Blood Day

by J. L. Murray

  “Little nervous tonight, aren't you, friend?” said the hulk.

  Mike looked down at his hand, still shaking a little. He put it behind his back.

  “It hasn't been a good day,” Mike said.

  “Who you working for?” He narrowed his eyes and looked Mike over, putting his half-smoked cigarette to his lips. Mike could tell it was a real one. Not a modern one that the Revs sold in the stores.

  “No one,” said Mike. “Not anymore.”

  “You get fired or something?”

  Mike looked at him, knowing he looked pathetic, shaky, sick. He felt like throwing up again, but instead he took a breath. “I've been reported.”

  “Aw, too bad,” said the hulk. He stopped glaring at Mike. “So you want Deacon to kiss your booboos, is that it?” He ground the cigarette under his shoe. “Don't work like that.”

  “I just need a little help,” said Mike, an edge to his voice.

  “He helped you the last time you were here.”

  “This is different.”

  “I know your kind,” said the hulk. “You think you're better than us until you get into a bind, and then you come looking for Deacon, signing away your soul, just like that. You're on top of the world again. But you know the best part? When we come to collect, you people always look surprised. Sometimes you get violent. You people have no sense of honor.”

  Mike looked at the hulk, wondering what brought him to this life.

  “I'll pay,” said Mike. “I always pay my debts.”

  “You might not like this one.”

  “Whatever it takes,” said Mike. He was surprised that the conversation distracted him, and that he was now feeling better. He nodded. “Whatever it takes,” he said again.

  “Whatever you say, Novak.” The hulk shrugged and waved Mike through the door. Mike paused before going in.

  “You got a name?”

  The hulk frowned. “Why?”

  “I might want to thank you later.”

  “Matthew,” he said. “Blake.”

  Mike nodded. “Thank you, Matthew Blake.”

  “You were a little shook up,” said Blake. “I always try to talk you people out of it. I try. It never takes.” He sounded sad, and an emptiness behind his eyes suggested that he had tried many times. He looked away from Mike, shaking a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros.

  “Thanks for trying,” said Mike.

  “Be careful, Novak,” he said, lighting his cigarette. He met Mike's eyes one last time. “We're not nice people.”

  “Better than the alternative.”

  “Maybe,” said Blake. “But it isn’t a high bar.”

  The room was filled with smoke. Rough men and a few women sat at collapsible tables drinking and playing cards, cigarettes and cigars perched on their lips. Paint peeled from the walls. Across the ceiling, more marionettes hung from small hooks. They were in far worse shape than the ones upstairs in the glass cases. Many were missing limbs, most were so rotted that Mike couldn't even see their faces. There was a painted clown with rows of what looked like shark teeth that had survived unscathed, but once-pretty dresses and curls and tiny tuxedos were moldy and falling apart. Their eyes seemed to escape even the worst damage. They followed Mike as he made his way across the room, choking on smoke and black mold and cheap perfume. Mike tried not to look at the puppets and focused on the man he had come to see.

  Deacon was draped across a high backed red chair, looking withered as a dried leaf. He wore sunglasses that seemed to encompass his whole face, but they didn't cover wrinkled paper-thin skin sagging over drooping bones. Mike could see blue veins in the liver-spotted hands that clutched the arms of the chair.

  “You're late,” Deacon croaked. There was a small, battered table in front of him, a long, thin knife with a mother-of-pearl handle the only thing upon it. On the other side of the table was another chair.

  “Late?” said Mike.

  “Sit down, Novak.” Deacon barely spoke above a gravelly whisper, but even amid the chaos and noise, Mike could hear him clearly. He tossed his sunglasses onto the table. His eyes were red-rimmed and tinged with exhaustion, the gauntness of his face giving him a hollowed-out look. Lines crisscrossed across his cheeks and spread out like sunbursts from his eyes. Deacon was a husk.

  “I said sit.”

  Mike sat, frowning at Deacon. The old man didn't look at him, but surveyed the room.

