by J. L. Murray
“What the hell is this?” said Dez.
“Joshua Flynn,” Mike said, his heart beating in his throat.
“We should go,” said Dez. “We shouldn’t be here, Mikey.”
But Mike was already skirting the hole in the floor and making his way to the staircase, slipping on some rubble once and hearing bits of the floor clatter onto the concrete below. Dez grabbed the back of Mike’s coat and pulled him away from the edge.
“Shit,” said Dez. “Intrepid reporter to the end.”
“Thanks,” said Mike. He found the stairs and they went down to the basement. Chunks of concrete blocked the other side of the door and it took both of their shoulders against it to force it open. With the screech of metal on stone, they finally managed to squeeze through. Mike walked in and stared at the hole in the floor, scratching his head.
“Jackhammer,” said Dez.
“What?”
“That’s what we use to get to the roots,” said Dez. “They teach us how to use them when we get our licenses.”
Mike nodded. “I forgot you were one of them,” he said.
“Just trying to get by,” said Dez.
“Yeah,” said Mike. “So it was a tree, then?”
“Yeah, creepy buggers. Black, stinking sap. We’re not supposed to tell people about them.”
“The kids said there were three,” said Mike.
“You really think the trees are Revs?” said Dez, crouching down by the hole and looking down. “Seems a bit far-fetched, don’t it?”
“We live in a world run by vampires, Dez.”
The man looked up at Mike and grinned.
“You make a fine point there, mate.” Dez dropped a handful of rubble down into the hole and Mike heard a dull clatter immediately. “Ain’t that deep,” said Dez.
Mike looked up as a sliver of light shone down on them. Part of the moon was visible from very far up.
“The ceiling’s gone,” said Mike. “We have moonlight.”
“So?” said Dez. But Mike had already sat on the edge of the hole and was lowering himself into it. “Oh, hell,” said Dez, and Mike could practically hear him rolling his eyes.
Mike fell when he dropped, rolling his ankle. He gave a little gasp of pain, but after moving it around for a bit, it eased up. Mike stood, trying his ankle tenderly.
“You okay?” Dez said.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” said Mike. “Just getting old.”
“Getting?” said Dez.
“Shut up, whippersnapper,” said Mike. He squinted around him. Nothing but dirt and steep walls of soil topped by jagged ridges of cement. The bottom of the pit was about the size of his old bathroom. Small, but big enough to move around in. He stepped from one side to the other. As he turned to go back again, something raked against the side of his thigh. Mike felt around in the dense, frozen ground and found something sharp poking out. It felt like a stick or a piece of root. He dug in his pocket and brought out the pocketknife he kept there. He opened the blade and started digging around the thing.
“What are you doing down there, Mikey?” said Dez.
“Found something,” said Mike. He moved the small blade carefully in and out of the frozen dirt, trying to dig the object out carefully without breaking his knife. After he’d gotten the earth out from around it as best he could, he folded the knife and put it in his pocket. Then he spit on his palms like he’d seen men do in the old movies and grabbed onto the wood, bracing his feet against the side of the hole. He pulled as hard as he could and the root gave a little. He fell onto his backside hard, but he got back up and tried again. With a sound like ripping hair, the root came out all at once and Mike just about whooped with excitement.
Settle down, old man, he told himself. It’s just a tree root. But he wedged the root, two inches around and six inches long, into his belt.
“Help me back up, Dez,” he called.
It took a lot of clambering, slipping, and one fall on his ass, but finally Mike was able to climb up the side of the pit, helped by Dez using his leather jacket as a rope.
“What the hell is that?” said Dez, pulling his coat back on. Mike pulled the root out of his belt and held it in the moonlight. Something was dripping from it and, as Mike wiped his sticky hand on his pants, he realized he was covered in it. It seemed to be black in the moonlight, but it was hard to say in the watery light. Mike turned the piece of wood from side to side. It was knotty and lumpy in places, shapes seeming to try to burst from the grain of the wood.
