“I spent ten years alone with a robot on the top of the Empire State Building. And by most accounts, I was a pretty big dick before all that. So.”
DeVille pours more booze. “That’s when you lost her.”
I grimace. Light a cigarette. “That’s when I lost everyone.”
DeVille pushes my one, frayed photo of Momma Bear across the aluminum top of the kitchen island. “But she’s the one who mattered.”
Ah, fuck. Don’t go down this road again.
No. Ten years of distance and having to kill the parasite’s mimic of her—twice—has shut down most of those avenues.
Burn the damn thing.
DeVille says, “I’m not trying to pry—”
I grunt. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” DeVille takes another drink. “I was gonna say, I’m not trying to pry, but you need to let go of this shit. For your own good. Reason my mood’s better? Because of this—” She points out the window. Around the apartment. “We can live again. A society of survivors. And we can fight back. We can...reclaim some of what we lost. Even Jade is happier now. We aren’t alone anymore.”
I finger the photo of Momma Bear. “Got any other clichés to throw my way?”
Thy name is irony.
DeVille snatches up the picture. “She’s goddamn dead. It’s time for you to sack up and move on.”
I lunge for the photo. “She’s dead cuz of me.”
She keeps it beyond my fingers. Slaps my hands away.
My arm bounces back. Knocks over my cup of whiskey. Amber liquid beads together. Goes splashing off the island. Drips to the floor.
DeVille leans in. “What. Do. You. Want.” She flips the photo between her fingers. “I mean, do you actually enjoy being a miserable bastard?”
I squint at her. Relent. Take a drag off my American Spirit. I shake my head. “No. No, I don’t actually enjoy being a miserable bastard.”
DeVille refills our cups of whiskey. Places the photo of Momma Bear on the island—face-down. She lifts her cup. Holds it out. Waits for me.
She’s right. And you know it.
I tap my fingers on the island. Ash my cigarette into the can. Watch the spilled whiskey drip drip dip onto the floor. I stand. March to the bathroom. Grab my dirty shirt off the ground. Catch my eyes in the mirror again.
“Fuck it.”
I head back to the kitchen and use the raggedy cloth to soak up the booze. Ain’t perfect but it’ll have to do.
DeVille’s still waiting. Whiskey cup outstretched.
I pick up my own. Cock an eyebrow at her. Clink my cup against hers. “What are we drinking to?”
“To having a future, Big Daddy.” She chuckles. Tosses the whiskey down her throat. “Which reminds me: What the hell is your name? Your real name.”
I suck my booze. Don’t bother with the lemonade.
Eyeball DeVille.
Tell her: “Marcus. My name is Marcus.”
DeVille holds out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” She smiles.
I offer one back. “This’s a good do-over of our less-than-pleasant introduction at Sikorsky.”
We shake. Our hands linger together in the air.
Oh, you kids.
I nod to the whiskey bottle. “How long are we gonna drink to the future?”
“Got somewhere to be?”
“No.” I laugh. “No, I really don’t.”
“Good. I’ve been waiting for a drinking buddy.”
“Tin-shacks pubs not your thing?”
DeVille takes a deep breath. “Well. There’s nothing wrong with em. But Caleb doesn’t drink much. Athena doesn’t drink at all. Jack and Catarina are always attached at the hip.” She shrugs. “And the rest of the camp can’t really keep up with me.”
“I guess you’ve got an iron liver.”
“I’m a Marine, Marcus.” She looks at me like I’m a big stupid idiot moron asshole shitbird fucker.
But it’s nice when she says my name.
I’ll take it.
I say, “Challenge accepted.” Lift my empty cup. “Fill’er up.”
“Your funeral, cowboy.”
* * *
An hour later and we’re wandering through the enclave courtyard. To show how newly fuckin restrained I am, I only bring one Colt—the M1911. We’re both a little tipsy. Food seems like a real good idea. But we’re too lazy to cook.
I also lack any cooking tools, so that’s an issue.
Which means sampling takeout.
