go. Not a heavy dose, just enough to push him over the side. Told him to hit it in the can. Pow! That was that. I watched some of that through the window. Man, he was all over the place. Thought for a second I overdid it. But you, man, you handled that shit.

  He has the tube around his arm.

  I point at the syringe again.

  —Yeah, so, like I said, why don’t you put a little more in there.

  He’s focused on slapping a vein up.

  —No joke, man, can’t mess with that. Take no chances on getting a hot shot.

  I take out my piece, cock it. He looks up.

  —Count, why don’t you put a little more in there.

  He looks at the gun.

  —Maaaan. Man, I thought you were taking all this a little too cool. I knew you were playing possum on me.

  I point the gun at him.

  —Yeah, surprise.

  He smiles.

  —Joe. I know you’re pissed right now, but what are you gonna do? Really. I’m Terry’s. I’m his guy now. You can’t fuck with me. You think you can intimidate me into taking a hot shot? How? You can’t lay a hand on me. Terry will freak. Kill me, you kill the golden goose. I mean, fuck all that spy shit, kill me, I won’t be opening my bank account to the Society. Period.

  —Uh-huh. Thing is, I just bought myself a license to fuck people up. It’s gonna cost me plenty. So I need to start getting my money’s worth.

  He squints.

  —I don’t follow.

  I shoot him in the foot. Blood sprays.

  He stares at it, stares at the place his toes used to be.

  —What the fuck?

  I stand up.

  —Amazing, isn’t it, that moment when you don’t feel any pain?

  He drops the syringe, howls.

  —And then it hits.

  He grabs a pillow from the couch, crams it over the end of his foot.

  I pick up the syringe.

  —Jesus, Count, how long you been around? Give it a minute, that thing’ll stop bleeding on its own. And the pain?

  I slip the needle into the bag of anathema.

  —That goes away, too. Stick around long enough, you’re gonna have to live through no end of pain.

  I draw some more of the shit into the syringe, remembering Vandewater’s lesson on how much does what.

  —What you should be doing is ignoring the blood and the pain. You should be trying to get away from me.

  I pull the syringe free.

  —That or trying to kill me.

  I hold the syringe like a dagger.

  —But then again, you’re spoiled rotten.

  I stab him in the neck.

  —And you wouldn’t know where to start.

  For a few minutes, it’s like with The Spaz at Doc Holiday’s. He spins and shakes and foams a little. Finally he falls on the floor, jerking and twitching in time to the spasms in his muscles and the visions flashing through his brain. Addicted at a deeper level now. Addicted to this experience. Helpless in it. The bad dose, he said.

  I hope it sucks as bad as the old lady said it does.

  I find a little picnic cooler under the sink and fill it with the blood from the fridge. I close the valve on the bag of anathema and toss that in. In a shoe box in the bathroom, just sitting there on the back of the toilet, I find over ten grand in rubber-banded rolls. Cash from the anathema he’s been dealing.

  On my way to the door, I stop, look down at the girls. Generally, you don’t want to fuck a guy up like this and leave him with a devoted harem that might come looking for you. Hell, this isn’t their fault. None of it is their fault. But there’s smart, and then there’s dumb.

  I put a bullet in each one, up close, in the heart.

  I go out the door, a cooler of blood in my hand, a box of money under my arm. I leave The Count behind me, plagued with nightmares, surrounded by his dead brides.

  Having done the job. Having started to make the world a better place.

  He knew. Fucking Terry knew.

  And he was right about knowing me. I don’t like it at all, but he was right. Knowing me well enough to send me over there. Knowing I’d ask a few questions. Knowing what I’d do when I heard some answers. And knowing damn well I’d be ready to take his goddamn job if it meant getting away with it. And, fuck all, knowing it had to be done. The brat needed to be taught a lesson.

  You don’t fuck around like that and come out on top. If he hadn’t been put in his place, he would have just done it again. Spoiled kids are like that.

  —So what is it?

  The fingers of Daniel’s right hand run over the half-empty bag. He rubs a fingertip through a drop of blood that has congealed at the valve opening.

  —As Maureen told you, it’s anathema.

  —Maureen?

  He smears the drop of blood between his thumb and forefinger.

  —Sorry. Mrs. Vandewater to you.

  I shift my ass on the floor, stiff from sitting here while I’ve been telling him the story.

  —OK, it’s anathema. But the other thing, was she right about that? The visions.

  —Well, visions.

  He brings the fingers to his face and sniffs, grimaces, wipes them on the floor.