“Mikey,” said Dez. “Is that…?”
Mike squinted in the light. The shapes resembled something vaguely rounded, something that almost looked like…
“Is that a goddamn toe?” said Mike after a long silence.
Dez took the stick in his hand and held it up to the light, his handsome face scrunching up to look at it. He pointed with his other hand.
“You can see the toenail there. And these are bones from a foot. Do you see?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah.”
“Mikey, you’re covered in Rev blood.”
“Jesus,” said Mike. He wanted to shower very badly.
“If they catch you like that, man,” said Dez. “I don’t even know what they’ll do.”
“Then I guess we’d better not get caught,” said Mike, smiling wanly. He felt dizzy.
“I mean, this is what you said, right?” said Dez. “You were right. The trees are Revs.”
“I didn’t really believe it myself,” said Mike. “I mean, I did, but it’s just so strange. How does this happen? What causes it?”
“I bet Flynn knows,” said Dez.
“I’m not going to go looking for him,” said Mike.
They heard footsteps above them and plaster dust rained on their heads. Mike and Dez flattened themselves against the wall just as a beam from a flashlight swept over the spot they had been standing a moment before.
“I don’t see anyone,” said a man’s voice. “You sure you saw them come in here?”
“Positive,” said a woman. “I’d know that turncoat anywhere. I worked with him for six months. The old guy looked like Novak, from the flyers.”
Mike looked at Dez whose eyes were panicked.
Mike touched the piece of wood at his side, felt the sticky black sap coming out of it. This wasn’t going to be the end. It couldn’t be. Unarmed, and cornered in a basement. Mike looked over at Dez again, but the coward appeared just as lost as he was.
“Shit,” Mike thought.
He would have to surrender. It was full time donor or nothing if he did. He touched the sharp end of the root in his belt. Was it sharp enough to pierce a vein? He could end it all before they caught him. But as he thought on it, he didn’t think he had the courage.
He thought of Kyra in her final moments.
Let me go, Michael. Please.
She was stronger than him, always had been. He told the police that she was dead when he found her. But that wasn’t the complete truth. The truth was she was almost blue when he found her. What blood she had left was pulsing weakly out of her neck and he was crying and putting pressure on the wound. He felt a cold, ghostly hand touch his wrist.
“Let me go, Michael,” Kyra gasped. “Please.”
And he had. He’d let her go. He removed his hand from her neck and the blood had come. And when he was arrested, he didn’t protest because he had as good as killed her. He had let Kyra die because he loved her and knew she was in Hell already. Losing the baby destroyed her. But he let it happen. The arrest was a punishment that he deserved, even if it was for the wrong crime. The lights went out as he sat alone in a cell. A few days later, emaciated and nearly dead from starvation, he’d been set free into a world he didn’t recognize. Into a world it hurt to be a part of, because it was the same world where he let her die.
Mike slowly eased the stick out of his belt and pushed the point against his neck. Could he do it? Could he end it all? He pushed a little harder.
“Mikey,�
�� he heard Dez whisper. “Stop.”
There were footsteps on the stairs, heavy boots. Movers.
Mike held his breath and prepared himself. He couldn’t be a donor. It was worse than death.
But then there was an explosive bang that made his ears ring. The shot echoed hard in his skull and he felt Dez pull him to the floor as it came again.
“Stay down, Mikey,” Dez said.
Another shot, then another. The woman screamed and they heard the muffled sound of a body rolling down the stairs and thudding softly against the door. Then there were different footsteps. Soft and precise. The sound of metal on concrete again as someone pushed the door open.
“Tight spot, eh, Novak?” said a man’s voice, quietly.
Mike sat up and squinted as a hulking figure walked through the doorway and into the moonlight.
“Remember me?” he said, tipping his hat back with the muzzle of his gun. “You saved my life once, old man. Now we’re square.”
“Deacon’s man,” he said, recognizing him. “Matthew Blake.”