Chinese? Pizza? Sushi? Burgers? Fried chicken?
Haha! No, you fool!
I follow DeVille up a steep metal staircase in a skeletal building. Two flights. We pass neon-lit bodegas. Pass other survivors on their lunch break. Or catching dinner if they work the late shift. It’s still early afternoon.
A baby drone the size of a baseball flutters over to us. It scans us. Squeaks. Flees.
I frown. “Robots usually like me.”
DeVille shrugs. “Those little things showed up around the fort a few days ago. Dunno what they do yet.” She looks to me. “You should ask your uncle.”
“Surveillance maybe or...” I scratch my cheek. “I mean we’re not that drunk.”
“Whatever, c’mon. Manny’s is right here.” She grabs my hand. Drags me to a blue and white food counter that musta come from an old diner.
We balance ourselves on two matching stools in front. DeVille to the right of me.
There’s about a dozen people chowing down on picnic tables behind us.
DeVille drums her hands against the counter. Shouts: “Manny! Where are you? Two empty bellies out here.”
An unseen grumpy male voice responds: “Whaddaya want?”
I yell back: “A menu?”
“What the hell are you on about?” An impressively-skinny middle-aged white man pulls back the curtain separating the cooking area from the front counter. He barks, “We don’t have menus. We only serve two damn things: lizard chili and beer.”
DeVille interrupts my blinking. “Yeah, and we’ll have two.”
Manny nods to her. “You got it DeVille.” Jerks his head toward me. “But who’s this idiot?”
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “This idiot is Jack and Catarina’s boy. Caleb’s nephew.”
Manny makes a face like someone just let a nasty fart rip. Eyeballs me like I’m to blame. “Except Caleb’s a genius.” He steps back into the kitchen. I catch a glimpse of several big pots and a bunch of little green bodies pissed to a board of wood before he yanks the curtain closed again.
DeVille’s hand falls from my shoulder.
I look to her. Say, “Thumbs-up for chili. Thumbs-up for beer. But are lizards real high on the list of animals to keep uninfected?”
“He used to run a reptile zoo. Manny. One of those tourist traps on the side of the road. He also just happened to make real kickass chili. Combine those skills and you’ve got my favorite dump in the camp.” She smiles. “Welcome to the end of the world.”
Manny clangs two metal bowls of lizard chili under our faces. Then two enormous mugs of beer. Doesn’t say a word. Just nods then heads back into the kitchen.
The chili is goddamn delicious. Lizard tastes a little like chicken. I take big mouthfuls in between gulping whatever beer it is I’m drinking.
I polish off my beer. Order another. Say to DeVille: “Thanks.”
She says, “For what? Mostly I just told you to grow a pair.”
“Not just that. After the cult at the island, I really...” I stare at the counter. “I needed a friendly face.”
DeVille wipes beer from her chin. “I know. That’s why I’m here you big dumb asshole. I saw Athena’s surveillance.” She frowns. “But I also saw how you ruined those rotten fuckers. There’s a lotta n
ew folks at the camp here who have you to thank. Jack was just gonna glass the island once we got you out. Have me deliver a tactical nuke. Caleb considered glassing the island before we got you out to test your healing...”
“Oh, delightful.”
“Yeah, Caleb can be kinda cold sometimes.” She waves her hands at our surroundings. “Hard to argue with the results, though.”
I grunt. Light a cigarette.
A big guy in fatigues and a tactical vest with a scarred, shaved head sits next to me on my left. Pounds the counter. Orders himself chili and beer. He examines me. Says, “So you’re the one everybody’s so excited about, huh? You do look like a damn caveman.”
I blow smoke through my nose. Lick my lips. “Dunno. Are they?”
“That’s the chatter. The Svoboda’s ‘Chosen One’ or whatever.” He chuckles. “But their ‘Chosen One’ needed to be saved by the rest of us. So much for that!”
I hear the people eating behind us stop. Their bowls and spoons clink into stillness. They hush themselves.
DeVille props herself up on the counter. “I didn’t see your ass on the island during the assault, Sergeant McIntosh.”