  “How did we get here, Novak?” he said. “I used to be a king. Now look. Rotten ceilings. These fucking puppets. You think any of these assholes wouldn't slit my throat if it did them any good?”

  “I don't know, Mr. Deacon.”

  “Fuck you with the mister,” said Deacon, finally looking at him with his sad eyes. “Just Deacon. If we're going to do business, Novak, we have to have some kind of relationship here. Trust. How long has it been since you trusted someone?”

  “Business?” said Mike. “What do you mean? You don't even know why I'm here.”

  He snorted. “I'm Deacon. I know all kinds of shit. You know that better than anyone.”

  “I haven't written a story about you in years.”

  “Because they wouldn't allow it,” said Deacon. “Look, I get it. It was your job. And my business can be…controversial. But can you really say that I'm worse than the fuckers that sent you running here?”

  Mike leaned back in his chair. “No.”

  “Well then,” said Deacon. “We have an understanding.” He turned his head toward the crowd. “Get out of here. All of you. I need a private meeting.” His voice remained low, but it was as if he had just shouted the orders. Men stopped cutting cards, girls froze with shot glasses raised to their lips, the room became dead quiet. And then, as one, everyone stood up and filed out without a sound.

  “See that?” said Deacon, raising a gnarled finger. “That's goddamn respect. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a giant cigar. Using the wickedly sharp knife on the table, he cut off the end. Mike pulled out his lighter and raised the flame to Deacon's stogie.

  “How did you know I was coming?” Mike said, feeling suddenly eerie in the empty room. Smoke still hung like a curtain in the air.

  “First things first,” said Deacon, blowing smelly blue smoke out of his mouth. “Ask me something personal. Anything. And then I'll ask you. Let's show some trust.”

  “I wouldn't know what to ask you,” said Mike.

  “You? The intrepid reporter? Surely there's something you're curious about.”

  “Fine,” Mike said. “Why haven't they caught you?”

  “The Revs? Blind motherfuckers, aren't they? They don't want to see us. We're under the surface, away from public view. It's why we hunker down in shitholes and keep things quiet. To them, we're the bacteria they try not to think about. Besides, I have powerful friends.”

  “More powerful than them?” said Mike.

  Deacon shrugged. “Some might say that. But that's two questions. My turn.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  Deacon watched him, small and shriveled in his sport jacket, but still sharp as ever.

  “Did you murder your wife?”

  Mike stared at him. He opened his mouth, but thought better and closed it again.

  “I answered your question, Novak,” said Deacon. “Do me the respect of answering mine.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “That is not polite, Mr. Novak. It's a valid question if we're going to work together.”

  “Why do you keep saying we are going to work together?”

  “Did you kill her?” Deacon eyed the knife on the table, like it was a promise. Mike looked away.

  “No,” he said flatly. “I did not kill my wife.”

  “Everyone thinks you did,” said Deacon. “The famous Kyra Novak murder. It was in the papers, on TV, before they took the televisions away. Weren't you even arrested at one point?”

  “It wasn't me,” said Mike, meaning for the words to sound harsh, but they came out as defeated
.

  “Convince me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I can help you, Novak. Say what you will about me, but I've never done business with woman-haters. My Doreen would turn over in her grave. She fucking hated misogynists. And I loved her, so I hated misogynists too. Just because my wife is dead doesn't mean I stopped respecting her wishes. What about your wife's memory? Don't you want to honor her?”

  “By going into business with a criminal?” Mike said.

  Deacon smiled, a chilling spectacle. His teeth were small and brown and his whole face contracted into a series of wrinkles. Not in the eyes, though. His eyes stayed as cold as the blade of the knife.

  “Who's the criminal, Novak?” said Deacon. “I could call them right now. The Movers. Who would they take, me or you?”

  Mike swallowed hard. He stared at the wall behind Deacon. He thought of Kyra's face. Her skin had been so soft and smooth, even after she turned forty. Even after she got hooked on Slack and wasn't Kyra anymore. Even after she was dead.

  “I found her on the floor,” Mike said. There was no emotion in his voice. He was used up. He'd been used up since it happened. He'd told the story to so many cops that he lost his voice for two days.

