My Dead Body

by Charlie Huston

  —Joe.

  Phil and Chubby’s daughter and the boy, standing at the door that opens toward the front of the building.

  —Joe! Keys, man!

  I stand, bent over goddamn broken ribs, start toward the door under the stairs.

  Phil shakes his head.

  —Aw shit, no, man. No. This way, man.

  I get the keys out.

  —Predo will kill us all.

  I shake the keys at him.

  —And Sela’s not dead.

  She screams, there’s movement up there.

  Phil grabs the keys.

  —Shitshitshit.

  He opens the locks.

  The kid moves closer, Chubby’s daughter still in his arms.

  —I don’t think it’s safe down there.

  A sound like rusty chain scraped over a blackboard.

  Chubby’s daughter shakes her head.

  —There is peril.

  I push them both through the door, grab Phil, drag him after, pull the door closed.

  —Lock it, Phil.

  —What if we want to get out fast?

  —Lock the fucking door.

  One by one he does the locks, cursing with each one.

  —Fucked. Oh, now we’re fucked. Double fucked. Fucked for sure.

  Light comes from a half-dead exit lamp over the door. No light down below. Howls. Good news seems to be that whatever lives down here hasn’t killed us already.

  Things are looking up.

  We go down.

  Concrete steps and walls. Phil and the girl keep a hand on the wall as they go down and the light at the top fails their eyes and they become blind. I lead, still able to pick out the shapes of things. Kid is at the rear. No specialist, but he can see.

  Hit bottom after a flight, and I can see something dangling from above. See a squat shape in the corner at the base of the stair, smell gasoline. I go over there, feel around, find a primer, pump it, find a handle, pull it. Takes three yanks and the generator kicks to life, feeding power to the work lamp hanging overhead.

  —Sir.

  I look at the girl.

  —I fear we are not safe here.

  She’s wearing moccasin boots with a rim of fringe at the top, several lace skirts, a peasant blouse tented over her belly, skinny dreads pulled up on top of her head. No end of bracelets, rings, necklaces and charms. The boy’s got the same boots in black, brown cords tucked into the tops, kind of a pirate shirt, black leather jacket with epaulettes, a load of silver amulets dangling from leather straps around his neck or tied to the jacket, and a thin goatee.

  I go to the door under the work lamp.

  —You don’t like it down here, go back up.

  She rubs her arms.

  —It was supposed to be a haven here. Safe from the rising storm.

  Another steel door. More locks. And an iron bar braced across it, ends resting in U-joints bolted to the concrete.

  Phil raises a finger.

  —Joe.

  The girl looks at some trash piled near the wall.

  —My father spoke so highly of Percy. Our expectations were overmatched by reality. He seemed more a fool than a wise man. And the Hood itself, more a prison than a paradise for people of color. Cure. The very word promised safety. How were we to know?

  I think about jamming my fingers in my ears, but keep looking for a way out instead.

  There’s no ventilation to speak of. Exhaust from the generator flows into a plastic tube that runs duct-taped to the wall until it reaches a tiny vent above the door up top. A bundle of wires comes in through the same duct, snakes down the wall and into a hole drilled in the concrete wall next to the steel door.

  Phil edges closer.

  —Joe.

  The boy steps up.

  —I had the number. It gets passed around. Coalition, Society, people in need can find a number to call to talk to someone at Cure house. I think they ran a help desk when they first started. Or a crisis line. But I had to call a few times before anyone answered. Sela. I told her who we were, what we needed. What Delilah is carrying. She told us to come to the building over there.

  He points north.

  —On Seventy-second. Cure owns it. Buzz the super and it rings upstairs here and they let you in. Go straight back, Sela was in the alley waiting to bring us into here.

  The girl shakes her head.

  —That was the first sign that all was not well.

  Phil clears his throat.

  —Joe.

  The boy is nodding.

  —Yes. Sela didn’t look very. Healthy. And as soon as we got inside, we could see the situation was not what we were looking for.