  —In this batch, no. But in fresh anathema?

  He shrugs.

  —Certainly there are visions.

  I look at the bag on the floor.

  —Are the
y real?

  —Simon, of course they’re real, they’re visions.

  —But. Do they mean anything?

  He scratches his head.

  —You’re making it very difficult for me to answer you. Are they real? Do they mean anything? A vision is a personal thing. What can I tell you about what one might mean or not mean?

  —Fucking hell, man, do they have anything to do with the Vyrus? Can you learn anything about…about?

  —Yes?

  —About us? About all this shit? I.

  He smiles.

  —Simon, I do believe you’re looking for a little wisdom this evening. How refreshing that is, coming from you. How hopeful.

  I get up.

  —Fuck you.

  His smile gets bigger.

  —Oh well, back to square one.

  He holds out his hand. I take it and he pulls himself up, not needing my help at all.

  He takes my arm, walks with me out of his cubicle and toward the stairs.

  —I know what you’re asking. I do. But I want you to know, as well. I want you to know that for each of these questions you ask me, there are any number of ways the answer might be approached. Any number of lessons to be learned. That said.

  He stops us at the top of the stairs.

  —I personally did not find the anathema visions to be either illuminating or useful. Entertaining. Pleasant. A distraction. But empty.

  I look at him.

  —You?

  He looks down, shrugs.

  —We were all young once.

  He looks back at me.

  —Really, everyone was doing it back then.

  —She said it was permanent. The addiction.

  He releases my arm.

  —Honestly, Simon, think. Once in a great while, think. An addiction. In the blood. In the Vyrus. How do you think such a thing would be best dealt with?

  But I don’t need to think. I know. I’ve done it.

  —Fasting.

  He nods.

  —Fasting. Starving it out. Killing it. And.

  He raises a finger.

  —What does that suggest?

  —I.

  —Think.

  —I. No. I don’t. Just tell me. I’m tired and I want to go home. Just fucking tell me. Just tonight. I came and visited like you wanted. Can’t you just? Jesus.

  He holds up both hands, palms out.

  —Alright, alright. You’re tired. Just this last thing.

  He starts down the stairs. I follow.

  —The Vyrus, Simon, it’s not general. Not one thing. Not all the same. That boy you saw, the one who died when they tried to infect him? He wasn’t rejecting the Vyrus, it was rejecting him. Because it wasn’t for him. It wasn’t his Vyrus. Each of us, we offer something to it, and in each of us, it changes, becomes unique over and over again.

  He stops at the foot of the stairs, faces me, taps a finger against my chest.

  —The Vyrus in you.

  He taps himself.

  —Is not the Vyrus in me.

  We continue walking, heading toward the door.

  —Anathema: The Vyrus in freshly infected blood, at its most robust as it seeks to take root. It can sustain itself for a time outside a body. But the only body it would ever thrive for, it has been killed, killed when the anathema was harvested. Introduced to a new body, one already home to another Vyrus, the two will go to war. The visions? These are the death throes of the anathema, its longings for the body it should have inhabited. The addiction, its remnants in the blood, struggling for survival. Starve it long enough? And your Vyrus, the Vyrus meant for you, will kill it utterly. This is why the larger doses are so painful. Given time, the Vyrus in its proper place, in its home, it will always win out. But the struggle can destroy the home.

  We’re at the door, the cooler of blood and the box of money waiting where I left them.

  He points at the cooler.

  —This, what’s in there, it’s empty. Outside of a body, disassociated from a, forgive me, but disassociated from a soul, it is only nourishment for the Vyrus. But it is not what it seeks. It seeks transformation. In you. Your Vyrus is incubating in you. Waiting to give birth to something more. We are cocoons for it, Simon. Each of us unique.

  He spreads his arms.

  —But none of us special.

  I look at him.

  —Daniel.

  —Yes?

  —None of that helped me a fucking bit.

  He sighs.

  —Well, I’m tired, too. So it’s all I have for you tonight.

  He hauls the door open.

  —Go home, Simon. Get some rest. Think about it. You’re always welcome.

  I pick up the cooler.

  —You want any of this?

  He rolls his eyes.

  —Not listening at all, are you?

  —Just asking.

  I pick up the shoe box.

  He points at it.

  —But you know, we can always use a few extra dollars.

  I give him the two grand Digga gave me.

  —Don’t spend it all in one place.

  He fans himself with the sheaf of bills.

  —Big spender, Simon. You’re a very big spender.

  I step out the door.

