by Pete Hautman
“What is Stonecrop? Some sort of super telomere?”
“Stonecrop is our retreat for the coming millennium, a sanctuary for the Faithful.” The rhythm of Rupe’s voice changed. “One limestone brick at a time, high on the bluffs above the Mississippi River, Stonecrop grows. Like the mighty white oak, it sends roots deep into the earth, knowing it must stand for millennia. Like the pyramid of Cheops, it shrugs off wind and rain. Like the Garden of Eden, it offers peace and perfection. Stonecrop. One Dream, One Way, One Reality.”
Crow said, “You should put that in your annual report.”
Rupe drew on his cigar. “We did,” he said.
“You really believe this stuff, don’t you?”
Rupe spread his arms. “You say you used to know me at Ambrosia Foods. Three hundred pounds, borderline diabetes, three-pack-a-day cigarette habit. Look at me now. Of course I believe. If I didn’t believe I’d be dead. Believing is what got me here. Believing is what enabled me to access my cells, to destroy the Death Program. Tell me something, Mr. Crow, do you want to die?”
“I’ve had my moments,” said Crow.
“That’s the Death Program.” Rupe’s nostrils flared. “I can smell it on you. Beware your desires, Mr. Crow.”
Crow said, “So, then, since Hyatt is out of the church, does that mean he’s mortal now?”
“I suspect so. You know, Mr. Crow, it is not necessary to believe in something today in order to believe in it tomorrow. One need only wish for belief.”
A response stirred in Crow’s sinuses but was preempted by a sound from outside the office, a sound that began low, like the distant roar of traffic, and ended high as a dying cat’s final shriek of anguish and fury. Rupe stood up so quickly his thighs hit the front of his desk.
A prickling sensation rose from the back of Crow’s neck.
“What was that?” Rupe asked.
“I don’t know.” Crow walked to the door and opened it, and put his head cautiously out into the hall. He saw Flowrean Peeche rounding the corner, coming toward him with legs churning, bare feet slapping the tile floor, the whites of her eyes showing as she blew past. Crow expected something or someone to come flying after her—an army of ninjas, perhaps, or a pair of Doberman pinschers. Two seconds passed, but no one seemed to be chasing her.
Behind him, he heard Rupe say, “What was that?”
“That,” Crow replied, “was Flowrean Peeche.”
It was a law of nature: There would always be one troublemaker at every meeting, whether it was a simple Anti-Aging Clinic, or an actual Extraction Event. Last time it had been Hyatt, spreading his leaflets all over the parking lot. This time, it was a wild woman in a metallic gold faux-snakeskin jacket. Polly made a mental note to reward Chuckles for being so on top of it, for recognizing what was happening and ushering the woman out of the reception before she could do any serious damage.
Other than that, the clinic was going splendidly. Val Frankel had been completely convincing as the aged Mrs. Veronica Frank, and she was perfect playing the part of a thirty-year-old woman which, of course, she was. The Faithful were herding everyone to the tables, laying out the ACO program. If all went well, a solid 20 percent of the Pilgrims would sign up for the next Extraction Event series.
Polly was about to invite the few women who seemed unable to tear themselves away from the miraculous Mrs. Frank to join her at the reserved center table when a sound—a horrid, gut-twisting shriek from the hallway—brought all conversation to an abrupt halt. For a moment, two seconds at most, Polly thought that the chatter might resume, as if interrupted by a mere crash of thunder, or a flicker of the lights, but the scream had been too—the word actually occurred to her—bloodcurdling to be easily forgotten.
Polly said, in as firm a voice as she could summon, “Excuse me.” She gave Val’s arm a reassuring squeeze and headed for the door. She motioned to Chip, who had changed out of his toga, to accompany her.
They found Chuckles sitting on the floor in the hallway, looking ashen, holding a bloody, spike-heeled, lime-green pump in his hand. His rose-colored pant leg was dark with blood. Chip turned his head and swallowed.
“Where did she go?” Polly demanded.
Chuckles pointed down the hallway with the bloodied heel.