He pokes his tongue in his cheek. “Suck it.” This guy, McIntosh, he shrugs. Pulls a stink face. “I had business with my Spartans out at the western wall. Big motherfucker flesh-tower came a-knockin.”
He’s got fifty pounds and a few inches on me, but I’m not in the mood. I say, “Are we really gonna do this? The high-school-blah-blah-I’m-a-tough-guy shit?” I breathe smoke. “I have no doubt that you think you’re fuckin awesome. It’s just that I’m not impressed and I don’t care.”
McIntosh makes a show of looking me over. “I’m not impressed either.”
Oh, fuck this guy. Kill him.
Yeah. I’m totally fine with that idea.
I roll my cigarette around in my mouth. Take a long drag. Heat up the cherry. Spit it out into McIntosh’s eye.
He puts his hand up to block. Swipes at the stogie. Creates a shower of sparks. Flails.
I throw my weight behind a left hook that starts at my waist and carries through to my shoulder and my fist. It catches McIntosh above his left eye. Splits the skin there like a burst hot dog. Meat and blood and tissue bubble up.
He recovers. Clamps his right hand around me throat. Pistons with his legs. Then slams me down against the metal floor of Manny’s food shack.
My teeth come down hard. Scissor off the very tip of my tongue.
Tables shudder. Bowls and cups tumble to the ground. The whole building vibrates under me.
I giggle. Spit blood up into McIntosh’s face. “Having fun yet?” Offer him a red smile.
He puts on a confused face.
I grab his right hand. Pull the pinky and pointer fingers in different directions till they snap and he yowls like a whipped dog. Falls backward.
I scramble on top of him. Sit on his stomach. I lift him by his collar. Giggle again. Slam my forehead into the bridge of his nose. Once. Twice.
It’s mush that cascades blood.
McIntosh unsheathes and rakes a combat knife across my chest. My face.
Gives me a good deep laceration from below my left bottom rib to my right collar bone. Then my right cheek ain’t doing so great. Got a big split back where my molars are.
I shove my tongue through the hole. Wiggle it at him.
The red anger’s got me.
I catch his wrist when he tries to bring the knife across me a third time. Pound my palm against the bottom of his hand so bones break and the blade drops.
He screams.
I chuckle. Pick up the knife.
He shouts: “You’re fuckin crazy.”
I shake my head at him. “No, no.” Tsk tsk. “I’m just real tired.”
I hop up. Knife in hand. Drop my knees onto his chest. More bones break there. McIntosh’s lungs empty. I drive the combat knife into the fleshy underside of his jaw. He gags. Paws at me with broken hands.
“Shhhh,” I say.
Drive the combat knife farther.
Till it pops into his fat tongue. Glistens in his mouth.
I lean into his face. Drip my blood all over him. “You want me to keep going?”
McIntosh blinks tears outta his eyes. Shakes his head the little he can with my hand still on the hilt of the knife buried in his face.
I smile. “Good boy. You impressed now?”
He nods a little.
I pat his cheeks. Stand. Blood flows from me like rivulets.
I look to Manny. Pant. Say, “Sorry about the mess.”
I say to DeVille: “You all right?”
She says, “Yeah. McIntosh is a dick.”
I turn to the other people who’d been eating. Their eyes are wide. Men and women. Afraid. I say to em: “Hi. I’m your fuckin Chosen One.”
A cop and her bipedal robot partner arrive at the top of the stairs.
I whip around to face em.
The female officer holds up her hand. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
I lick my lips. Let a small torrent of blood dribble from my mouth to the floor. “He pulled a knife on me.”
“I know. We already saw. We aren’t here to arrest you. We’re here to get him—” she nods to McIntosh’s moaning form “—stabilized and to the hospital. Do you need medical attention?”
I shake my head. Cuz that sounds boring.
The robot says in a Mister Rogers voice: “Our SecurNet video feed has already shown this to be a case of Statute 54(a)1: Justifiable Assault With a Deadly Weapon.”