  —Daniel. What about Percy?

  —What about him?

  —You guys gave me his name. Was he? Were you in on?

  —It’s not all plots and intrigues, Simon. Sometimes, shit just happens.

  I nod, turn and walk away.

  —Safe home, Simon.

  —Yeah, same to you.

  And I’m gone.

  So, it’s the job now. It’s the job and the whip and Terry’s mosaic. And if that’s it, if it’s the job, then it’s doing the job my way.

  Anathema.

  Whatever the fuck it is, figure it’s a problem that’s not going to go away on its own. Now that that shit is in the community, figure someone’s gonna have to root it out. Gonna have a long to-do list tomorrow.

  I owe Chubby Freeze. Chubby who vouched for me. Whether I really needed it or not. Chubby, who’s more connected than he’s let on. Figure he and I will have to have a talk about that, too.

  And Predo. I’ll have to talk to Predo. The job means talking to Predo. Fucker works during the day. Can’t keep regular hours like the rest of us. Interacts with too many people out there in the world for that. Gonna have to talk to him about inter-Clan security issues. Wish I had thought of that. Figure that was enough of a reason to have said no to Terry right there. Fucking hell.

  I’ll need to start scouting some helpers. Some of Lydia’s people maybe. I wish Sela was still around. But she’s not. Sela’s Uptown looking after the girl. That’s where she belongs. I don’t want to think about the girl any more than that.

  Daniel. Gonna have to talk to him some more. Jesus. Ask him a question and all he does is kick up more dust. But it is interesting dust.

  Like, if it’s so hard to infect someone, to find a match, and seeing as we do so little live hunting, leave behind so few that have been fed on directly and left standing; seeing all that, how is the population maintained? Seeing all that, it makes me wonder about where new fish come from. Makes me wonder if Vandewater’s the only one with a profile. And all the fresh faces down here? All those young rhinos up in the Hood? Maybe Tom’s not the only one who was making his own new fish. Maybe Vandewater’s not the only one manufacturing enforcers.

  Figure there’s something there. Something in there and in all Daniel’s pseudospiritual psychobabble. Something about the Vyrus. Something about it being unique in the vein. About the way only some people can take it. Something about…Hell. Figure it’s something I’m not smart enough to put together on my own. But sure as shit figure that’s a section of Terry’s mosaic that needs dusting off.

  And figure Terry’s no fool. Yeah, he knows me pretty well. Knows me a fuck of a lot better than I know him. Better than I want to be known. Figure he was right: I want t
o know things.

  Can’t leave a scab alone. A scab, for instance, like that picture up there in the old lady’s place. That picture of her and Predo and Terry. The Count telling me, She makes enforcers.

  Figure that’s a scab I’m gonna want to pick at plenty. Pick it till it comes off in my hand and shows me the wound below.

  Tomorrow.

  Now, I got that beer at home, and all those cigarettes.

  Hurley and Tom left my door unlocked when they tossed my place for the anathema. I push it open with my toe, kick it closed, and reactivate the alarm. The upstairs has been given a going over, but not too rough. They know where I live. Downstairs is gonna be a mess.

  I can smell Hurley and Tom and the partisans they brought with them. But that doesn’t keep me from smelling the real trouble. It doesn’t even matter that the smell is always around. In the air. On the sheets.

  It’s different when she’s actually here.

  I stand at the foot of the stairs and look at her, sitting on the floor in front of the open closet, in front of the open minifridge with the lock torn off, staring into the biohazard bag in her lap. The room, a mess around us.

  She looks up.

  —You missed my reading, Joe.

  My alarm clock is on the floor, near my feet. It’s just after midnight.

  —I know.

  —That was really important to me.

  —I know.

  She looks in the bag. Looks up.

  —Joe, what is this?

  —You should put that down, baby.

  —What is it, Joe?

  I adjust my grip on the handle of the blood-filled cooler.

  —That’s the job, baby. That’s what I do.

  She opens her mouth. Closes it. Bites her lip. Talks.

  —You need to tell me.

  She holds the bag out at arm’s length.

  —You need to tell me about the job. Now.

  I think about the new job. I think about trying to explain that to her. I think about telling her the truth. I think about losing her.

  It’s a decision she should make for herself. One for which she will need the truth.

  I take a deep breath.

  —I’m a courier. For organ dealers. I move body parts.

  The bright red bag dangles from her hand.

  I take a step. I set the cooler on the floor.

  —Some people, they need money. They need it bad.

  I place the shoe box on top of the cooler.