Blake holstered the gun and pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket. By the light of the match, Mike remembered telling him to run from Joshua Flynn at the puppet theater.
Mike could feel Dez start to say something and stop. Blake was a stone cold killer if he’d worked for Deacon. Dez knew what these men could do better than anyone. He’d wanted to be one of them. Mike guessed that his cowardice stopped him from rising in the ranks.
“What are you doing here?” Mike said, standing and brushing himself off.
“You’re all over the news, my friend,” said Blake, leaning against the door. “All the papers have your picture on the front page. It’s quite scandalous.”
“Mine?” said Mike.
“Your little resistance newspaper worked like a charm,” he said, tapping cigarette ash onto the floor and stepping on it with a well-shined shoe. “It’s got everyone up in arms. All the little well-behaved humans are now turning on the Revs. It’s glorious. The cops are hauling all the Revs they see off the streets and filling the empty jail cells with them. The Tribune even followed your lead and is printing real news stories. Not the Post of course, but they’ll join in when they see it works in their favor. Everyone’s clamoring to spend money on the black market, so it works well for me. I’m selling guns hand over fist. I can barely keep up with demand. Down in the depths of the nitty gritty, you have made me a very wealthy man.”
“Wealthy?” Mike said. He shook his head. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” said Blake, smashing his cigarette out on the bottom of his heel and pocketing the filter, “that I’m going to be a king.”
“Is that so?” said Mike. “It isn’t often you see a king running around in the dark on his own.”
“Ah, well,” said Blake, and Mike could see the glint of teeth even in the dark. “When you're king of the criminals, it's not like you can trust any of them. I just had the feeling that you wouldn’t be able to stay away from this place. So when it came on the radio that you were on the loose and any sightings should be reported, I tucked myself away in the dark across the street. And waited.”
“But why?” said Mike. “It isn’t like you owe me.”
Blake straightened and brushed himself off. “On the contrary,” he said. “If it wasn’t for you, Deacon would still be around. I’d be guarding a door or a warehouse somewhere wet and cold. I sleep in the mayor’s old house, Novak. I’m warm and rich and it’s all because of you and your Rev friend.”
“I don’t know if Joshua Flynn is a Rev,” said Mike, flinching as he used the name.
“I think he is,” said Blake. “Old Rev, what they were in the Dark Days when you could hear the screams in the streets. You could smell the blood if you were brave enough to go outside. Even Deacon stayed locked up tight back then. Even Deacon.”
“Then Flynn’s worse than they are,” said Mike. “The Revs don’t kill anymore. They take the blood instead.”
“They don’t kill, eh?” said Blake, with mirth. “Do you feel particularly alive since they took over? At least the old ones let us be. They hid in the shadows and you didn’t know what was coming. You could live and forget about them.”
“Until they killed you,” said Mike.
“Everyone dies, Novak,” said Blake. “Give it time and every one of us will be dead. They just did it with style. These sickly bureaucrats, though. They’ve got to go.”
“Won’t that ruin your business?” said Mike.
“I’ve got enough money now to live very well for the rest of my life,” said Blake. “I was an English Lit professor once, if you can believe it. Until they took that away from me. I just want a life where I can sit and read my books and keep my blood all to myself.”
“I can understand that,” said Mike.
Blake nodded to Dez, who had been silent for the longest Mike had ever seen him.
“Can you trust this one?” said Blake. “He’s always been a little shifty.”
Mike looked at Dez. “I don’t know, but he’s been with me this whole time. Joshua Flynn chose him.”
Dez snorted, folding his arms across his chest. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mikey.”
“Hey, you mess with Novak, you’re messing with me,” said Blake. “So what now? You have a plan, Novak?”
“No,” said Mike. “I might have some money hidden away. I was just going to…”
“What?” said Blake. “Run? Where? The bastards are still everywhere. Like cockroaches. You’re a hero, though, Novak. You should—”
But Mike never heard what he should do. Because suddenly an arm appeared around Matthew Blake’s abdomen, squeezing him, and a head was buried in his neck, and suddenly Mike was being sprayed with hot blood. He heard Dez gagging and scuttling around on the cement behind him, with no way out.