  “Found her or put her there?” said Deacon.

  “That's two questions,” said Mike. Deacon didn't look amused. Mike sighed. “I found her there. It was the worst thing that's ever happened to me. The day I found her, I stopped living. She hadn't been herself for a long time. She was taking Slack. She had a miscarriage and was depressed so the doctors gave her Slack. But she kept taking it. It was before the Annex, before the Blackout. Before anyone knew who the Revs were or what Slack was.”

  “Vampire juice,” said Deacon.

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “Yeah.”

  “How did she die?”

  Mike felt his eyes go hard. He looked at his hands.

  “There was no blood. I mean, there was some, but the bastard had ripped her goddamn throat out. A piece of her was gone, half of her soft, beautiful neck. Just ripped away. I could see inside of my wife, but it just looked like meat. She was just meat.”

  Mike closed his eyes, remembering. Kyra on the ground, cold, so cold. He never should have left her alone, never should have left her. Mike gasped for air, blinking tears away. He thought he had used up all the tears, but here he was, crying in front of Deacon. Deacon had already said it best. How the hell had they gotten here?

  “They tore out her throat and left her on the kitchen floor,” Mike said. “The only blood they left was from the bottoms of their shoes and a little that sprayed on the walls. She was goddamn blue. They stole her blood and left her for me. I don't think they knew who I was or who she was. That was just the way they were back then. Do you remember how it was? Before Conrad came in and got them all hopped up on science? Do you remember the bodies? The fear?”

  “I remember,” Deacon said quietly.

  “Before the Blackout, even,” said Mike. “Before the children disappeared. No one knew.”

  “We know now.”

  “The Revs killed my wife,” said Mike. “I knew later, but back then, no one knew. I was inches from prison when the Blackout happened. And when the lights came back on, our government was run by monsters. Not political monsters like before, but real ones. And in the beginning, everyone was afraid. No one cared about me anymore. No one cared about anything but surviving. So many people died. Everything was chaos. And then, we all just accepted it. We got on with our lives. We gave blood, we went to work, we didn't go out at night. You want to know how we got here, Deacon?”

  “Tell me, Novak.”

  “We got here because we let ourselves get here. We stopped fighting. We accepted it.”

  “What do you suppose we should do about that, Mr. Novak?”

  Mike paused for a moment, puzzled. “How did you know I was coming?” Mike said.

  Deacon smiled again. “I think you know. Think about the Revs. Then think about someone worse. Have you met anyone like that lately?”

  “Joshua Flynn,” Mike breathed.

  “He's not like us, Novak,” said Deacon. He leaned forward. “You have to understand what you're getting yourself into here.”

  “What does he want from me?” said Mike.

  “Same as he wants from any of us,” said Deacon. “He wants to use us. But this time it just might be in our best interests: He's waging a war that isn't going to end pretty. It's going to be violent and a lot of people are going to die – or worse – before this is over. ”

  “Will he protect me?”

  “From the Revs? Yes. But who's going to protect you from Flynn?”

  “Is he one of them?”

  “I don't know, Novak. I don't know what the fuck he is. I only know that I am one scary motherfucker. I've killed people in more ways than I can count. Some were good people, most of them were bad. I've broken legs, ruined lives, I've killed entire families just to prove a point. But I'm an innocent babe compared to Flynn.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  “You don't have a choice,” said Deacon.

  A shadow crept toward them. The room darkened and a strange sense of air being pulled out the room left Mike slightly dizzy. The fog of cigarette smoke was replaced with a smell of dust and old books and earth, filling his nostrils. Joshua Flynn didn't so much walk into the room as he seemed to be carried by his own shadow. His feet moved, but his movements were too smooth. He was silk in water, he was like an eel through the now-murky room.

  “There is always a choice,” Flynn said. And then he was right beside him and when he stopped moving he looked so human that he took Mike’s breath away. He was vaguely handsome, but in the way that men in old tintype photographs were vaguely handsome. His lips remained just as red as before, but his cheeks were more flushed than they had been the first time Mike had seen him. He realized it had been earlier that day. It seemed like years.