I blink. “Neat.”
DeVille takes my arm. “We should get going.”
“Yes, please. I’m sober again and it’s horrible.”
10. ...So Enjoy It
I stumble into my apartment. Leave blood on the doorknob. Hit the kitchen. Pour myself the rest of the bottle of Evan Williams. A full cup.
I lean against the island. Drink.
What doesn’t squirt out the side of my cheek burns its way down my throat.
DeVille closes the door. Tosses my apartment keycard onto the kitchen island next to me. She grabs her bottle of Jameson. Opens it. Pours herself a shot’s worth. Downs it.
Then she just watches me for a minute.
Watches me chug booze.
Watches me smoke my cigarette.
She puts her hands on her hips. Says, “What am I gonna do with you, Marcus?”
I feel whiskey dribble from the hole in my cheek. It saturates my beard. I lock eyes with DeVille. And the best I can muster is: “Huh?”
She rubs her face. Frustrated. “Fuckin hell.” She drags me to the bed. “Sit.”
I do.
She says, “Take off your jacket.”
I do. Wait.
She sighs. “Come on, gimme a break. You know where this is going. Take it all off. Don’t act like a little boy.”
I honestly don’t want to. Don’t wanna be shirtless in front of a woman.
So I don’t do a damn thing till she claps the side of my head.
DeVille says, “Come on!”
“All right, all right. Keep your shirt on.”
Which is the precise opposite of what you want her to do.
I roll my hoodie off my torso. Toss it. The wet fabric lands with a shlop. I grip the bottom of the white undershirt DeVille brought me. Wince. “Sorry about your shirt.”
She smiles. “Don’t worry about it.” Helps.
We peel away the sticky red shirt. Chuck it to meet the hoodie on the floor.
DeVille steps back. Hisses through her teeth.
My skin’s been split deep enough that muscle is showing.
The cuts will grow into new scars. Ones to match the hundred others that crisscross my body. Regeneration doesn’t f
ix those. Just increases cells and repair.
The parasite doesn’t give a shit about how I look.
Nope.
DeVille traces my wounds with her fingers. From my stomach to my chest to my collarbone. Then up to my cheek.
DeVille’s eyes flit over my frame. Something like pity on her face. “Your...body is...a roadmap of pain.”
I’m real fuckin uncomfortable.
She breathes deep. “I’m gonna get the first-aid kit from the kitchen. For the record, it’s in a compartment above the fridge. Every apartment has one. Get clean. I’ll bandage you up, all right?”
I nod. Grimace as I stand. Hobble my broken ass into the bathroom.
I look in the mirror.
Shit.
What an unpleasant sight I am. All this hair and blood and scars.
But, hey, wounds are healing at least. So that’s a win, right? Right?!
Ehhhhh...still itchy.
But the itch means they’re healing...
I step into the shower. Keep the temperature warm but not burning. The drain doesn’t swirl pink like before. It stays a constant red. Hitchcock’s Psycho in Technicolor by way of some saturation hack like Russ Meyer.
I soap up. Try to get the blood outta my goddamn dick-and-balls area.
Which, for the record, also needs a trim.
Then I stand there like an idiot. Let the water carry away my sweat. My blood. It’s impossible now to tell when I’m the “clean” that DeVille wants me to be.
Blood.
It’s all blood.
The bathroom door opens. I don’t turn around.
I hear clothes shuffle. Fall.
Hands wrap around my waist from behind. DeVille’s.
She lays her head against my shoulder. I feel her heat on my back.
My knees buckle. I drop to the ground.
Her strong hands stay locked.
She sits with me.
Water pelts us.
I lean against her. Let my head fall against her chest.
She runs her fingers through my hair.
The water continues to swell and flow with my blood.
I feel the rise and fall of her breast. I hear the rhythm of her heartbeat. Fast.
DeVille kisses my ear. “It’s all right.” She cradles me. Pulls me against her. “It’s going to be all right, Marcus. Just stay with me.”
Blood God (The Hroza Connection Book 5) Page 8