Blood, especially fresh, warm, wet blood, had a dizzying effect on Chip Bouchet. He could not have said whether it was a good or a bad feeling, but it was certainly intense. He trotted down the hallway after Polly, his stomach rolling, his mouth filled with saliva, black UFOs crowding his vision. He did not understand what had happened, and he was frightened. He saw Polly stop in front of Rupe’s open office door. A dark-haired man in a black-and-white-striped referee shirt stepped out into the hall, along with Rupe. Was this a hostage situation? Chip slowed down, forced himself to swallow his mouthful of spit just as a figure in a metallic gold jacket came flying around the corner at the far end of the hallway, a black-haired woman with a wild, trapped expression. Rupe ducked back into his office; Polly stepped in front of the woman, blocking her. Chip couldn’t see exactly what happened next, but Polly was suddenly on the floor, and the wild woman was charging directly at him. Chip stepped aside and clotheslined her with one arm as she tried to pass, catching her neck in the crook of his elbow, swinging her into the tile wall. As she bounced off the wall he bore down on her arm, forcing her to fall face-first to the floor. He grabbed her other hand, dropped his knee onto the small of her back, and pushed her arm up toward her neck. The rapid sequence of actions occurred without a conscious thought on Chip’s part. He did his best work that way.
Polly had risen to her hands and knees. Rupe emerged from his office and tried to help her stand up. The woman beneath Chip was writhing and growling, trying to buck him off. “Get off me you goddamn ape!”
Chip wasn’t going to let go until he received orders from his superiors. The man in the referee shirt, who had stood by and watched Polly get bowled over, walked up to Chip, put his hands on his knees, and bent forward, getting his face a few inches from Chip’s nostrils.
“Let her up, Sarge,” he said.
Chip tried to see past him to Polly and Rupe, but the referee blocked his view.
“Get off her,” the man said.
The woman growled, “You heard him. Get off me before I break that ugly nose of yours.”
“Stand back,” Chip said to the referee. “The situation is contained.”
The man reached out and inserted one finger into each of Chips nostrils and lifted. Chip’s head followed his nose. The weight came off his knee. The woman exploded beneath him, was on her feet and running down the hall in an instant. Chip jerked his head back, disengaging the fingers, and struck out with his fist, hitting nothing—the referee had jumped back out of range.
Chip spread his arms wide and advanced on the striped shirt, his nose throbbing. He heard Rupe shouting something, but his anger garbled the words. The referee held his palms out, backing away. Chip lunged forward. The guy tried to dodge, but Chip caught one of the striped sleeves in his left hand and came around hard with his right fist, grinding it into the guy’s kidney, swinging again and hitting him on top of the head, grabbing the shirt with both hands and slamming him against the wall, then getting in two more shots, right under the ribcage, each punch producing a satisfying gasp from the referee. Chip let go and stepped back; the guy slid down the wall, arms hugging his midsection.
Rupe’s voice came into focus. “That’s enough, Chip, okay?” He had his hands on Chip’s arm, pulling him back.
Polly asked Rupe, “Who is he?”
“He says his name is Crow. He knows Hyatt. Do you think we should call an ambulance?”
Crow, breathing shallowly, began to get up.
“Hit him again,” Polly said to Chip.
Chuckles wondered when he’d had his last tetanus shot. Did being immortal mean he didn’t have to worry about tetanus? He believed in the Amaranthine Principles. He truly did. But he also believed that if th
e spike heel had gone in a little deeper and crushed his femoral artery, he’d be one dead immortal. He decided right then and there to get a tetanus booster. Chuckles believed in many things, but most of all he believed in covering his ass.
He heard shouting from down the hall. Apparently they’d caught her. Putting all his weight on his good leg, Chuckles stood up and hopped toward the sounds. He wanted to see her again, see if she was as scary and as beautiful as he remembered. He was almost to the intersection of the two hallways when she appeared, shoeless now, charging at him. Chuckles spread his arms to intercept her. She slid to a halt, gasping for breath, her eyes darting from side to side, seeking a way around him.
Chuckles said, “Hey, just take it easy, okay? Nobody wants to do nothing.”
She was on her toes, chiseled calves quivering.
“How about I walk you to your car? How that be?” He lowered his arms. “Then you just go, okay? That’s all.”