  The girl points up the stair.

  —The Horde woman seemed all but mad. She spoke to comfort us, encouraging us to stay, but I sensed something.

  The kid touched his forehead.

  —Delilah can see things sometimes. Like she has the sight.

  She raises a palm.

  —Just what is given to me. And I sensed she had mad designs on the child. Soon, my fears were confirmed. She gave us drink, but it was drugged. We slept.

  I’ve got my face close to the door, my nose at the crack.

  I can hear that chain-scraping sound. Moaning. Can’t tell how many. Smell Vyrus. Wrong Vyrus. Something wrong. Smell dying. Smell wet concrete and mold and shit.

  —Joe.

  I look at him.

  —What, Phil?

  —Joe. We shouldn’t open that door, Joe.

  —Why’s that, Phil?

  —It’s bad in there.

  I look around the space.

  —Well, you can stay here and choke on exhaust fumes until Sela gets it together and Amanda opens that door up there for her.

  He’s staring at the garbage against the wall.

  —She stopped feeding them is all.

  I take a closer look at the garbage.

  I.V. bags, dry and crusted. No wonder I feel light-headed. Thought it was just the way the girl smells. All that extra blood pumping around inside her.

  Phil points up.

  —Why Sela is like she is, the blood, what was left, it’s been coming down here, to keep them alive. But Horde stopped.

  —Not like it’s a secret her people are starving, Phil.

  He shakes his head.

  —Uh, no, that’s the thing, I’m not like an expert in the field, but what I’m saying is, on the upstairs floors, those are her people. People who, you know, came here to join, to join Cure and get the, what she promised, get the cure. And yeah, they’re starving too. But this?

  He points at the door.

  —This is where she keeps, and I’m just the messenger here and I tried not to let you take us down here so don’t be uncool about this, but this is where she keeps her experiments.

  He scratches his head.

  —In what she call, um, cross-splicing. Which, I don’t know what it means, so don’t ask, but if I were to guess I would say it means like, experiments in playing god. Or something. And what I’m saying is, that these …things … they don’t just, this is the scuttlebutt, they don’t just get into uninfected blood. Sure, yeah, that’s the flavor of choice, but they go any which way.

  He points at me.

  —If you’re following what I’m saying.

  He scratches his head.

  —Which is, I’m saying, they drink infected blood too.

  The door at the top of the stairs rattles.

  The girl points at me.

  —Can you not fight?

  The kid puts an arm around her shoulders.

  —I’ll stand with you, man.

  The girl makes a fist.

  —And I. She wants our baby. She wants our baby to experiment on. And I will die to save our child.

  I sort keys, find the ones that match the brands stamped on the locks.

  —No.

  She steps back.

  I open the first lock.

  —She won’t do anything to
you or your baby. Not yet.

  I open the second lock.

  —You’ll be safe.

  I fit the key to the last lock.

  —Until I get back.

  I pick up the iron bar that I took away from the door.

  She sticks a finger at me.

  —You said you knew a way out.

  I heft the bar.

  —I was probably wrong.

  She steps back.

  —We are abandoned.

  I could tell her again that I’ll be back, but who the hell am I? What would it mean to her? And I’d probably be wrong anyway.

  I get both hands on the bar.

  —Open the door, Phil.

  —I don’t want to.

  —Do it anyway.

  He puts his hand on the key.

  —Story of my whole life.

  He turns the key.

  —I don’t wanna do it, but I’m doing it anyway.

  He pulls on the door.

  —Shit.

  It sticks.

  —Shit I wish I was high.

  He’s not the only one.

  They drink infected blood too. Like I don’t have enough to worry about, I got to worry about something trying to go for my neck.

  Phil gives the door a good yank and it comes unstuck and something whips out of the darkness and there’s a mist of blood and Phil is gone. So it looks like it really does prefer uninfected blood, and I’m running after, swinging the iron bar, beating on something that has my friend.