  Mike started to stand up, but a hand suddenly on his shoulder pushed him back down. He turned to see who was behind him, but there was no one there.

  “Gentlemen,” Flynn said. He rested his sharp, dark eyes on Mike and he felt cold. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. “Mr. Novak. So nice of you to come.”

  “How did you know?” Mike said.

  “I know many things,” Flynn said. “I understand that I am something of a mystery to you.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Calm yourself, Novak,” said Flynn. “I mean only to educate. You know that I am not like the Revenants. You know that I am not just a man. So what else is left?”

  “I...don't know,” said Mike.

  Flynn suddenly smiled, splitting his face with a ghastly grin. “Only me,” he said. His red lips looked almost clown-like, and his perfect white teeth only reminded Mike of the sharper teeth resting just above them. Flynn's dark eyes danced, shining even in the dimness of the shadowy room.

  “I think what Novak wants to know,” said Deacon, “is what do you want him to do. Assuming he's interested.”

  “Is that what you want to know, Mr. Novak?” said Flynn. He was ten feet away, but Mike swore he could feel hot breath against his ear. He shivered and Flynn smiled. Mike preferred Deacon's smile.

  Mike watched Flynn for a moment, narrowing his eyes. He thought of Kyra, dead on the floor. He thought of the hospital, Sia the junkie strapped down, vomiting all over herself. He thought of Tess, of the newspaper he'd dedicated his life to, the woman he'd worked with for decades. He thought of watching shadowy figures taking everything he owned out of his apartment. He was a ghost now. He didn't exist except to bleed.

  “I want to know one thing,” said Mike.

  “Which is?”

  “Are you going to hurt them?”

  Joshua Flynn smiled. Mike felt something like a finger caressing his arm. He shook the feeling off.

  “We are going to obliterate them,” said Flynn. “They will be dust under our boots.”


  Mike nodded. “Fine. Tell me what to do.”

  “See there?” said Deacon. “That's how we do business.”

  Flynn looked from Mike to Deacon, his lip curling distastefully.

  “I'm afraid, Mr. Deacon, that this business does not involve you. It is strictly between Mr. Novak and myself.”

  “Fuck you, Flynn,” said Deacon, heaving his weary body forward. “I set this up. You do not want to piss me off.”

  “Don't I?” said Flynn. Something else besides amusement, besides revulsion passed over his face. Something like hunger. A whisper in Mike's ear sent a shiver down his spine. “Please leave the room, Mr. Novak. Wait for me in the theater.”

  Mike stood, looking warily at the monster who was his new employer. Flynn was saving his life. But Mike knew what was about to happen. He looked at Deacon. The old man, for the first time, looked afraid. His rheumy eyes looked from Mike to Flynn and back again.

  “Sit your ass back down, Novak,” said Deacon, a quaver in his gravelly voice. “I will kill you if you leave this room. You'll wish you went as fast as that wife of yours. Her death will seem like an answered prayer compared to what I'll do to you.” The knife flashed in his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mike. He didn't look at Joshua Flynn as he left the room. He didn't look back at Deacon. He closed the door behind him.

  He glanced at the hulk, Matthew Blake, who was still smoking outside the door.

  “Run,” said Mike, echoing Joshua Flynn's warning back at the office. “Just run.”

  Mike could barely hear the old man's scream when it came. He paused on the stairs, and the scream stopped almost as quickly as it started. Mike covered his mouth with a hand to keep from screaming himself. He forced himself to continue up the stairs. He was in the theater, trying not to shake, when he saw Blake run out the door.

  Mike waited in the theater for his malevolent benefactor.

  Six

  Viv got off the bus at the grounds of the Munson Experimental Hospital, looked up, and froze. Her eyes stopped blinking, her legs stopped moving, and even her breath stopped in her lungs for a moment. The building was as imposing as when it had been a mental institution, and the new towers and outbuildings extending beyond the original building gave it the air of a fortress.