She took a step toward him. He backed away, giving her all the space she needed.
“My name’s Charles,” he said, moving to one side of the narrow hallway. He heard what sounded like blows and angry voices from back by the offices.
“What’s happening back there?” he asked.
The woman licked her lips and edged closer to the opposite wall.
“I guess it don’t matter,” he said.
They moved slowly down the hallway, six feet between them, Chuckles limping from his wound, leaving a trail of red droplets, the woman tense as a drawn bow.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She said something that sounded like “Flow Reen.” Her voice was low, with a sexy buzz to it.
“That’s a nice name,” Chuckles said, meaning it, but not trusting himself to repeat it accurately. They passed the gymnasium and were within sight of the exit.
She picked up her pace slightly. “I gotta go,” she said. Suddenly she was running again, her phenomenal legs pumping, bare feet slapping the linoleum. Chuckles smiled and watched, making no attempt to pursue her, simply enjoying the feeling he was getting in his chest. It had been a while, but he remembered the sensation clearly. It was the feeling of falling in love.
27
A trash container is but a repository for unrealized opportunities.
—Harley Johnson
ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER: BLACK LEATHER jacket, wraparound shades, and fifty pounds of Hollywood artillery gazed out across Beaut Miller’s cluttered bedroom. Beaut licked his lips and looked from the Terminator to the disposable syringe, from the syringe to the image of his own pimpled ass in the mirror.
“Aw, shit,” he said through gritted teeth as he punched the needle into his left glute. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut and ramming the plunger home. The solution of testosterone propionate spiked with five units of Humulin entered his gluteus maximus at fifty-eight degrees below body temperature, producing a starburst of pain. Beaut jerked the needle free with a gasp. He blinked tearily at the poster of Arnold, who did not know the meaning of the word “pain,” and recapped the syringe. He’d been using the same needle for a couple weeks now. It was getting dull.
But the stuff was working. He massaged his ass gingerly, then tugged up his shorts and limped back to the kitchen to finish his Mass Driver 4000 Hi-Protein, Pre-anabolic Power Shake, his fourth one that day. That was the thing about stacking insulin with testosterone. Hungry all the time. But man, was he growing. In five weeks he’d added fifty-two pounds, a good third of it solid muscle. Little Leslie Miller was a big boy now. He thought, as he often did these days, about Joe Crow.
Arling Biggie, sitting in his massage chair in front of the TV, looked up as Beaut lumbered into the living room carrying the blender bowl. Bigg hit the mute button on the TV remote and switched the chair control to a gentle lumbar stroking. He watched Beaut dig into the blender with a tablespoon and shovel a mound of yellow goo into his mouth. Beaut liked his Mass Driver shakes thick, the consistency of wet cement. The denser the shake, according to Beaut, the harder the resulting muscle. Beaut’s science may have been suspect but, Bigg had to admit, his recent gains had been impressive. The guy was growing like a tumor.
Bigg asked, “What are you sticking in your ass this week?”
Beaut, his mouth overloaded with Mass Driver, could only shake his head.
“More testosterone?” Bigg guessed.
Beaut nodded.
“You still mixing in the insulin?”
Beaut shrugged.
Bigg said, “You’re gonna get fat.”
Beaut swallowed, his powerful neck muscles forcing the glob of wet protein powder down his esophagus. “Muhgugageggig,” he said.
“Say what?”
Beaut held up a hand, went back into the kitchen and swallowed a pint of water from the faucet. He returned to the living room and repeated, “I’m gonna get big.”
“Yeah, right. You’re gonna be this huge motherfucker.” Bigg made an adjustment to the chair control, getting some of that side-to-side action.
For the past three months, Bigg had been letting Beaut stay at his house. He had plenty of room. Besides, he enjoyed having the younger man around. Beaut reminded Bigg of himself, twenty years ago. Only maybe not so bright. Bigg had been living alone for too long—three years since Toanie had left him for a former Mr. Iowa, then moved to Santa Barbara, the bitch. Yeah, it was good to have company, although he was somewhat concerned about Beaut’s increased steroid intake. The ’roids were basically safe and effective drugs, Bigg believed. If he didn’t believe that, he wouldn’t have used them himself for twenty years. But like any other drug—heroin, caffeine, cough medicine—it was possible to overdo it. The way Beaut was growing these past few weeks, something had to give. Either the guy was going to blow a vessel, or fly into a ’roid rage and get himself in more trouble than Bigg could get him out of. Either way, Bigg would lose an employee.