  Huh. Phil Sax. My friend. You think the craziest shit when things get all fucked up.

  I don’t get a look at it.

  Not a good one anyway.

  It’s brittle is what I know. Fast, but brittle. Every time I bring the iron down, bits of it snap off and clatter to the ground. So I keep hammering, breaking it down, beating a hole in it, trying to ignore the thing sticking up from its shoulder that looks like another head, until I hit it and it snaps off too. Stuff is running down the bar and my bad hand keeps slipping off when I make contact. It’s come away from Phil to rake its claws at me. Gets my thigh, back of my left arm. Lift the bar over my head and bring it down tip first, jamming it into the wound where the head thing was and there’s a sound like when you pull the neck of a balloon and let the air keen out, only loud, and it runs into a wall, bounces off, runs into the wall again, and again, and collapses into a heap stippled with broken spines, looking like one of the slides Amanda showed me.

  I’m yelling at the kid to close the door for fuck sake. He starts pushing it closed. I catch a glimpse of Chubby’s daughter throwing up behind him. Their names come back to me: Delilah and Ben.

  I hope Sela doesn’t kill them.

  Door closes, locks lock.

  I keep still.

  —Aw shit.

  I move forward a step.

  —Aw shit, Joe. I think it ate part of my stomach.

  Smells like water ahead. Smells like water and waste and wet rusty metal. Smells like sewer grate.

  I know where to go.

  Phil’s gonna die.

  There’s a hole in his side I can stick my hand in. And that’s what I’m doing, trying to shove his shredded shirt into it to slow the blood. Most of his scalp is gone, an ear. His right foot has been twisted around backward. There are pinholes in his cheek. When he talks, little bubbles of blood pop out of them.

  He’s gonna die, but there’s still a lot of blood in him.

  Enough to do me right.

  —Joe.

  Light is coming from a blue safety lamp up at the junction that takes you out of this access duct and into the tunnel. The Lexington line. Somewhere close to a platform I think. I can smell people.

  It all smells like fresh air.

  After the Cure house basement, even the sewer smells like fresh air.

  I found the grate not far from the door. Found it when my heel caught in it and I dropped Phil. He started screaming and I thought the rest of whatever was in there would be on us, but they just howled and pounded walls. The one I killed, the only one that had gotten free of its cell. Too dark to know how many more. Ran my hand down the wall, felt at least seven doors, dead bolts, felt some kind of jury-rigged motors hooked to them, wires. Seven doors I could feel, but it’s a big basement.

  I got the sewer grate off and pushed Phil through. He got knocked out when he hit his head. Good for him. Got him shouldered, went against the flow of waste. It spills toward bigger and deeper avenues. Felt some dry cold air and scented it back. Had to use the iron bar to open a hole in rotted masonry.

  And here we are.

  With him dying.

  All that blood just spilling out by the second.

  —Joe, you can do it.

  Him talking nonsense.

  —Infect me.

  Why would I do such a thing?

  —You can save me. And, hey, OK, we’ve had some problems in the past, some times when I’ve been less on the up-and-up than maybe I let on to be, but mostly, mostly you’ve been able to beat a straight answer out of me when you needed one so. Do you know where my pomade is?

  He pats around at his hip pocket.

  —Had a can. I. My hair feels like it’s messed up. Can you, Joe, you got a mirror or something?

  —Hair looks fine.

  —Like you know. This, hair like this, it’s a constant maintenance issue. It doesn’t just, you don’t let it be casual or anything. Got to invest in upkeep. Time and effort. And. Joe. Infect me. It’ll take, I know it will. And. Hey, here’s a happy thought, if I’m, aw shit, I got to try not to laugh, but once I’m infected, and I heal, and, think, think of the beatings you can give me then. Huh? Huh? Pretty good, huh?

  He giggles.

