Every Last Drop (23 page)

I drink some more.

She peels the gloves off.

I point at her bare hands. —Be careful.

She frowns.

—It's dead, Joe. I mean, how many times do you have to be told? The Vyrus dies outside its host. It's a pussy bug.

She runs water over the bloody steel in the sink.

—The umbilicals you saw in that cooler. The Coalition must want the cord blood.

I watch the blood swirl, turn pink in the water, and run down the drain.

She stares at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.

—Amazing stuff, cord blood. Very rich in stem cells. Not like bone marrow rich, but really useful stuff. I mean, as soon as you start thinking about the Vyrus, really thinking about it and what it does, right away you have to start thinking about white blood cells. I mean, blood cells in general, because you know it cant have too much to do with plasma. And you don't think too much about platelets, either. I mean, sure, you can get caught up in them if you want to study clotting factors and stuff.

She turns and takes the cloth from under my arm.

The bleeding has stopped, the wound sealed. —But that's not the essence of the Vyrus.

She squeezes the cloth, and my blood drips into the sink.

—The essence is that it consumes. It attacks. So it makes sense, I mean, this is so obvious, but it makes sense that it goes after white blood cells. Not just to attack them before they attack it, but to invade them. Make them do what it wants them to do. I mean, the T cell counts in infected blood is off the chart, especially cytotoxic Ts. Memory T cells, also out of whack. But suppressor Ts, like, barely there. Which means the cytotoxic Ts, the ones that fight invaders, should be going berserk and fighting the whole body. Killing everything. But they don't.

She drops the towel.

— Cause the memory T count is so high. They keep the cytotoxics from getting out of hand. They, right, they remind them what to attack and what not to attack.

She looks at me in the mirror.

—Until you haven't fed. Then the memory Ts start to die. Poor little cytotoxic Ts don't know what to do. They go totally crazy.

She runs water over her hands, washing away the blood from the towel. —But they all start as little baby stem cells. They all start the same. Nothing but potential.

She turns off the water.

—Like the babies you saw in that nursery.

She blinks.

—I'm not saying they know what they're doing. But if the guys at the top are saving cord blood for themselves to feed on, it's probably really, really good. I mean.

She licks her lips, frowns. —The rich have a habit of saving the best for themselves. / ought to know.

She swallows.

—So if they like it so much, if it makes them feel so good, I mean, maybe it s the stem cells. All those.

She tries to smile, falls far short. —All those babies.

She holds up a hand. —Excuse me.

She throws up in the sink.

I watch as she rinses her mouth and spits it out. —Sorry. Grass. I guess.

She splashes water in her face, blots with the bottom of her shirt. —I guess.

She keeps her face covered. —I guess.

She pulls her face out, smiling sick as she cries. —I guess I'm not as tough as I think I am.

I take a drink. —Here.

I offer her the bottle. —Get tougher.

I stand behind her, looking at one of her monitors.

She taps on her keyboard, tears dried. —This fair?

I shrug. —There's no such thing as fair. But its enough.

She hits Enter.

—Need me to write it down? —III remember.

She looks up at me. —I mean, how could you forget? —Yeah. How could I forget.

She looks at her desk, moves a few papers. —Fuck.

I look at a clock. —Yeah, fuck.

I go to the chair and pick up my jacket. —Guess you got some work to do.

She picks up several of the papers, shuffles them, drops them in a shredder, listens to it whine. —Yeah. I mean, new priorities. I mean, Cure is still about a cure, but.

She looks at the floor, at the people on the floors below it. —We'll need to start being a whole lot more selective.

I put on my jacket.

—And you'll need to buy guns.

She looks at me. —Yeah. I mean, so many guns.

She comes around the desk and walks with me to the door. —Thanks for, like, getting Sela out of here before you said anything. You were right about that. She would have freaked out. Sela, she's, I mean, so moral. Something like this, coming from you, she would have, I mean, she would have needed to blame someone. So. I mean, she totally would have killed you for not trying to save them. Or something. And that would have sucked.

I open the door and go out.

She grabs the tail of my jacket. —It's not your fault, Joe. You couldn't save them by yourself.

I pull loose. —Never crossed my mind to try.

Figure.

Figure it how you want. Figure it goes back. Way back. Don't lie to yourself about it. When Menace says, You know where they come from, he's right. I

know where they come from. They come from that hole in the ground. Figure no one needs to stick a needle in their brain to make them dumb and docile. Figure they've been bred that way. Born in a hole, live in a hole, bleed in a hole, die in a hole. And when they're dead, figure their bones ground up with the gravel and mixed into cement.

Look at this city. Look at your city. Look at the sidewalk under your feet. Look at the foundations under the buildings.

You're walking on their bones. You're living in their skeletons.

Figure that's the story.

Figure that's the whole story and there's no changing it.

Figure life goes on and doesn't care.

That's how I figure it. Out the front door of the Cure house, down the steps and into the car Amanda called and has waiting for me. Staring out the window, not bothering to look for the tail I know is behind me. Looking at the streets where I live. Or do my little imitation of life. I figure it all the way down.

The advantage of one eye?