“You can’t just keep shooting the same, shit in your ass every day, weeks and weeks. Especially the testosterone. You got to cycle. Take a couple weeks off, then go back on the Deca. And bag the insulin. You don’t need it.”
“The Deca didn’t work.”
“It works. You just have to give it time. You can’t get bigger every day, Leslie. Give it a rest.”
“I’m benching four twenty.”
“Yeah, and you got zits all over your ass and bitch tits comin’ off your pecs and in another couple weeks your ’nads are gonna be the size of Tic-Tacs.”
“Screw my ’nads,” Beaut said, “I’ll get implants.”
“Can I tell you something?” Bigg asked. “I mean, as a friend.”
Beaut shrugged. “Sure.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Screw you.”
“And you gotta open up in six hours.”
That was part of the deal. As long as he stayed in Bigg’s house, Beaut had to open the gym every morning.
Beaut finished spooning the Mass Driver into his mouth. Maybe he’d get lucky tomorrow. Maybe Joe Crow would show up at the gym and give him some shit, make some wise-ass crack, bump into him or something. Beaut imagined his fist driving into Crow’s chest, shattering ribs, punching his heart out through his spine. But Crow hadn’t shown his smarmy little face at the gym all week. Maybe he was scared. Beaut had caught him staring a couple times, gawking at Beaut’s increasing mass. Maybe he was scared off for good.
Deep beneath slabs of muscle and fat, Little Leslie Miller breathed a sigh of relief.
Axel lay beside Sophie in their bed, flat on his back, doing a mental inventory of his abdomen. He visualized each of his major organs—heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, pancreas—attempting to imagine its precise shape, location, and condition. He added in his gastrointestinal tract, bladder, and spleen. Was that everything? He raised his head and looked toward his feet. In the faint light filtering through the window, his naked belly formed a pale horizon.
Something was in there. He was sure of it
. For over a month now, ever since he’d accepted the fact that the wedding would be going forward, Axel had felt wrong inside, as if all his cares had taken up physical residence in the vicinity of his stomach. For some reason, it sent him back about thirty years.
A friend of his, Grace Lee, one of the last of the old-time fan dancers, had got herself knocked up. She and her carny husband, a ride boy twenty years her junior, had been terrifically proud of her delicate condition, but five months into her pregnancy the ride boy had jumped the train in Des Moines, and a week later the fetus had died, still inside her. Axel remembered seeing her that year, working the Minnesota State Fair midway. He’d stopped by her trailer to pay his respects, and she’d told him all about it. He remembered the way he’d felt when she’d told him she had a dead baby inside her, and he remembered asking her why she didn’t go to the hospital and have them take it out, and her telling him, standing there in her feather boa, face covered with glitter and paint, that it wasn’t natural, that the doctors said the dead child would come out of its own accord when it was good and ready and, besides, she didn’t have no insurance. She’d carried that dead fetus inside her for another four weeks, doing her fan dance from Omaha to Minneapolis to Ohio and never missing a call, before it let loose.
Whatever Axel was carrying inside him, it was sure as hell no dead fetus. It was the wedding. Carmen wanted money for her wedding gown? Axel would write the check and keep his misgivings inside. If Sophie wanted to tell him in excruciating detail about the nuts and bolts of the imminent ceremony, Axel would listen, let her words pour into his ears, and drain right down into his gut. When he thought of things to say back to her, or to Carmen, he put those away, too. They were all there, someplace inside him.
Sophie muttered and rolled onto her side. Axel closed his eyes and renewed his efforts to visualize his insides. He saw something, a long dark serpentine form, twining around his liver, disappearing into a snarl of intestine. One day it would slither out, probably the moment the wedding was over, and he would be free. He thought then he might understand how Grace Lee had felt letting loose of that ride boy’s dead baby.