  —Aw, shit, I laughed. Oh, and, Joe, who’s gonna roll you a cigarette? Right? What asshole is gonna line up for that gig? Joe. Bleed a little is all. Just bleed on me a little is all. Come on, saying, I’m just a fucking wound anyway, bleed on me a little. I know it will take.

  More of his blood lost, without me drinking it.

  His fingers flutter.

  —And I know what you’re thinking and OK, I get it, because you already can’t stand me and why have me around even more, but, Joe, it’s what I’ve been after. Saying, why have I Renfielded around so many years if it wasn’t for a shot at this? Know? So, I won’t hold it against you either way, but, Joe, come on. I. I. Man, saying, man, I don’t want to die, not without trying.

  I think about Amanda’s slides. I think about what the active Vyral cells do to a person who isn’t Vyral positive. I’ve seen it. There are worse ways to die, I suppose. But it would be a short list.

  —Phil.

  —Joe. Joe Pitt. My main man, Joe Pitt.

  —Phil.

  —Come on, Joe.

  —If I infect you, I won’t be able to drink your blood.

  He blinks.

  —Aw shit! Jesus, I’m saying, Jesus, I’m saying, is that what we’ve come to in extremity, Joe? Is that what we, a team we’ve been, is that what it comes to? You don’t want to try and save my life because it will mean you can’t eat my corpse? Is that, is that how, and excuse the term because I know I’m on a limb here, but is that how friends behave?

  —Who said we were friends, Phil?

  He looks away.

  —That hurt, Joe.

  I reach into my jacket.

  —Phil.

  —Don’t even try to apologize.

  —Phil.

  —I do not want to hear it.

  —Sorry about this, Phil.

  —What did I just?

  The blade comes out and I pull it across my palm and hold my hand over the hole in his stomach and my blood dribbles into the wound.

  He looks at me.

  —Hey, Joe, hey.

  His eyes go side to side.

  —Hey, Joe, thanks.

  White mucus starts to well at the edges of his eyes. The blood pumping from his wound blackens. A tremor runs through his bones. And I
drop the blade and grab his head and yank it hard to the side and pull up and I don’t know for certain, but I think I broke his neck before he felt too much of it. And he lies there dead.

  I get up. Pick up the blade. Find my tobacco, but my fingers are too sticky with blood to roll one. Matches are wet anyway. What else I got? I got some keys to the Cure house. Got some car keys. Chubby’s money and phone. Got my wire saw.

  I toe Phil’s corpse.

  Asshole. I’m an asshole.

  An asshole for wasting all that blood for no good reason at all. No reason at all. Just no damn reason at all.

  Start walking. I can’t take a train looking like I look. So I start walking down the tunnel. Then I start running.

  I don’t know why.

  I just do.

  • • •

  At Sixty-eighth I stop running.

  Platform full of people. No dead tunnel to use to cut around. Coated in blood and stuff that you’d have to call ichor. I plant myself against the wall of the tunnel, pressed into the angle of a beam, and wait. Few minutes pass and I feel the first tickle of a breeze. I wait couple seconds and it turns to wind, pushed ahead of a Six local. And then the train, squealing and sparking, clashing past me and into the station, back of the train about fifteen yards away in the light.

  I wait till the doors open, wait as people bump each other out of their way getting on and off, wait for the chimes to sound and the doors to close. Wait for a rush of air from the pneumatics and the lurch of the engine pulling. Then I break cover, run, jump onto the stub of platform at the end of the last car, grab a fistful of chain that dangles from the side, and crouch away from the window in the door so any kids staring out at the tunnel disappearing behind them won’t see the blood-covered monster hitching a ride.

  Huddled close to the steel, my face turned from the lighted platform, I got no way of knowing if anyone will see me. They do, there’s a good chance they’ll chalk it up at thrill-seeking kids and not bother telling the station master or Port Authority cop. Got no choice either way. No time to do this on foot.

  Evie wants me to find Chubby’s kid.

  Mission accomplished. But somehow I don’t think I’ll get a break from her if I show up and tell her where I left the girl.