Joshua Flynn was standing in front of the only door, covered in Matthew Blake’s blood.
Eighteen
Viv glared at Tom as he locked her front door. He turned and looked at her, sitting on the couch, angrier than she had been in a very long time. Teeth grinding and fist clenching angry. Wanting to punch someone’s smug face angry. And Tom was smug and smarmy and a perfect target.
Viv closed her eyes. She had to get a hold of herself. If Tom worked for the Revs, anything she did to him would be a crime against them. Striking a Rev was an offense you did not come back from. Without meaning to, Viv’s eyes darted to The Book, nestled back on her tiny bookshelf. She thought of the message scrawled on the page. Turned out Griff hadn’t left her with nothing, he’d left her a solution. And she had a way to use it. But first she had to get rid of Tom.
“Why are you asking me about Mike?” Viv said. “Mike Novak was just a neighbor. I said hello to him in passing. Nothing more. You probably know more than I do, you live in his apartment now.”
“Well, I’m staying there, anyway,” said Tom. He pushed sweaty hair off his forehead and walked to the middle of the room. “And I know you and Mike had something more.” He smiled at her. “Didn’t you, Genevieve?”
Viv swallowed and looked away. This man didn’t have the right to know about that. No one did. It had been a well-kept secret between her and Mike Novak. A flash of a memory of Mike holding her, comforting her soon after she’d been forced to move from her home and into this apartment. Her desperate tears for her son and her husband and her life. Tears turned to kissing, and kissing turned to…
Viv crossed her arms and dug her nails into her shoulders.
“Have you had contact with him, Genevieve?” said Tom, bending down to look into her face. She saw he wasn’t handsome at all. The lines beginning to crease his face were cruel and his hairline was starting to recede.
“Of course not,” she said, putting as much venom into the words as she dared. She could feel the panic begin to fill up her chest.
Tom narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t a game. You need to tell me about Novak.”
/> “If you know all about him and me, you should know that I haven’t seen him,” she said. There were knives in the kitchen. She wondered how far she could get before he caught her. She felt wetness under her fingers and realized she was cutting into her skin with her fingernails. She put her hands down and folded them tightly in her lap. She forced herself to smile.
“Let me make us a pot of coffee and we can talk about this,” Viv said gently. “Civil. Like humans.”
“I don’t give a shit about civil,” Tom said. He reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head back, making her shriek in surprise and pain. “TELL ME WHERE MIKE NOVAK IS.”
“I don’t know!” she screamed, trying to grab his hands, to keep him from pulling harder on her hair. “H-he was a widow,” she said quickly. “He worked for a n-n-newspaper. I don’t know wh-which one. Ow! Stop it, please!”
“There has to be something you know about him that I’m not seeing,” Tom growled into her ear.
Viv tried to shake her head, but yelled when he pulled harder on her hair. Her eyes landed on the radio that was hiding The Book. A calm slid over her then. An odd sort of calm that held her anger at its core. She knew what to do.
“Okay, yes, okay!” she shouted.
Tom eased up on her hair and smiled. “There now, was that so hard?”
“He left something here,” she gasped. “Something he asked me to hide. Please don’t tell them. Please don’t turn me in.”
“It depends what it is,” said Tom, letting go of her and standing up. He had a chunk of bloody hair hanging from his hand that he shook off onto the floor. Viv could feel blood dripping down her scalp. She felt oddly calm now, though. She could think when there was pain. The pain meant there would be no panic. And she found that she could pretend to be panicked just as easily as she could pretend to be calm.
“It’s something he stole from a hospital,” she said. “Something to do with the blood.”
“Something the Revs didn’t know about?” said Tom, his eyes lighting up. He rubbed his hands together. “Something I can bring to them?”