Brothers and sisters, you just fucking see less of what's going on.

Enough of a blessing to make a man think about putting out the other one.

I have a phone number.

It belongs to someone whose life I saved once. That might count for something, if she hadn't saved mine twice.

Borrowing the driver's cell, I call it. Not sure if I want it to still work. Not sure if I want anything but to be hung up on when my voice is recognized.

It still works.

And I'm not hung up on.

So in the spirit of poking out my remaining eye, I tell a story.

A story told, you cant untell it. It has to run its course to the end. The story I tell, it ends bloody. Or it will, anyhow.

Like I know any other kind of story.

Car lets me off well below Fourteenth.

Deep in Society turf. Far from the border. Far as possible from the blade that's coming for my head and all the things it now knows.

Moves to make.

People to see.

Stories to tell.

—'Lo, Joe. Long time no see.

I come up the tenement steps. —Just saw you earlier tonight, Hurl.

He pushes up the brim of his hat. —Sure, an1 so it was. Still an all, seems some time ago. Funny dat, ain't it?

I put my hands in my pockets.

—Well, put it that way, does seem a long time. But I don't see anything funny in it.

He hooks a thumb in a suspender. —Well, humor is a funny ting. Ta each his own.

I point at the door behind him. —Terry in? —Sure he is. —Can I see him?

—Sure ya can, Joe. Nobody Terry d like ta see more den yerself. C'mon in and be at home.

He raps hard on the door and It's pulled open.

Just inside are three skinny guys in faded fatigue jackets, light bouncing off their shaved heads and the barrels of their shotguns.

I look at Hurley. —Not the kind of we're all one greeting I'm used to getting at a Society house.

He nods. —Well, since dat last time.

He rubs his belly where the machine gun nearly cut him in two that last time. —Since dat last time, Terry gave me charge of security.

I scratch my cheek. —Gone back to the old-school ways, have you?

He shakes his head.

—It's a complicated world, Joe. I spend more of my life confused den clear. But some tings don't seem ta me ta need changin . An bein smart bout who ya let in yer house is one a dem.

I check out the three partisans and their guns. —They itchy types?

He frowns.

—I'm a professional, Joe. Dese are my boys. Dey know how ta hold dere water and do as dere told.

I hold up a hand. —Didn't mean to imply anything different.

He smiles.

— Course ya didn't. Ya have some manners. Weren't born inna barn, was ya? Not dat dered be anyting wrong if ya had been.

He gives me a shot with his elbow, almost breaking a rib. —Seein' as I was. Born inna barn. See.

He guffaws.

I rub my ribs. —Sure, I see, Hurl. Real rib tickler.

He points at me and roars.

—Rib tickler! I get it, Joe! I get it! You go on in now. Hell be eager ta see ya, Terry will. Go on in.

I go in, leaving him to chuckle over the comic implications of our witty little exchange.

Hurley. Just when you start thinking he's maybe not as dumb as mud, he

trips you up and sucks your shoe off and leaves you stuck in it.

The partisans eyeball me.

I flick a finger at the door at the end of the hall. —Shall we?

One of them backs off and lifts his gun and points it at my face. —Pat-down.

I raise my hands. —Sure thing.

I turn to face the wall.

—Best make sure I don't got any nails on me. I go in there with a couple of those, and your boss is gonna be pissed as hell.

—I tell you, Joe, I didn't expect to see you so, I don't know, promptly.

I pick at some dry creek-scum on my pants.

—Everyone's so surprised with me being on time tonight. My reputation must be worse than I thought.

He fiddles his glasses. —I just thought it might take you a little longer to work something out. Sure, the

girl is fond of you and all, but I just thought you d have to do something more nuanced than to walk in to her and ask for a bunch of money. Relationships, I've mostly found, are, I don't know, bruised by money talk. It's a shame really, that something as disconnected from real life as money, something that's just purely this monolithically theoretical concept that we've plastered onto life, that something fictional should be able to harsh our personal relationships the way it does.

He lifts his hands in surrender to market forces.

—But there it is. The stuff is everywhere. And people, they've, for better or worse, they've agreed we need it to get by.

I look at a poster on the wall. The Concert for Bangladesh. —If it makes you feel any better, I had to use some nuance. Had to finesse it some, working the whole thing out.

He raises his eyebrows.

—I like that idea, I like the idea of you using some finesse. A quality like that, it could make all the difference for a person like you, Joe.

He lowers his eyebrows.

—A shame it, lets just say it, a shame it's too late for that kind of thing to change how we interact. Some of our conversations over the years, they

would have benefited from a little finesse. —So you say.

He takes off his glasses, folds and opens the arms a couple times. —Yeah.

He puts them back on. —So I say. For what its worth, and all.

I point at the glasses. —Something I wanted to ask. —Yeah? —Why do you wear those things?

He purses his lips. —Urn.

I nod.

—Yeah, um. Me, I never wore the things, but still I notice the Vyrus sharpened my eyes. Strange it didn't fix whatevers wrong with yours.

He takes them off again, looks at them. —Yeah, well, yeah, sure. Honestly. These are just, you know, glass. Just. Well